house rules

[sideways]

Title: House Rules
Rating: PG 13+
Series: Red Vs Blue (Washington, Tucker)
Wordcount: 1144
Warnings: Rampant cussing and great big spoilers through to the end of season eight.
Summary: Wash learns about downtime, patience, and not killing everyone in a three mile radius.
Remarks: One part fic and three parts voice test. I've never written an RvB fic before, but the urge kicked in somethin' fierce to match my current bout of oh-that's-right-this-show-is-awesome. It feels a little bit bare bones; funnily enough, it's much easier to envisage dialogue than it is to envisage movements, possibly because for seven seasons movement was pretty limited. But hey! I had fun.

“This,” Wash said, “is getting ridiculous.”

The simulation bases weren’t particularly big. Solid, yes–the concrete was thick enough to stand strong in the face of everything from grenades to a direct airstrike—but far from roomy. Kitchen and common area were one and the same, dropping anything in the bathroom meant backing out of it in order to pick it up, your bed was your bedroom.  If the enemy got inside, there really weren’t that many places to go.

And yet.

Wash folded his arms and stared across the table Tucker had managed to put between them. The triumphant “Ha!” the other soldier had flung his way as he skittered to safety was embarrassing for both of them; Tucker if he thought this was anything more than a very temporary obstacle, Wash because he could swear he used to be faster than this. Hell, he should be getting more practised, not less.

“It was a little odd at first,” he continued. “And then it was irritating. Now it’s definitely approaching ridiculous.”

“Hey, no one forced you to be here!” Tucker shot back. “Feel free to head back to Command any time you want. Oh wait!”

He could kick it, he mused. It was hard to run when you’d taken the sharp edge of a table to the gut. Or the topside of a table to the face. That said, it was also hard to claim team spirit when you were bludgeoning your allies with their own furniture, and Wash sighed as he shook off the ever-so-slightly wistful imaginings and leaned forward, gripping either side of the table and preparing to drag it out of the way in the nice, sane, rational approach to the situation.

“Oh, shit,” Tucker said in the worst show of gratitude ever, and looked quickly from side to side as if searching for an exit, a weapon, an answer—and apparently found the last, because he suddenly stopped inching backwards and whipped a hand out to point at the former Freelancer. “We saved your life!”

Wash didn’t pause. “You used that on Tuesday.”

“I did? Wait, fuck, I did.” The scrape of the table legs against the floor prompted him to angle his head towards the nearest doorway. “Caboose, get out here!”

“He used his on Monday.” One last push had the table coming to rest against the opposite wall, well out of the way, and Wash took a slow step forward.

“Fuck.” He could see Tucker hesitating, but another step and the rapidly decreasing space between the younger soldier’s back and the wall decided him. “Screw it. I’m using the combined Blue Team guilt card then.”

“That was also used on Monday. Approximately…” Wash squinted at the ceiling in brief thought. ”Forty-three seconds after Caboose used his.”

“Aw, Caboose, seriously?”

The flash of blue that had just begun to appear around the corner hastily reversed its direction.

Now that he finally had his target cornered, the former Freelancer took the time to pull the usual spiel out from the part of his brain he stored it in for these occasions. It was largely a waste of effort, he knew that, but he still couldn’t help but hope that if he repeated it enough, the actual concept might just stick. Maybe. Some day. “Look, Tucker. We have the roster for a reason. I appreciate what you guys did for me, I really do, but that doesn’t mean I can keep this base running by myself. We all need to pull our weight-”

“Pull our weight? You send Caboose out the back to see if we still have the same number of boulders as last week!”

Wash raised an eyebrow slowly. “Which means he’s doing a set task for several hours. A set task that doesn’t involve breakable things. Or sharp things. Or flammable things. Do you remember the fires, Tucker?”

The other soldier’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

“Do you want the fires back?”

“No. I don’t want the fires back.”

“Then I suggest you let Caboose continue to pull his share of the weight in…in his own way. And I very, very strongly suggest you pull yours.”

There was a pause, and for a second Wash almost dared believe this was it, this was the end of the run-around, he was done with this charade for at least another few days.

“…you totally stabbed us in the back, dude.”

“For the last time, Tucker, we are not introducing a betrayal clause!”

“Alright, alright! Fine.”

Wash glared at him a second longer, and then—in a tone that was absolutely not sulky at all—added, “You weren’t even there.”

Tucker shrugged easily. “Hey, we’re the Blues. A team. What you do to one of us…y’know, makes the others pissed. A little. Kind of. Depends who it is, I guess.”

“Yes, that was one of the first things that struck me about you guys. The solidarity.” The urge to knuckle at the bridge of his nose proved a little too strong, but given the number of other urges he was successfully suppressing, Wash let himself have it. One battle at a time. “Tucker. I am asking you here, as equals. Mostly equals. Please, please, for the love of God…just go and wash the dishes.”

The shoulders sagged even further, and at last Wash felt the sweet swell of victory in chest.

“Fine,” Tucker muttered, and snatched the cloth out of Wash’s hand as he slunk past, heading in the direction of their sink and its mountain of cutlery. “Asshole.”

Wash let out a long, slow exhale, and the knot of irritation began to unravel and ease away as quickly as it had sprung up. That in itself was kind of a new thing, one that he’d been noticing more and more of. Maybe there was something to be said for the little things—for being able to go hey, look, I finished what I set out to do and I’m done.

Well, mostly.

“And I mean wash them! Don’t just throw them through the teleporter and tell me it’s a different set!”

The string of abuse that was fired back in his direction felt almost familiar.