#It's some bullshit. If tucker disappeared right after the staff of charon fight they would have gone looking for him

[losttranslator]

well after watching rvb: restoration I have the exact same feelings about it I did when it was first announced: I'm completely okay with seasons 16-18 being tossed but I still feel that s15 for all its flaws had much, much superior post-Chorus characterization.

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: Gift of the Magi (2/12)

Summary: Wash has already gone through too much, been broken too often. So when they get captured by Hargrove together, Tucker figures he has one job: until the cavalry shows up, keep Wash alive and (relatively) sane. No matter the cost.

Unfortunately, Wash is just as determined to protect him.

Parings: None. Warnings: Canon-typical language, aftermath of canonical character death, psychological torture, hallucinations, hallucinated child harm, fake-out character death.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

Hargrove makes the deal with Tucker.

And then he fucking makes him wait.

It's mind-games, that's what it is. Tucker vaguely remembers Wash lecturing him about interrogation techniques in the canyon, and okay, maybe Tucker should have listened a little better. He mostly just remembers staring at the canyon walls and thinking that the only torturer in his life was Agent Washington, and when Wash demanded, "What did I just say, Private?" he responded with his name, rank, and serial number, which got him another fifty squats.

Good times.

But there had been something about making people wait to psychologically undermine blah blah but a good soldier blah blah blah. Whatever. It's basically the same thing as a girl playing hard-to-get, and Tucker doesn't need any RTI training to deal with that, because when it comes to girls refusing to call or text, he is a pro.

Except.

Except this cell is really small, and there's no one else, and it's—there's this particular smell to the air on the Staff of Charon, and he can't stop thinking about that fucking trophy room and the moment when Church—

Tucker's kind of grateful when they finally come for him.

And it's not like it's going to be that bad, right? Tucker has no AI trauma. He's not going to get flashbacks. He just has to wait out whatever stupid tests Hargrove wants to put him through, and in like three days Carolina is going to be here with the rest of the cavalry, and they can punch Hargrove in the face and go home. Straight-up Freelancer justice.

When he gets to the lab, it isn't too creepy. There's a medical bed with restraints on it, and hung over it is a nest of a million wires with what looks like a big jagged piece of glowing green glass at the center.

So, alien tech. Fine. Tucker's been around the block with that kind of thing more than once. It can't be worse than that only-a-true-warrior bullshit at the jungle temple, where he had to fight a million Felixes. Tucker still gets nightmares about that sometimes. Whatever Hargrove has cooked up with his VR, it can't be that bad.

And the scientist is even kind of hot. In, you know, a really pale, sucked-on-a-lemon sort of way.

"Hey, baby," he says. "Do you—"

"Strap the subject down," she drones, not even looking at him.

"Fine, fine," Tucker mutters. He doesn't put up a fight as they hustle him onto the bed and strap him down. Because it's not a big deal. It's going to be okay.

Three days. Tops. That's all this is going to take.

He twitches when they pry open his neural implants and plug something in. It doesn't hurt, but there's this weird cold feeling, like a gust of air inside his skull, and then there's a buzzing sensation running down his spine—

—it’s cold and dark dark cold—

"—shut the fuck up, Caboose, I told you we could keep him!"

Tucker's jaw snaps shut as soon as he says the words. For a second he's dizzy enough to puke, and he's not sure where he is or why he's yelling at Caboose.

Then he blinks, and everything's fine. He's on Sidewinder, the Meta is dead, Church has disappeared into the memory unit like a fucking asshole, and Tucker's trying to pick up the pieces.

Caboose shifts awkwardly. "Yeah, but, I mean, he needs new armor."

"Why do we have to give him new armor? He fucked us over just fine with what he's got."

"Uhhh, because he needs to be blue if he's going to be on Blue Team. Duh."

Tucker looks beyond Caboose, where Doc is poking at Agent Washington, who's finally managed to sit up. He's got his helmet off, and he doesn't look like a badass Freelancer anymore. He's got a baby face under the armor, and his pale cheeks are turning red and splotchy with the cold, and he's staring at the chaos with a kind of dazed, dopey expression.

It's pretty pathetic. Especially since Doc is the only one paying any attention to him. The Reds are squabbling with each other, and Tucker's over here with Caboose, and—

"Stupid Tucker," Caboose mutters.

Yeah, Tucker is fucking stupid because he's letting the murderer join Blue Team. But he marches over to Agent Washington, because this is his mess now, and he never wanted to feel like he understood Church this much.

Doc is now shining a light into one of Agent Washington's eyes. "Okay, look straight ahead and tell me what letters you can see."

". . . you're giving me an eye exam?" Washington's voice is hoarse and incredulous, but he's not trying to fight Doc.

"Good vision is very important for a soldier!"

"U-N-S-C," Washington recites flatly, staring at the insignia on Doc's armor.

