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“God, it’s like watching a weird-ass mating ritual.”
The murderous glare Washington threw Grif’s way would have sent any number of cadets running for cover. But this was the man who yawned down the barrel of Sarge’s shotgun.
Besides, Wash couldn’t imagine his glower was all that threatening given the limp hand doing its best to feel up his face.
“Yer o’old,” Tucker drawled from the hospital bed, flailing an insistent arm. The Freelancer pulled Tucker’s grip from his face, only to have the teal soldier latch onto his hair instead. Tucker kept up a breathy laugh, dancing his fingers through the strands. Wash tried to find a grip on the wandering hand.
“Ooh,” a new voice sung out, “somebody’s on the good stuff.”
Being half bent over thanks to Tucker’s surprisingly firm grip on his hair, it was quite a task, but Wash managed to twist back towards the door. He stared around his own arm to find Donut peering over Grif’s shoulder. An odd sense of guilt wormed its way into Wash’s chest – like he’d been caught doing something wrong. But that was absurd. All the same, Wash snuck a hand around Tucker’s wrist and gave a gentle tug. Tucker held on. Every short movement of the man’s hand threatened to drag Wash along with it.
Across the room, Grif leaned against the doorframe, arms folded comfortably across his chest. The only hint of interest was the smirk creeping at the corners of his mouth. Donut, on the other hand, was bright eyed and flapping his hands the way he did looking at pictures of baby animals.
A familiar heat rushed over Wash’s cheeks. Swallowing behind clenched teeth, the Freelancer straightened as best he could with a grown man petting his hair. But Washington’s retort was lost to the distraction of Grif making a stealthy move for the orange helmet tucked under his arm – probably to ready the camera. Fuck.
Washington cleared his throat, and tried to ignore his dignity slipping away like sand. “You should go– de– go debrief.” That hand was back, patting his face with all the grace of a dead fish. “With Kimbe–b –Kimball.” Jesus Christ, it would be so much easier to keep his voice at a respectable pitch if Tucker would quit fucking giggling.
Wash huffed. “On the mission,” he mumbled around the teal soldier’s hand. “Te–ell her Tucker’s fine.”
Rolling his head towards the ceiling, Tucker snorted. “Fuck yeh I ‘m.”
Wash didn’t dare look at the Reds.
Finally untangling the teal soldier’s hand from his hair, Wash pinned the wrist to Tucker’s side. Not that it took any force. Tucker was absorbed in marveling at the tiles of the infirmary ceiling, eyes flickering lazily to and fro, and a dreamy grin on his face.
Washington huffed in satisfaction and shot a fixed look at the soldiers in the door.
“I can handle this.”
Donut’s eyes lit up like twin grenade blasts, and Wash knew he’d fucked up. But it was too late. There was Donut’s patented knowing look, as the pink soldier steered Grif out of the room.
“Oh, of course,” Donut gushed, bodily shoving the large orange soldier into the hall despite his protesting grunts. “We’ll give you two some privacy now. Feel better Tucker!”
Then the Reds were gone, leaving Wash sputtering. But before the Freelancer could find words, Tucker’s free hand found Wash’s face again.
“I like yer haaaair,” Tucker slurred, gazing up at Washington while doing his best to smother the agent one-handed.
“Um, thanks?” Wash murmured intelligently. He blamed his newfound way with words on the fact that Tucker was still all but slapping him.
“S’its like ah kitten,” Tucker mused, hardly noticing Wash grabbing for his wrists, yet still managing to evade the man’s grasp.
“…Okaaay.” It was really hard to focus on pinning Tucker’s arms with that dopey look on his face. “…hey, Tucker?”
“Tha’s miy name.” Tucker snickered at the ceiling, like this was somehow ungodly funny. Maybe it wasn’t that big of a stretch. Perhaps one day, they could all look back on this and laugh. Preferably on a day when Wash was long dead.
Tucker was surprisingly coordinated for someone drugged out of his mind, freeing a hand to face palm Wash.
“Tucker,” Wash mumbled around the hand covering his mouth. “Could you – um, get off?”
