the identity of indiscernibles
Jan. 7th, 2013 07:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: The Identity of Indiscernibles
Rating: PG 13+
Series: Red Vs Blue (Washington, Tucker, Caboose)
Wordcount: 2900
Warnings: Some language, spoilers through to the end of season eight.
Summary: "We kind of call the new guy Church."
Remarks: Still hopelessly attached to this fandom. This time I took a one-off joke from season ten, combined it with a running gag, and somehow got minor angst involved. Tada!
The first time it happens, he’s in the middle of shifting one crate full of structural steel plates and trying to keep Caboose from unpacking the others, and the cheery chirp of, “Okay, Church!” would see him with a foot’s worth of broken toes were it not for the armour.
He still ends up hopping and cursing, trying to dance around the scattered mess of sharp edges and splintered wreckage while twisting his head to check that there is, in fact, no one else in the room, solid or otherwise, and by the time he’s scraped his thoughts together enough to say, “Caboose, it’s Wash,” he’s talking to himself. Caboose goes on to avoid him for the rest of the day, but that’s not exactly unexpected after an ‘accident’ that warrants three ice-packs, so by the next morning he declares the whole thing an understandable slip of the tongue and sets it far enough out of his mind that he can finally close his eyes and get to sleep.
The second and third times he also lets pass with little more than a terse correction, but by the fourth there’s no part of his mind left to hide the unease in, and it’s that realisation that finally drives him to the only possible consult he has on hand.
“It’s just Caboose,” Tucker says dismissively, which is probably the second least helpful response he could offer. “Being a dumbass is what he does, it’s like his thing.”
“But,” Wash says, and he’s trying to pick his words carefully because he knows he’s bothered and that bothers him almost as much as the issue itself does. “I mean, he does realise that I’m not Church, right? It’s just the names he’s getting confused?”
Tucker actually considers the query, which does little to settle Wash’s nerves, especially when he ends the speculation with a shrug. “Man, who knows. This is kind of the longest time Church has stayed dead for, and we’ve never had his armour still hanging around afterwards. Well, not moving around and yelling at us, anyway. You know he made us bury it once?”
He doesn’t know. “Caboose has travelled with Church and I before, separately and together,” he points out instead, “and it’s not as though he does it every time.”
“So it’s probably just the names then,” Tucker says. “Why do you even care? You’re supposed to be pretending to not be a fake-dead criminal anyway.”
“Not like this,” Wash says, more sharply than intended, and he curses himself silently when the helmet in front of him tilts in a way that makes it clear his tone has not gone unnoticed.
All Tucker says is, “Okay, whatever,” though, and when Wash continues to stare at him he throws his hands up in the air. “What do you want from me, dude? I’m not the one getting your name wrong, go talk to Caboose if it’s bugging you that much.”
“He’s your team-mate.” He pauses and draws in a breath in an attempt to erase the looming petulance in those words; as completely lacking in reassurance as Tucker’s responses are, he’s right in saying he’s not at fault here. “Don’t you have…some kind of technique for handling incidents like this? Some way to help him understand?”
“Are you kidding?” Tucker says, but before Wash can shed his manufactured calm and snap a reply, he continues with, “Look, if you think the armour’s the problem then why don’t you just, I don’t know, change the armour?”
Wash is shaking his head before Tucker finishes. “Basic supplies are one thing, but applying for something that high-end would mean doing more than filling out some forms, and that’s complicated enough already. We can’t afford to-”
“Wow, okay, I really wasn’t looking for the secrecy talk. Just use paint, dude.”
He blinks. “Paint?”
“Well yeah. We had to do Church all over this one time, when he was possessing the Mexican robot. The one you shot,” he adds, completely unnecessarily. “It worked pretty well.”
Wash turns slightly to look back into the base. More than half the stored equipment they’ve moved to make living space have been construction materials, and it’s not hard to believe that somewhere among it all will be some weather-proof paint. “That’s…not a bad idea.”
“It’s a fucking great idea!” Tucker says, in that particular mix of affront and smugness Wash is becoming increasingly familiar with. It doesn’t last long, however; the references to historical incidents seem to spark a different sort of reminder in the younger soldier, and he abruptly starts edging backwards in a way usually associated with work needing to be done. “So, uh, I should start patrolling or something if you’re going to be getting your Martha Stewart on. Feel free not to ask for help, ever.”
“Alright,” Wash says absently, already mentally running over the crates he’s seen so far to see if he can recall any that had held paint. By the time he remembers to add, “Thanks,” Tucker is mostly out the door and he resigns himself to more self-conversing, but then one arm lifts in a casual wave of acknowledgement just before the Blue steps around the corner.