"Well, I don't think you need your prescription changed, but you should make sure to have an eye exam every six—"

"Seriously?" says Tucker. "Shut up."

Washington looks up at Tucker and he kind of—straightens his spine and falls in on himself at the same time. "Private Tucker, right?"

"Yeahhhh, or you could call me the Mighty Chosen One. Y'know, 'cause an entire alien race chose me to be their savior."

"Right," Washington sighs, and then he just . . . waits.

There's an ugly feeling worming through Tucker's gut. He keeps remembering Donut rambling about lightish red and Church grumbling about your freakish hellspawn, and now they're both gone, and the fucker who killed them is just sitting there, not meeting Tucker's eyes, like—like—

"Dude, what the fuck?" he says, and he grabs Washington by the collar and hauls him to his feet. "What is wrong with you?"

Washington doesn't say anything. His head bobbles a little, but he's still not meeting Tucker's eyes, and the look on his face is just—

Tucker remembers a lot more about giving birth to Junior than anyone thinks, and he remembers when it hurt so much that he just didn't care anymore, it didn't matter if he died because it felt like everything that made him Tucker was all used up. That's what Agent Washington looks like right now, and fuck, Tucker did not want to feel this sorry for him.

"The UNSC is going to put you back in prison," he says. "Like, as soon as they see you."

"Yeah," says Washington, still with that weirdly calm exhaustion.

Tucker is going to regret this. He is going to regret this so fucking much.

"Okay, Doc? I need you to help me strip Church."

"What?" says Washington, his voice cracking.

It only takes them a few minutes to get Washington's armor swapped with Church's. Everything about the plan is freaky and weird, because Tucker knew that Church was an AI with a robot body, but it's still kinda nauseating the way he clanks and flops over when they roll him out of his armor.

"I don't get why you're doing this," says Washington, as he snaps his new helmet into place.

"What, did they not have disguises in Project Freelancer?" asks Tucker.

As he says the words, he feels like something’s wrong. For a second he can’t figure it out, and then he realizes with an awful lurch to his stomach: he doesn’t have his sword anymore.

"Huh," says Washington. "Well, tell your friends I said thanks."

"Who, Caboose?" says Tucker, hardly paying attention. The sword’s not in his hand, not hanging from his hip, not lying on the ground near them. He can’t have dropped it. He never drops his sword. It’s his fucking trademark.

"No," says Washington, and there's this weird, smug note in his voice that sends a chill down Tucker’s spine. "I mean Church. And Donut."

"What—"

And that's all Tucker manages to say before Wash shoots him.

It doesn't hurt at first. He falls over, and he can't breathe, but there isn't any pain. Just this clawing, breathless feeling.

There's a screech, and then another gunshot—Doc—and then Washington says, "Thank you for the armor, Private Tucker," and steps over him.

All Tucker can think is, I fucked up.

He should never have listened to Caboose. He should have known this would happen. But he still feels this gaping sense of betrayal, like Washington looking so pathetic was some kind of promise.

Fuck that asshole. Tucker isn't dying now, he's not. But his stomach hurts, oh shit, it hurts worse than Junior, and he can't seem to catch his breath—

Tucker gurgles, and manages to haul himself up on his elbows.

That's how he sees Agent Washington walk right up to Caboose and shoot him right in the fucking face.

"No," Tucker wheezes, and he doesn't know how he gets to his feet, but it doesn't matter because Caboose has fallen over is already dead isn't moving is already dead—

"Dirtbag!" Sarge roars, charging with his shotgun. But it’s like Washington was never injured. He sidesteps Sarge, pulls the shotgun out of his hands and pumps it into his stomach.

Simmons shrieks. Washington flings a knife into his leg, follows it up with another, and where the fuck did he get all those knives?

Tucker tries to stagger forward and help, but two steps and there’s darkness swimming at the edges of his vision. He can barely stay on his feet.

More screams, more gunfire, and then—nothing. There’s no sound but Tucker's heart pounding in his ears, his own harsh breaths. He's the last man standing.

Then he isn’t standing anymore, because the adrenaline is seeping out of him, and he falls to his knees.

Everywhere he looks, there’s blood in the snow.

He was the last one left alive in Sandtrap too, but back then he could hope that the others were coming for him.

"What's the matter, Private Tucker?" Wash is right there by his side again—when did he move—wait, when did Tucker start calling him Wash?

Uh, like two days after he joined Blue Team? says a voice that sounds like Church, but that's not possible because Church is dead. Church is always dead.

No, duh! The point is, this isn’t real!

Tucker feels sleepy. Blood-loss, maybe. His mind is slowing down; his thoughts come in chunks, bobbing up and drifting against each other.

"You're not . . . Wash," he says.

