#i highly debated whether to end it before washs pov

[agentwashingtrash]

I do not know if you keep accepting prompts, but if you do, what about Tucker taking care of Wash, because the fandom always needs more about your writing

[I STARTED WRITING THE FILL FOR THIS THE DAY I GOT THIS PROMPT. IT TOOK ME TIL TWO DAYS AGO TO GET IT FINISHED. THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND WORDS. I’M SORRY I’M A FAILBOAT AT TURNING STUFF OUT. I HOPE YOU ENJOY.

also i know i said my next prompt fill was gonna be porn. i lied. THE NEXT ONE DEFS IS THO AND I AM ACTIVELY WORKING ON IT SO YAY!!!]

wash is standing in the kitchen at three am with a gun in his hand and tucker thinks he’s going to puke.

[rewind]

tucker comes awake with a sharp inhale, disorientated, and a vague sense of agitation pulling low in his stomach. the base is quiet around him and he lies in the dark waiting for his heartbeat to settle. the sheets are cool against his skin and he can hear the faint patter of rain against the roof, but his brain has decided on being awake, so he heaves out a sigh and rolls onto his back.

“tucker.”

he jerks away from the hulking shape looming over him so hard he smacks his head against the wall. cursing, he rubs the back of his head and glares hard at the shadow. “jesus fucking christ caboose are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”

caboose looks suitably chastised, but only for a moment. “something is wrong with agent washingtub.”

“something—what?” he squints at his hand  distractedly. “i better not be bleeding.”

“i think he is having a nightmare.”

that catches his attention. “shit—are you sure? i didn’t hear anything.” but he’s already reaching for a clean(?) pair of pants. “dude you didn’t try to wake him up did you? you know he doesn’t want us anywhere—”

but caboose is shaking his head. “he is not in his bed.”

tucker pauses. “what?”

“he is in the kitchen.”

“he’s in—” tucker drags a hand down his face. “dude he can’t be having a nightmare if he’s not sleeping.”

“no, but tucker! i think something is wrong,” he says, twisting his fingers anxiously.

tucker sighs, “caboose…”

“i think he might be broken,” caboose says quietly, as if saying it too loudly might make it true.

the words slam into tucker, twisting something in his chest. “he’s not broken,” he snaps, standing and herding his teammate towards the door. “show me where he is.”

[fast-forward]

“wash?” he says quietly, edging into the kitchen.

the man doesn’t react, standing stock-still in the dim light, head tilted down and away. tucker can barely tell if he’s breathing. he’s not wearing his armour, clad only in his undersuit, but that’s not what’s making bile rise in the back of tucker’s throat.

it’s the gun gripped firmly in his hand. finger away from the trigger. safety off.

caboose makes a low whining noise from the hall and wash’s head swings towards them.

“caboose go back to sleep,” tucker orders lowly. “i got this.”

“will agent washingtub be alright tucker?”

he throws a grin over his shoulder and hopes caboose can’t tell how strained it is. “yeah dude i got this. i’m practically a freelancer whisperer.”

“that is good. wash needs more quiet things i think,” caboose says solemnly—like he’s not punching a hole in tucker’s stomach—before his hulking shadow disappears back towards his room.

tucker breathes out slowly, swivelling back around to stare at his teammate. “what is even going on in your head right now dude?” he mutters, not expecting an answer.

wash doesn’t move. his breathing is so slow and steady tucker wonders if he's—well, nightmare-walking is probably the more accurate description. his head tracks tucker as he slowly steps in a wide circuit around him, but his eyes are always a few steps behind.

his grip on the gun never falters.

[pause]

tucker doesn’t even know what the deal with wash is.

bringing home the freelancer was like adopting an abused pit bull. you expect the teeth and the mistrust, but then you get the shaking and screaming whimpering and you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with this mess that’s suddenly ended up in your lap.

and even though you had nothing to do with it, you still feel guilty and oddly responsible and somehow or other you decide you’re going to fix this broken thing come hell or high water.

tucker’s never said any of this out loud because the last thing he needs is wash hearing him compare him to a dog but either way the point is—

[play]

“you always have to be so dramatic about everything,” tucker says quietly, “it can’t ever be easy with you, can it?”

wash doesn’t blink, even as tucker moves away from the door and places himself in front of the window. its a strategic move on his part. wash has always been tetchy about windows, and tucker is hoping that the combination of an empty exit point and a covered weak spot will ease something in wash’s subconscious.

“whoever said that blondes have all the fun is full of shit,” tucker gripes, tone as casual as he doesn’t feel. “i’ve never had a blonde give me more trouble and i’m not even getting into your pants after all this. definitely seems unfair.”

tucker has no idea what’s going on in wash’s head. there’s not a single shift in his stance, and tucker doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or if he should be running for cover. swallowing hard, and hoping he’s not about to get himself killed, he slowly steps towards the freelancer, every movement deliberate and open.