Surprisingly, adding the yellow markings makes Wash feel better, once he stops feeling like a gaudy holiday decoration; it’s only after donning the amended armour that he can admit he’s gotten a little tired of startling whenever he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. He’s less willing to admit there’s something comforting about having his colours on his person again, but he shades the selected sections in with quiet care and stashes the leftover paint in his quarters in case further touch-ups are needed.
He needs the reason to relax, because it doesn’t stop Caboose’s misnomers. To Wash’s disbelief, the situation actually seems to get worse. It’s not that Caboose doesn’t notice the changes to the armour, which would otherwise be a valid concern, because he makes some reference to Wash looking like a sunny day and that seems as close to a confirmation as he could hope for. He just doesn’t stop. There’s no pattern to it, no specific trigger; one evening he manages to use both names in a single sentence and Wash bends his fork into a perfect V.
Tucker flatly refuses to discuss the issue again, but he does at least make a vague effort to correct any he overhears, which is usually phrased as one of several variations on, “Church isn’t here, idiot.” Wash would be appreciative of the gesture, but he’s not sure the Blue doesn’t have his own reasons for disliking the identity confusion and he has no intentions of asking.
It’s when he finds himself trying to write up a weekly tally to work out the exact percentage of times he’s called Wash against times he’s called Church that he decides the battle needs to end. The resolve is easier to find than the plan of attack, and he composes a few different ideas before deciding simple is best.
He doesn’t have to wait long for an opportunity. They’re all gathered in the kitchen, because the base’s common area only had the one couch and they had all lost interest in it upon realising what the dark stain across its cushions actually was, and Wash’s need to always have a man on guard has lessened considerably since the first days. Caboose is happily dismantling an old radio he has been permitted to ‘fix’ while Tucker flips idly through a magazine, and it doesn’t take long before ‘Church’ is asked to pass the screw-thingy.
Wash doesn’t pass it. He reaches up and unhooks his helmet instead, noting with distant annoyance that he really needs to do something about his hair when something approaching a fringe flops into his eyes. “Caboose,” he says, and waits until the broad blue helmet turns towards him enquiringly before saying, firmly, “I’m not Church.”
He hasn’t put it that way before. It hadn’t seemed necessary, but he no longer has faith that it’s just the names, and if this is going to shake some comforting fantasy Caboose has been holding onto then, well, maybe that needs to happen too.
It isn’t until Caboose gives a placid, “Okay,” that he realises he’s been bracing himself; he’s not quite sure what for, but it was definitely meant to be more dramatic than this.
“Okay,” he repeats, and is vaguely aware that Tucker has lowered his magazine to watch them. “Oka- Caboose, do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Caboose makes some indistinctly huffy noises that don’t answer the question at all, and Wash feels his fingers start to dig tighter into his helmet.
“Caboose,” he snaps.
“Yes,” Caboose says, too loudly, and fiddles with one of the few knobs he hasn’t yet pried off the radio. “Yes. I am receiving, loud and clear.”
“What are you receiving?”
“Oh, you know, messages-”
“I just need you to receive one message, Caboose,” Wash says, and he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth now because it turns out he can’t do this anymore, he can’t be someone else’s shadow, and he doesn’t know what else he can possibly do to make this sink in. “I’m not Church.”
There is a long pause, and then: “You do not like churches,” Caboose says solemnly.
“Dude,” Tucker says, his tone almost appeasing, but the slam of Wash’s helmet against the table cuts him short.
“I’m not Church.” He should be yelling. He should be raising his voice and waving his arms around and spitting insults, because that is how it’s done here, but the words coming out of his mouth are cold and precise and grating and his fists are clenched so tightly where they rest against the table that he can feel his pulse through each finger. “I’m not Alpha. I’m not Epsilon. That was never me, that’s not who I am, I am Washington.”
He doesn’t make a move for his weapon. He doesn’t say so get it through your fucking head before I put something else there. He doesn’t need to, because he can hear it echo in the silence that follows and the stillness of the Blues opposite, and he pushes away from the table to walk out the door before the twist in his chest can make it to his face.
He stops just to the right of the door to lean back against the wall and rub a rough hand over his eyes. The silence in the kitchen remains unbroken, with no one moving to go after him or call out his name (his name) and that leaves him with plenty of space for reflection on how much of a fucking idiot he is. If he’d wanted drama he certainly has it now, and why can’t he just let it go?
He knows why. He wishes he didn’t.
A faint creak sounds from inside the room, like someone shifting in their chair, and Wash drops his hand away, listening, half-preparing to vanish quickly if it seems like either of them are about to leave. It’s just followed by a long sigh, however, and then Tucker’s voice comes through clearly: “You are the biggest dumbass ever.”
