#i know see its too wordsy for em

[wordsysayswords]

Habits, a new series

After picking Wash up on Sidewinder, it's going to take everyone a while to get used to the new living arrangements. Especially Wash, who's a bit directionless now that he's finally free of the Project. Tucker doesn't care for blue team's new leader. But he can't help noticing some of the man's odd habits and wonder what caused them.

Part 1: Eating Habits

The first time they sit down for a meal as a team is maybe two days after Sidewinder. Tucker sets a plate down in front of Wash and before the teal soldier even finishes sitting down, the man’s already downed half the plate.

Or, Wash is weirdly protective of food. Tucker doesn't care and he certainly isn't going to do something about it. Oh, fuck, he's going to do something about it, isn't he?

Washington is a total freak.

Tucker figured that out all the way back on Sidewinder. Doc chided the Freelancer for sitting up too fast, warning the man could have a collapsed lung.

“That’s okay,” Wash had wheezed, as he swayed back and forth. “It’s only one.”

So the guy was weird. Whatever. Once the UNSC showed up, he wouldn’t be Tucker’s problem anymore.

But then Caboose decided he wanted a pet.

And it wasn't a goldfish he wanted, oh no. He wanted to adopt the rogue special ops agent who might not last the next 48 hours without some serious medical attention. And Tucker could hardly flush Washington down the toilet and buy a replacement at the pet store before Caboose found out. So there was no fucking way in hell that Wash was coming home with them.

Wash was coming home with them.

When Tucker was a kid, there was a stray dog that lived behind the local convenience store. It was stick-thin and looked like someone had dragged it behind a car going eighty for a few miles, but it was friendly enough. Tucker and his friends used to toss it sandwich crusts and leftover snacks. You had to be careful when feeding it, though.

That dog inhaled its food. Like, there was hardly any chewing involved. The scraps went from on the ground to in its stomach in a flurry of jaws. You’d think it never saw food before and expected to never see it again.

And if you got too close while it was still eating, the dog would raise its hackles and snarl. All teeth and flying spittle and crazy eyes. That dog would have fought the devil himself to protect its hotdog nub and a bit of bun. And it would have won.

That’s how Washington eats.

The first time they sit down for a meal as a team is maybe two days after Sidewinder. Tucker sets a plate down in front of Wash and before the teal soldier even finishes sitting down, the man’s already downed half the plate.

Tucker’s so surprised that for a moment he forgets that he hates Washington, and almost cracks a joke about them not feeding him during Project Freelancer.

But then Caboose stands up to go get the ketchup or maple syrup or whatever he’s decided to drown his meal in that day.

Wash startles hard, throwing a protective arm around his plate. He hunches his shoulders and almost slides out of his chair to pull away when Caboose walks past.

Caboose doesn’t notice. He goes happily about his business in the kitchen, humming as he does so. The Freelancer twists around in his seat, keeping the big blue soldier in his line of sight, sizing him up like he actually expects Caboose to try and take his plate from him. When Caboose turns his back to rifle through the fridge, Washington uses the opportunity to inhale the rest of his food.

“Uh,” Tucker clears his throat, causing Wash to whip his head in the teal soldier’s direction. “You want seconds?”

The agent just stares at him like he’s speaking another language, and it’s freaking Tucker out a bit.

“There’s more on the stove,” Tucker says. He stirs at his own food with his fork to give him something to do besides maintaining creepy eye contact with Washington. “Go for it, man.”

Wash still doesn’t move and Tucker’s a bit concerned he might have broken the Freelancer.

Then Caboose pipes up. “Here, Agent Washington!”

Caboose loads up another plate with food and returns to the table. He slides it over to Wash, who stares at the blue like he just offered him a handful of worms. Tucker’s glad Caboose thought to grab a new plate since he’s really not interested in seeing Washington chew someone’s arm off.

After that, the meal continues with Caboose chattering away about something around mouthfuls of food. Tucker only half pays attention, sneaking looks at Washington across the table.

Wash sits there in silence, looking between his untouched plate and the rest of the team with narrow eyes. After about five minutes, he seems to figure out no one’s going to take it back and that food is gone just as fast as the first time around.

It’s not a one-time thing, either. It keeps happening. Tucker can’t figure it out because Wash doesn’t look like he’s malnourished. And Doc would have definitely brought that up before he left. It’s not even mentioned in the handwritten notes he left behind detailing the continued care of Wash’s injuries. ‘Eats like a starving street dog’ isn’t included in the list of symptoms to watch out for, so Tucker figures they’re good, even if the whole thing’s pretty unsettling.

Tucker expects it to taper off as Wash recovers from getting the ever-loving snot beat out of him by two separate Freelancers on Sidewinder. Nope. The stitches come out and the bandages come off but Washington still eats with the grace of a rabid wolverine and with an arm curled around his plate.

