Chapter Text
It was a stupid injury, one that hardly required a trip to the infirmary let alone an overnight stay.
The dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist were the worst of it, followed by bruised ribs, and a minor concussion. But Grey was airing on the side of caution. She was concerned about Washington’s implants, given his history of head trauma and the unfortunate frequency of his visits to the infirmary following missions (due to being a self-sacrificial asshole). The Freelancer was on his way out the door of the ward, trailing a chattering Caboose when Grey swooped in. The next thing Tucker knew, the doctor was physically dragging Wash back to a hospital bed, chirping about keeping him under observation on the off chance he dropped dead from a stroke or started bleeding from his eyes or something. Wash protested but ultimately gave in under Grey’s glare.
There were a million things Tucker should have been doing, such as debriefing from the mission, or, more appealingly, sleeping. But Caboose was determined to finish telling Wash whatever long-winded story he was going on about. When the hulking Blue soldier plopped down in a chair beside the bed, he patted the seat beside him, looking at Tucker expectantly. And Goddammit, that was the end of it. Sure, Tucker could have left after a couple of minutes, but the prospect of trekking to his room kept him in his seat. That and the flicker of a genuine, warm smile from Wash as Tucker pulled up a chair.
Visiting hours were long past when Grey finally kicked them out. Tucker was pretty sure she only allowed them to stay late to distract Wash from making an escape attempt. There wasn’t much reason to worry though. Wash was almost half asleep by the time the Blues were escorted out, probably thanks to whatever painkillers Grey had him on. As they left, Wash gave a faint smirk and waved. Tucker grinned, managing a mocking salute before Grey shoved them out the door.
Later, that’s the image that sticks with Tucker: Wash relaxed against the pillows, stupid sleepy look on his face as he fought to stay awake just long enough to wave goodnight to his team. Maybe because of its contrast to what came later.
When Tucker wakes up it takes him a few moments to figure out what’s off.
Sprawled across his bunk, he traces the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. It’s quiet, but not the bad kind of quiet: the silence that comes right before a bomb hits, or seconds before an ambush. It’s quiet for Chorus standards, which means warthogs rolling by on grumbling engines, distant gunshots from the firing range, and steady whine of pelicans coming and going from the airstrip.
Twisting his neck, Tucker squints at the clock on his bedside table. Still a solid forty-five minutes until his alarm goes off. Tucker rolls over, burrowing into his blanket. He can’t even manage to sleep in on days when he’s allowed to sleep in. Stupid internal clock. Then again, being allowed to sleep in doesn’t mean much when your roommate is dedicated to getting up at the ass crack of dawn–
Tucker sits up. Pressed up against the opposite wall is Wash’s empty bed, made with the blankets pulled tight–a model of military perfection just like the rest of his space.
Right, Wash spent the night in the infirmary. That’s what’s off. There’s no asshole in full armor standing over the sim trooper, telling him he’s going to be late for training because, no, Tucker, ten minutes is not enough time to shower, suit up, and grab breakfast. You should be used to waking up early, you’re in the army.
Tucker flops back and pulls a pillow over his face. Yeah, well, doesn’t mean he has to like it.
After a few minutes of tossing and turning, Tucker gives up on sleep and drags himself out of bed to start the day. He snags a set of fatigues hanging from a rail of his bed frame.
Tucker and Wash were planning on sparring this morning. Tucker slips on his helmet and shoots off a quick message.
Tucker: hey you break out of the hospital yet?
He sets the helmet aside as he heads to the bathroom to continue getting ready. When he returns a few minutes later, he finds the message unanswered.
Tucker: are we still sparring today
Tucker: correction are you ALLOWED to spar
Tucker: i don’t want to get on grey’s bad side man. she controls the painkillers for the next time i get shot
Tucker checks the schedule on his datapad and finds their session still listed for the training room. Then he pulls up the chat. Still no response.
Tucker: whatever. i’ll be in the mess hall if you need me
Sticking the data pad under his arm, Tucker heads out of the barracks. Wash probably has his helmet off, that’s why he’s not answering. Heck, he’s probably at breakfast with the rest of the sim troopers.