“He he he. Get you off. Bow chikah wow wow.”
Wash was pretty sure the universe hated him.
Finally succeeding in removing Tucker’s roaming hand from his face, Wash guided the man’s wrists back to the mattress and took advantage of Tucker’s attention on him.
“So, you’re on a lot of pain meds.” Wash eyed teal soldier. Looked like Tucker was going to stay still, so Wash risked letting go of his wrists. When the man didn’t lunge to latch onto the Freelancer again, Wash slid into the chair beside the bed. Tucker watched him with dazed eyes and a smile.
The floor became very interesting. “You should probably sleep it off.” Before anyone else got the idea to film.
Wash startled when Tucker let out a bizarre sniffling giggle, rolling his head against the pillows. Well, at least he didn’t appear to be in any pain. While the teal soldier looked away, Wash shifted to the edge out of his seat, shooting glances towards the door.
Washington regarded Tucker as the sim trooper became distracted by the dull sounds of infirmary life. Beyond the thin curtain wall, the patter of footsteps and the beeps of machines beat out an uneven rhythm.
Wash let out a long breath. “I’ll let you rest.” No immediate response, so the agent stood.
Tucker’s arm flopped out of bed, grabbing for Wash’s arm. It took a few tries, but he found it. Wash never moved, just stared down at the hand fumbling for his own like it was some sort of alien creature prodding at him.
“Nooo. Stahy.” The smile had weakened. Tucker wasn’t even looking at Wash, instead focusing on gripping the man’s hand with a tired determination. As Tucker pulled the agent’s arm, Wash made no move to resist. Instead, the Freelancer followed, sinking back into his seat.
Tucker sat up a bit straighter, towing Wash’s arm to his lap. There he became absorbed in inspecting the agent’s hand, rolling it over in his own with delicate care. Wash swallowed and did his best impression of a statue as Tucker brushed a thumb over his knuckles. Finger trips traced the lines of his palm and the bones of the back of the Freelancer’s hand.
A few minutes passed. Tucker didn’t show any signs of dozing off (as Grey had promised) or of losing interest in playing with Washington’s hand. In fact, the teal soldier’s gaze hadn’t left his lap. Wash wondered if Tucker even remembered he was there. The agent forced a cough. Tucker didn’t lose his focus.
“Um, Tucker?”
“Hmmmrgh?” Tucker never looked up, only wrapped his arms around Wash’s forearm and actually hugged it to his chest.
Wash felt the heat radiating from his cheeks. “Um, you – I…” Tucker’s head ducked to rest beside the agent’s hand. If Wash thought his face felt warm, it was nothing compared to body heat Tucker was giving off. What was he saying again? “What are you doing?”
“Your hands are cold.”
The Freelancer decided he must have missed something. But when Tucker failed to elaborate, Wash shifted in his chair. Still, he took care to not move his arm and disturb the teal soldier.
Wash’s voice was an empty echo. “My… hands are cold.”
Tucker hummed his agreement. After a few moments of silence, he tacked on. “Really real, real fucken cold.”
Wrapping Wash’s hand up in his own, Tucker pressed it against his chest. The agent could feel Tucker’s heart beat in his own wrist, and some small part of Wash’s brain that wasn’t currently offline wondered if Tucker could feel his.
The teal soldier’s voice was a low mumble. “…Cold. ‘Ey always this fucken cold?”
Wash had no idea if he was expected to respond. Instead he just watched Tucker stare down at the Freelancer’s hand, running a thumb over the knuckles at a lagged pace.
Minutes passed and then more did, and at some point Wash realized the infirmary had fallen quiet. Those minutes added up. But even as the teal soldier dropped off to sleep, Wash never stirred, tried to pull away, or slip out of the room. There was no clock to confirm but at least an hour must have passed before it hit Wash.
There was not and had never been any nagging awareness of a potential threat – no need to visualize a hundred different ways to break Tucker’s grip and get as far away from him as possible. No need to map out exits in his mind. Even with Tucker’s grip on arm, at no point had Wash felt restrained. No.
What he did feel was warm.