“Of all time,” Caboose says in dejected agreement, his voice so low as to barely be audible.
Wash isn’t conscious of deciding to move; he just finds himself at the doorway again, hands hooked against the frame, matching the pair of alarmed stares with his own. “What did you just say?”
“Uh,” Tucker says.
Caboose has snatched his hand away from where he was poking at the strip of yellow adorning Wash’s helmet; now he folds both together on top of the table, tilts his head to stare at some point near the ceiling, and says unconvincingly, “I do not remember saying things.”
He means to change the tone of this confrontation, to say something that will prove he’s not completely psychotic, but there are different memories in his head now. A tan-armoured soldier snorting at him from across the assessment floor and saying I’m gonna have to break it to you, Wash, you say that way too much for it to tell me anything about your sit-rep. Being holed up in the infirmary and having to sacrifice his pillow for an indignant throw when his visitors cut him off in practised chorus. Accidentally giving himself away on what’s meant to be a blind-run and being unsympathetically informed that of course anyone who knows him is going to know-
“Oh my God,” Tucker exclaims, and Wash nearly jumps. “I can’t take it anymore.” He plants his hands on the table, and for a second Wash thinks he’s about to rise and storm out of the room, but all he does is twist towards his team-mate. “I can’t believe I’m doing this… Caboose. Where’s your best friend?”
“Sleeping!” Caboose says instantly, shoulders lifting as he brightens. “Or on holidays. In the land of memory and naps. He has to find the mean lady of his dreams and she is super good at hiding, so he can’t come back yet, but that is okay because he is having adventures and we are having adventures and one day they will be the same adventures and not just dreams.”
Tucker stares as blankly as he can through a reflective faceplate. “Okay, that was a lot creepier than I was expecting but,” he turns to Wash, “look, dude. I think he gets it, he just doesn’t…get it. I mean, you have the same armour as Church and you do the same shit he was supposed to do and just, I don’t know, it’s not like you’re the same person but you’re kind of the same guy. You know?”
As little as a fortnight ago that would have meant all the wrong things to Wash, but that time has passed and it turns out that at some point during it he’s learned how to translate. Not the same person, but the same guy; the same role. When phrased like that, Wash thinks, it’s as though Church becomes less of a name and more of a title. His grip on the doorframe loosens slightly.
Tucker clearly feels his silence is a bad sign, because he sighs with a frustration he’s quick to turn back on Caboose. “Who’s that?” he demands, pointing at the former Freelancer.
Caboose glances between Wash’s face in the doorway and the helmet on the table, and his hands twist together. “I don’t want to play this game anymore,” he says uncertainly.
“No,” Wash says before Tucker can press him further. It comes out softer than intended, and he clears his throat to try again. “No, it’s…it’s fine. You’ve made your point.”
The Blue tilts his head to side-eye him, scepticism clear. “Uh huh. Is that ‘it’s fine because I’m going to stop freaking out every time anyone says anything that starts with ch’ or is that ‘it’s fine because I’m going to kill you all in your sleep’?”
“The first one,” he says. It comes out more dry than anything, which would be alright at any other time, but not here and now and after that. He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Look, I- goddammit. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly, Caboose.”
“Oh that’s okay,” Caboose says, at the same moment Tucker goes, “Wait, he gets the apology? That’s bullshit.”
Wash snorts without rancour, finally dropping his hands away from the doorframe entirely and stepping back into the room. “I think I owe you an apology for more than just today.”
“Oh,” Tucker says. “Well…fuck, man, there’s no need to be a girl about it.” He shifts in his seat for a second, and then leans to pick up Wash’s helmet from the table, bouncing it in one hand. “I’m just glad you’re over it so I can ask for cheese again. You are over it, right?”
“It might take me a while, but…yes. I’ll try to be over it.” In the name of appearing personable, he adds, “And now that I think about it, it might even be a way to solve the problem with the paperwork.”
“Hey yeah,” Tucker says. “You have fun with that. I’ll just be glad you’re a lot easier to train than Caboose.”
That stops him dead. “Excuse me?” Wash says, arching both eyebrows.
He has to lift both hands quickly to catch his helmet as it’s lobbed at him, and the smirk in Tucker’s voice is easy to hear. “Maybe we should have just picked you a whole new name and tried that instead. Like Fluffy.”
“Sir Agent Fluffington,” Caboose mumbles, to the tolerant disregard of both parties.
Wash eyeballs the smug soldier for a moment, then shifts his gaze down to his handful. “Hm.” He rubs his thumb over a smudge on the visor, and then swings the helmet up to settle it into place, watching the readouts flicker back to life. “You don’t think Caboose would make that a little hard?”