“we can probably all head back to bed now y’know. you’ve done your badass freelancer shtick. no one’s here but us, dude. we’re all okay.”

wash still isn’t looking directly at him, but his eyes are tracking his feet so at least tucker won’t accidentally startle a fugue’d(?) freelancer. he makes sure to keep the window at his back and his hands at his sides, palms open and up.

“you can go back to sleep wash,” tucker murmurs, “i know how tired you must be.”

he’s in arm’s reach now, and tucker can feel his heart trying to rip it’s way out of his chest. training aside wash has never deliberately hurt him, but he knows how easy it would be for wash to… the last thing tucker wants is for wash to come out of this with blood on his hands. he forgets sometimes, when they’re all in their armour, just how much bigger wash is than him. he’s a full head taller, and while he might look lean, this close tucker can see how broad his shoulders are, the strength in his arms. even if he didn’t have the gun wash has the full advantage here and there are just so many reasons tucker cannot fuck this up.

“what do you say, man?” ever so slowly he reaches out, fingers brushing against wash’s elbow. “do you want to go back to sleep?”

wash doesn’t react and tucker swallows hard, curling his hand gently around his arm. even through the undersuit wash still feels cool and something in his chest twists, wondering how long he was standing here before caboose found him. his gaze flicks down to the gun in wash’s hand—safety still off. finger still away from the trigger—then back up, trying to catch wash’s eye.

his hand slides down. “we’ll go back to sleep wash, okay? but you need to give me the gun first. not very comfy to sleep with one of those. trust me, i’ve tried.”

he feels skin under his palm, the juts of wash’s wrist. his fingers brush against cool metal. wash’s head slowly tilts.

“give me the gun, wash,” he whispers.

tucker’s up against the far wall before he can blink, shoved, not violently, wash’s body caging him in. his breath escapes him in a quiet gasp, and he lets his body go limp. there’s a hand against his collarbone, thumb tucked into the hollow of his throat, and without thinking too hard about how fucking dumb it probably is, tucker tips his head back, exposing his neck and flicking his gaze down.

there’s a long moment, quiet, and tucker waits. but when wash does nothing more than loom, he risks a glance up. the freelancer’s gaze is still blank, half-lidded, fixed somewhere past tucker’s ear; breathing still as slow and methodical as it has been this whole time, but this close tucker can see how tight his jaw is clenched. can feel that while the hand against him is lax, there’s a minute tremor wracking his frame.

“wash,” he says quietly, voice wavering, “it’s okay dude, it’s just me. you can relax now.”

the thumb at his throat twitches, and rather than feel threatened tucker feels his shoulders slump. he reaches up, curling a hand around wash’s wrist, thumb rubbing soothingly over the rapid pulse he finds there.

“you’re so tired man, i know you are,” he reaches out with his other hand, brushing the backs of his knuckles against wash’s forearm. “but you’ve done good. we’re okay wash, caboose is okay. it’s time for you to go back to sleep.”

he clasps wash’s arm, repeating the same thing he did earlier, slowly dropping his hand down until he feels the cool press of metal against his palm. wash is trembling from head to toe now, and tucker feels a swell of relief when his eyes finally slip closed. their hands have been the only point of contact until this point, yet now wash lets his body sag forward, resting his forehead next to tucker’s against the wall.

tucker turns, pressing his forehead to wash’s temple, hand sliding down to curve around the gun. “can you let go now? i’ve got you wash, i promise.”

wash makes a noise low in the back of his throat, his first of the night, and it’s quiet and weak and crushes something deep within him. tucker manages a shaky breath, tightening his grasp around wash’s other wrist, wanting him to feel grounded and reassured—not knowing if he is. he pulls a little, encouraging wash to sink further into him, and humming encouragingly when he does.

tucker knows things are going to change after this. even if wash doesn’t fully remember tonight, tucker won’t be able to forget how wash felt shaking against him. the knowledge that even as broken and twisted as wash is, there is a deep implicit trust here that knocks the breath out of tucker if he thinks about it too hard. so he doesn’t. instead he noses at the bolt of wash’s jaw, cradling the beat of his heart in his palms.

“you’re safe wash,” he murmurs. “let go of the gun.”

slowly, ever so slowly, finger by finger, wash lets go of the gun.

[fast-forward]

wash wakes, warm and gentle, the sun high in the sky. tucker lying next to him. he isn’t as surprised by this as he should be, he thinks. they’re curved towards each other, parenthesis in the sheets. one of wash’s arms is lying between them and tucker has a hand curled around his wrist, thumb sweeping over his pulse, and in turn wash’s other hand is gently grasping tucker’s wrist—a tangle of reassurance.

tucker’s awake, eyes half-lidded and fixed on the knot of contrasting skin. wash spends a long moment watching him watch their hands, no desire to rise and begin the day despite knowing he should’ve been up hours ago.

finally tucker’s gaze flicks up, doesn’t seem surprised to see wash watching him. “hey.”