There’s a smirk in the way Wash tilts his head. "No, I'm Private Leonard Church. And I'm going to tell the UNSC how you all died fighting the Meta."

"You're not real," Tucker whispers, but then Wash lunges with the knife, slicing into his throat, and it hurts he's choking on his own blood he can't breathe oh fuck oh fuck—

Tucker! Tucker, it's okay!

—it hurts—

—and Tucker wakes up choking and thrashing against the restraints.

For a few seconds it's still real, he still feels the raw, gaping edges cut into his throat, the blood pouring out. But then he realizes that he's still breathing. He's still alive, his face is awkwardly smushed into the padding of the medical bed, and the only liquid pooled around him is his own spit, because eww, apparently he drools when he's hooked into a VR.

It wasn't real.

The relief hits Tucker in stages. First: he's alive. Second: Caboose is alive, he's back at base with Carolina by now. Third: the Reds are alive too. Fourth: Doc is . . . who cares, but Wash didn't shoot him in the gut either.

Wash didn't shoot anyone. When they packed him into Church's armor on Sidewinder, he said, "I don't get why you're doing this," in that tired, defeated voice, but then Caboose started shouting about best friends forever, and then the UNSC turned up and somehow it was all okay.

Tucker realizes he's shaking. The simulation was fake, but the adrenaline it sent pumping through his body is totally real.

The memory of his throat splitting open under Wash's knife feels pretty real as well.

It's okay, though. Tucker can do this. It's only for a few days.

He can do this.

The training floor on the Staff of Charon isn't that different from the one on the Mother of Invention. It's not quite as big. Probably not capable of as many different simulations. But the way Wash’s footsteps echo in the wide, round room—the looming windows of the observation deck—the cold knowledge that if he doesn't perform well enough, the consequences will be unthinkable—

Everything that matters is the same.

"I hope you're not going to waste my time again, Agent Washington," Hargrove says through the loudspeakers. "I have limited patience."

"Yeah, I'd hate to disappoint you," says Wash, adjusting his grip on his rifle.

Yesterday was a failure. He managed to start the simulation, but then he panicked. Lost control. It wasn't good. But he practiced all night with the safety settings on, and now he's going to do this because he has to do this. Tucker doesn't get to live unless Wash goes out on missions and Wash isn't allowed on missions until he proves that he can used the Mark IV Targeting-Lock Interface.

He hopes that Tucker's doing okay. So far he’s only been shown brief clips of surveillance footage. He's not allowed to meet him again until after his first mission.

"FILSS, start the testing sequence," says Hargrove.

"Initiating testing sequence now," says FILSS. Her voice is dull, obedient; Wash knows she helped the others when they were aboard the Staff of Charon, but he doesn't think she’ll do anything for him and Tucker now.

Holographic blue hexagons appear around him in a ring and start rotating. Wash lets out a slow breath, tries to release the tension from his shoulders. He lets his eyes unfocus, because that's the best way to notice—

There. At the edge of the his vision, one hexagon has turned from blue to gold.

The next instant, it's ringed in two red circles. They look like part of his HUD, but Wash is nauseatingly aware that they're not passing through his optic nerves, they're being funneled straight to his occipital lobe by the Mark IV.

Target acquired. The voice is precise, mechanical. A lot like Freckles. Eliminate?

"Confirm," says Wash, but his arms are already lifting the rifle, pulling the trigger.

It feels like a reflex, but Wash knows it's not. He knows that it's the Mark IV moving his arms and sending the bullets straight through the center of the target. His heart jumps, and he can't help flinching back, trying to jerk his arms free even though thing is inside him.

To the left, another hexagon turns gold. Target acquired.  

Wash whirls to face it. The movement is sloppy, overshooting, and he knows that he's about to fail again. But he can't fail, he can't.  "Confirm," he manages to gasp, and his gun spits bullets again, and—

simulation_11010 live rounds on the training room floor and Maine is ripped almost in half, blood spreading around him in a pool, Wyoming alive but his spine snapped, the grenade paints York across the wall and I'm sorry to tell you I'm sorry to tell you I'm sorry

—there are more hexagons turning gold around him, target-target-target acquired, and Wash lets go. He whispers, “Safety off,” and he lets the Mark IV grip his brainstem and spin him around, gun firing. There are multiple holographic rings now, rotating at different angles, rolling around the training room floor; Wash whirls, and ducks, and somersaults, and shoots every target as it appears, his mind a white fog of panic. There’s no target acquired and no confirmed; there’s just a gun and the computer firing it. Wash is only a conduit.

Slowly, he realizes that it's over. That FILSS has already said, "Sequence complete," and the targets have disappeared.

His heart is pounding and his breath is rasping in his throat. But he did it. He isn't going to watch Tucker die.

"Excellent work," Hargrove says from above him. "Welcome to the team, Agent Washington."