Tucker pffts, kicking back in his seat. “Caboose makes everything hard,” he says, and promptly freezes.
“I think you know what goes here,” Wash says, his tone as utterly deadpan as he can get it, and is out the door before Tucker can stop spluttering long enough to form a response.
The forty-seventh time it happens, he lets it go.
Rating: PG 13+
Series: Red Vs Blue (Washington, Tucker, Caboose)
Wordcount: 2900
Warnings: Some language, spoilers through to the end of season eight.
Summary: "We kind of call the new guy Church."
Remarks: Still hopelessly attached to this fandom. This time I took a one-off joke from season ten, combined it with a running gag, and somehow got minor angst involved. Tada!
The first time it happens, he’s in the middle of shifting one crate full of structural steel plates and trying to keep Caboose from unpacking the others, and the cheery chirp of, “Okay, Church!” would see him with a foot’s worth of broken toes were it not for the armour.
He still ends up hopping and cursing, trying to dance around the scattered mess of sharp edges and splintered wreckage while twisting his head to check that there is, in fact, no one else in the room, solid or otherwise, and by the time he’s scraped his thoughts together enough to say, “Caboose, it’s Wash,” he’s talking to himself. Caboose goes on to avoid him for the rest of the day, but that’s not exactly unexpected after an ‘accident’ that warrants three ice-packs, so by the next morning he declares the whole thing an understandable slip of the tongue and sets it far enough out of his mind that he can finally close his eyes and get to sleep.
The second and third times he also lets pass with little more than a terse correction, but by the fourth there’s no part of his mind left to hide the unease in, and it’s that realisation that finally drives him to the only possible consult he has on hand.
“It’s just Caboose,” Tucker says dismissively, which is probably the second least helpful response he could offer. “Being a dumbass is what he does, it’s like his thing.”
“But,” Wash says, and he’s trying to pick his words carefully because he knows he’s bothered and that bothers him almost as much as the issue itself does. “I mean, he does realise that I’m not Church, right? It’s just the names he’s getting confused?”
Tucker actually considers the query, which does little to settle Wash’s nerves, especially when he ends the speculation with a shrug. “Man, who knows. This is kind of the longest time Church has stayed dead for, and we’ve never had his armour still hanging around afterwards. Well, not moving around and yelling at us, anyway. You know he made us bury it once?”
He doesn’t know. “Caboose has travelled with Church and I before, separately and together,” he points out instead, “and it’s not as though he does it every time.”
“So it’s probably just the names then,” Tucker says. “Why do you even care? You’re supposed to be pretending to not be a fake-dead criminal anyway.”
“Not like this,” Wash says, more sharply than intended, and he curses himself silently when the helmet in front of him tilts in a way that makes it clear his tone has not gone unnoticed.
All Tucker says is, “Okay, whatever,” though, and when Wash continues to stare at him he throws his hands up in the air. “What do you want from me, dude? I’m not the one getting your name wrong, go talk to Caboose if it’s bugging you that much.”
“He’s your team-mate.” He pauses and draws in a breath in an attempt to erase the looming petulance in those words; as completely lacking in reassurance as Tucker’s responses are, he’s right in saying he’s not at fault here. “Don’t you have…some kind of technique for handling incidents like this? Some way to help him understand?”
“Are you kidding?” Tucker says, but before Wash can shed his manufactured calm and snap a reply, he continues with, “Look, if you think the armour’s the problem then why don’t you just, I don’t know, change the armour?”
Wash is shaking his head before Tucker finishes. “Basic supplies are one thing, but applying for something that high-end would mean doing more than filling out some forms, and that’s complicated enough already. We can’t afford to-”
“Wow, okay, I really wasn’t looking for the secrecy talk. Just use paint, dude.”
He blinks. “Paint?”
“Well yeah. We had to do Church all over this one time, when he was possessing the Mexican robot. The one you shot,” he adds, completely unnecessarily. “It worked pretty well.”
Wash turns slightly to look back into the base. More than half the stored equipment they’ve moved to make living space have been construction materials, and it’s not hard to believe that somewhere among it all will be some weather-proof paint. “That’s…not a bad idea.”
“It’s a fucking great idea!” Tucker says, in that particular mix of affront and smugness Wash is becoming increasingly familiar with. It doesn’t last long, however; the references to historical incidents seem to spark a different sort of reminder in the younger soldier, and he abruptly starts edging backwards in a way usually associated with work needing to be done. “So, uh, I should start patrolling or something if you’re going to be getting your Martha Stewart on. Feel free not to ask for help, ever.”