“hey,” wash replies, voice low and rough. “what time is it?”

“late.” tucker’s mouth quirks up into a grin. “i’m surprised you haven’t already thrown yourself out of bed to start running laps.”

wash ignores that bit. “you should’ve woken me up.”

“you needed the sleep,” tucker says with a shrug, “plus if the reds and their shit didn’t wake you up then i definitely wasn’t going to.”

he pauses, and now that he’s listening for it he can hear rhythmic clangs of metal on metal and the usual sounds of grif and simmons having a domestic. “what are they doing?”

tucker snorts. “fuck knows. what are they ever doing? they’ve been at it all morning so i’m sure we’ll hear all about it when caboose gets back.”

it occurs to wash that the base has been quieter than usual, no sounds of caboose clamouring around in the kitchen followed by ominous burning smells.

“besides,” tucker continues, eyes dipping to where their hands are resting, “one day off won’t kill you. all work and no play, yada yada yada.”

he falls silent, and wash finds his own gaze flicking down to watch tucker’s thumb trace shapes over the ghostly blue of his veins. it’s soothing, and wash finds himself lulled into a haze of half-sleep, listening to tucker’s breathing and absently realizing they’re in sync.

an indeterminable time later, tucker speaks up quietly. “aren’t you going to ask me?”

“hm?”

“what i’m doing here?”

wash cracks an eye open. “i had wondered. i’d just assumed i was finally wooed by the prowess of your pickup lines.”

tucker laughs, surprised, and wash feels himself grin in response. “i mean you wouldn’t be the first, but no. i…” he trails off, smile sloping downwards. “do you remember last night?”

“last night?” wash’s brow furrows. he remembers… he remembers being afraid. ghosts in the dark ghosts in his head. forgetting his own name and the overwhelming urge to protect his back because no one else will.

remembers tucker?

“i… you were there. i was having a nightmare? or—what happened?”

tucker lets out a long breath. “fuck if i know dude. sleep-walking maybe? caboose found you in the kitchen at like three in the morning.”

wash feels his pulse pick up. “he’s okay right? i didn’t—“

“no, no,” tucker interrupts gently. “he’s fine. i don’t even think you really knew he was there.”

he swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry. “and what about you? tucker if i—did i hurt you?”

tucker watches him, expression inscrutable and just when wash thinks he might be sick tucker shakes his head. “no. you didn’t hurt me.”

“you’re sure?” he rasps.

an odd expression flits across tucker’s face, gone too quick for wash to try and analyze it, but his lips curl upwards. “positive. you won’t hurt me wash.”

wash doesn’t know what to say to that. doesn’t know why his pulse is suddenly racing for an entirely different reason. so he does what he does best and ignores it, forces it down and awkwardly clears his throat. “so what happened than?”

tucker shrugs again. “i talked you down. convinced you not to stand and play honour guard til the sun came up. took you to bed—bow chicka bow wow.” he waggles his eyebrows when wash snorts. “i know you’re weird about us being around you when you’re sleeping but you—“ his eyes flick down to where wash’s hand is curled around his wrist, “I didn’t think you should be alone.”

he can feel the heat blooming across his cheeks, can probably figure out what tucker’s leaving out. knows that he’s pathetically starved for touch, skin-hungry in a way that he’d never admit to if you held a gun to his head. not that it matters when it sounds like he’s probably been attached to tucker all night.

“well,” he rasps, coughs, tries again, “you didn’t—i mean… thank you, tucker. it—it really means a lot.”

tucker grins, squeezes his wrist reassuringly. “no problem, dude. not the biggest hardship in the world to snuggle with a hot blonde all night.”

he winks, laughs when wash’s cheeks darken, is still laughing when they hear caboose clatter into the base, yelling something about croissants and rocket launchers. he knows he should let go of tucker now, make a move to leave, but he’s comfortable here, soothed by the continual sweep of tucker’s fingers against his skin. his limbs feel weightless against the mattress, the exhaustion that he wears like a cloak washed away in the pre-dawn hours.

he realizes his eyes are slipping closed again when tucker speaks up quietly. “i know that we’re not what you’re used to—not like your old team. but,” wash feels him shift under the sheets, “you’re one of us now, y’know?”

“couldn’t get rid of you if i tried,” he mumbles.

tucker huffs out a laugh. “nope. just remember that yeah? we’re your team.” something brushes against his temple and he nudges into it. “we’ve got your back, dude.”

the thought settles deep in his chest—deep down where it’s dark and aching. it curls there soft and glowing and wash curves around it, determined to protect this new thing. he thinks he likes it.

“i’ve got you wash, go back to sleep,” tucker murmurs against his hand.

wash hums, another thought settling inside him; but it slips from his sleep-heavy mind. it’s alright though, he thinks, as he sinks further down, he can find it later. tucker’s here.

[stop]