Wash isn’t at breakfast. Instead, Tucker ends up squeezing onto a bench with Caboose and Donut. Across from them, Sarge barely lifts his head from a pile of coffee stained blueprints, and Grif’s asleep in his scrambled eggs. There isn’t much space on the table between everyone’s trays and Freckles. Tucker edges the gun barrel away from himself and makes room for his own tray. Freckles might not be able to shoot him, but Tucker doesn’t need confetti in his cereal.
“Morning,” Tucker mumbles, shoveling a spoon full into his mouth.
Sarge hums, bent over his designs. The Red isn’t doing a great job of hiding them since Tucker can clearly make out the words ‘Semi-Automatic Blue-Be-Gone Ray.’ The walking shotgun project must be on hold.
Meanwhile, Grif snores himself awake and barely pauses before digging into breakfast. He looks over at Tucker, “Sup.” But it comes out more like “Mrrf,” with his mouth full.
Tucker shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “How’s your knee?” The orange soldier twisted on yesterday’s mission.
“Horrible, won’t be able to train for a long time – maybe even forever.”
“He’s fine.” Simmons slides into a seat beside Grif. “Doctor said he doesn’t even need to stop training.”
“Can’t stop what you never started,” Tucker comments.
Grif puts a hand on his chest and stares at the maroon soldier with mock horror. "My god Simmons, do you want me to risk losing this leg? I'm in real pain here."
Simmons ignores the theatrics. “It’s called heart disease, fat ass.”
“Hey, Tucker,” Donut grabs the teal soldier’s attention. “Where’s Wash?”
Tucker pauses with a spoon full of cereal halfway to his mouth. “I dunno – how should I know?”
“Because you sleep with him,” Caboose says helpfully, right as the teal soldier takes a big bite of cereal. Tucker’s pretty sure milk comes out his nose.
“Goddammit, Caboose,” Tucker wheezes as Donut thumps him on the back. Grif’s snickering into his food across the table and the Blue soldier flips him off.
Once he’s finished choking, Tucker clears his throat. “You don’t say it like that. We’re roommates. We share a room–You know what? Let’s put this conversation on hold. Forever. I’m just not–” Tucker turns back to Donut. “Why?”
“Oh, I’m trying to plan a wine and cheese night, and I was hoping he could shift some of the cadets’ training times so everyone can come–”
Tucker takes a long swig of coffee. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s gonna go for that.”
“Ooh, don’t say that. I haven’t asked yet, so you never know–and obviously, he’s invited sooo…”
“Fine, whatever. I’m sparring with him in like an hour so, I can bring it up.”
Donut claps his hands together gleefully. “Thank you!”
Simmons cocks his head. “Come to think of it, Wash wasn’t on the track this morning.”
“Well, yeah,” Tucker says, stirring his sugary cereal milk, “the guy just got out of the hospital. He’s not going to be running laps.”
Simmons shrugs his shoulders. “Hasn’t stopped him before.”
The Red's right of course and Tucker knows that, even as he shoves the thought aside and finishes his meal.
Wash was supposed to be here over an hour ago.
Tucker’s slow to notice. He’s waiting in the training room when he gets distracted by a few cadets who hesitantly approach to ask for tips on the hand to hand techniques. He starts out with three students but it's not long before he's got fifteen kids gathered around him, wide-eyed and hanging on his every word.
When Tucker finally steps away to get a drink of water and towel sweat from his face, he happens to glance at his datapad on the bench. He does a double take and checks the time again, finally realizing just how late the Freelancer is. Tucker opens the chat but finds his messages to Wash still unanswered.
Tucker fires off another.
Tucker: you plan on showing up or do i win by default
Tucker leans back on the bench and watches the cadets run through their drills. But his attention keeps shifting back to the datapad.
Tucker: hello
Tucker: hey asshole
There’s a tight feeling coiling in his chest. He swallows it down with a long swig of water.
Tucker: donut’s looking for you
Minutes pass. Tucker forces himself to stop bouncing his leg.
Tucker: seriously man what the fuck
Tucker: i’m leaving
Tucker: where are you