“People did that in basic too,” Grif offers one day. He, Tucker, and Simmons are sitting on the rocky shore of Valhalla, all hiding from their respective COs.

“Only because you were sitting next to them,” Simmons chides. The man’s got his shoes off, feet dangling in the cold water. Tucker’s doing the same. Grif had called them both crazy and refused to drip so much as a toe in.

“No,” Grif says, “I mean, like, you had thirty minutes to get to the mess hall, stand in line, get your food, and find a place to sit and eat. You didn’t have time to fuck around.”

“I guess,” Tucker sighs. “But this is different.”

It’s so relaxing here, staring out over the water as the sun begins to dip in the sky. Tucker can’t believe he’s wasting this quality time thinking about what a wreck Agent Washington is.

Tucker shakes his head, slowly kicking his legs in the water. “He always looks like he’s waiting for one of us to fight him for his sandwich crust or something.”

“Well, that’s probably what happens in prison,” Simmons shrugs. He tosses a stone, sending it skipping across the top of the water.

“Hm…” Tucker grunts, watching the ripples blossom and fade beneath the waves. Then, “Wait, what?”

Simmons raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”

“I mean, I think I did.” Tucker’s getting a hazy recollection of something Caboose said about Wash getting a special new base. “It hasn’t really come up.”

“I saw his file at the Freelancer storage facility,” Simmons explains. “He was in prison after destroying the Alpha. Like, maximum security. And before that, there were a couple of psych wards. Military ones.”

“Fan- fucking -tastic,” Tucker gripes. He pulls himself to his feet and starts collecting his discarded shoes and socks. “The guy’s a criminal and insane?”

“Possibly even criminally insane,” Simmons points out.

Tucker snorts. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

“Have you heard about those UNSC prisons, though?” Grif says conspiratorially. “I heard the going rate for a cigarette is slitting someone’s throat.”

Simmons nods furiously. “I have a fourth cousin whose girlfriend’s brother was locked up for a while. Either for fraud or multiple homicide, I can’t remember. According to him, the guards are there to stop you from getting out. They don’t care what you do to each other inside.”

“You watch too many movies,” Tucker scoff, tying his shoes. “Like, I’m pretty sure that’s an actual movie line.”

“Whatever,” Simmons says. “But the guy lost a ton of weight because the gangs would steal his tray in the mess hall. It happened to everyone. Some sort of power thing.”

Tucker tells himself he doesn’t care.

It doesn’t matter that Project Freelancer and the nut houses and prison fucked Washington up because that’s still not an excuse for him straight up murdering Donut and deleting Church and chasing them with the Meta and kidnapping Doc. Okay, sure, it might explain why Wash is… the way he is, but still. Tucker hates him.

Wash saved Caboose’s life with the healing unit.

Tucker’s supposed to hate him.

Tucker should hate him.

Tucker really doesn’t like him.

Tucker still ends up rearranging the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

Tucker looks up to see Wash standing in the door, rubbing an eye with his palm as he blinks blearily around the room. Looks like he actually slept for a few hours last night. Looks like he could still use a couple of days more.

Tucker picks up the edge of the table and continues dragging it across the linoleum with a horrible grating sound.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Tucker asks, raising his voice to be heard over the racket. “A little interior design. Thought we should change things up.”

He drops the table legs to the floor with a bang and stands back to survey his work. “That should do it. Pull the chairs over, will you?”

Wash obliges, then stands back to shift awkwardly from foot to foot while Tucker finishes rearranging the furniture.

“Okay,” Tucker says. “What do you think?”

Wash shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Cool. Now go wake Caboose up. Tell him we’re having pancakes. That’ll get him moving.”

It’s not long before the team is gathered and the whole room smells of breakfast.

“Pancakes!” Caboose cheers, as Tucker manages a perfect flip with the frying pan.

“Don’t touch ‘em yet. They’re hot,” he warns as Caboose starts reaching for one of the plates piled high with pancakes. “Why don’t you and Washington go sit down?”

“Okay!” Caboose says, quickly bounding over to the table. Wash, who’s been quietly nursing a cup of coffee in the corner, follows at a much slower pace.

“Tucker?” Caboose calls. “Why is the table in the corner?”

“Because I felt like it,” Tucker answers.

When he comes to pass out the plates, he’s not surprised to see Wash has taken the seat with it’s back to the wall and with a full view of the door.

The new seating arrangements don’t fix everything. Wash still eats fast and watches his teammates’ every move. But he doesn’t startle quite as easily as before. And he doesn’t hunch over his food like that stray dog Tucker used to feed. It makes him seem a bit more human than before.

If Wash knows why Tucker rearranged the kitchen, he never says a word.