“Alright,” Wash says absently, already mentally running over the crates he’s seen so far to see if he can recall any that had held paint. By the time he remembers to add, “Thanks,” Tucker is mostly out the door and he resigns himself to more self-conversing, but then one arm lifts in a casual wave of acknowledgement just before the Blue steps around the corner.
Surprisingly, adding the yellow markings makes Wash feel better, once he stops feeling like a gaudy holiday decoration; it’s only after donning the amended armour that he can admit he’s gotten a little tired of startling whenever he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. He’s less willing to admit there’s something comforting about having his colours on his person again, but he shades the selected sections in with quiet care and stashes the leftover paint in his quarters in case further touch-ups are needed.
He needs the reason to relax, because it doesn’t stop Caboose’s misnomers. To Wash’s disbelief, the situation actually seems to get worse. It’s not that Caboose doesn’t notice the changes to the armour, which would otherwise be a valid concern, because he makes some reference to Wash looking like a sunny day and that seems as close to a confirmation as he could hope for. He just doesn’t stop. There’s no pattern to it, no specific trigger; one evening he manages to use both names in a single sentence and Wash bends his fork into a perfect V.
Tucker flatly refuses to discuss the issue again, but he does at least make a vague effort to correct any he overhears, which is usually phrased as one of several variations on, “Church isn’t here, idiot.” Wash would be appreciative of the gesture, but he’s not sure the Blue doesn’t have his own reasons for disliking the identity confusion and he has no intentions of asking.
It’s when he finds himself trying to write up a weekly tally to work out the exact percentage of times he’s called Wash against times he’s called Church that he decides the battle needs to end. The resolve is easier to find than the plan of attack, and he composes a few different ideas before deciding simple is best.
He doesn’t have to wait long for an opportunity. They’re all gathered in the kitchen, because the base’s common area only had the one couch and they had all lost interest in it upon realising what the dark stain across its cushions actually was, and Wash’s need to always have a man on guard has lessened considerably since the first days. Caboose is happily dismantling an old radio he has been permitted to ‘fix’ while Tucker flips idly through a magazine, and it doesn’t take long before ‘Church’ is asked to pass the screw-thingy.
Wash doesn’t pass it. He reaches up and unhooks his helmet instead, noting with distant annoyance that he really needs to do something about his hair when something approaching a fringe flops into his eyes. “Caboose,” he says, and waits until the broad blue helmet turns towards him enquiringly before saying, firmly, “I’m not Church.”
He hasn’t put it that way before. It hadn’t seemed necessary, but he no longer has faith that it’s just the names, and if this is going to shake some comforting fantasy Caboose has been holding onto then, well, maybe that needs to happen too.
It isn’t until Caboose gives a placid, “Okay,” that he realises he’s been bracing himself; he’s not quite sure what for, but it was definitely meant to be more dramatic than this.
“Okay,” he repeats, and is vaguely aware that Tucker has lowered his magazine to watch them. “Oka- Caboose, do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Caboose makes some indistinctly huffy noises that don’t answer the question at all, and Wash feels his fingers start to dig tighter into his helmet.
“Caboose,” he snaps.
“Yes,” Caboose says, too loudly, and fiddles with one of the few knobs he hasn’t yet pried off the radio. “Yes. I am receiving, loud and clear.”
“What are you receiving?”
“Oh, you know, messages-”
“I just need you to receive one message, Caboose,” Wash says, and he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth now because it turns out he can’t do this anymore, he can’t be someone else’s shadow, and he doesn’t know what else he can possibly do to make this sink in. “I’m not Church.”
There is a long pause, and then: “You do not like churches,” Caboose says solemnly.
“Dude,” Tucker says, his tone almost appeasing, but the slam of Wash’s helmet against the table cuts him short.
“I’m not Church.” He should be yelling. He should be raising his voice and waving his arms around and spitting insults, because that is how it’s done here, but the words coming out of his mouth are cold and precise and grating and his fists are clenched so tightly where they rest against the table that he can feel his pulse through each finger. “I’m not Alpha. I’m not Epsilon. That was never me, that’s not who I am, I am Washington.”
He doesn’t make a move for his weapon. He doesn’t say so get it through your fucking head before I put something else there. He doesn’t need to, because he can hear it echo in the silence that follows and the stillness of the Blues opposite, and he pushes away from the table to walk out the door before the twist in his chest can make it to his face.
He stops just to the right of the door to lean back against the wall and rub a rough hand over his eyes. The silence in the kitchen remains unbroken, with no one moving to go after him or call out his name (his name) and that leaves him with plenty of space for reflection on how much of a fucking idiot he is. If he’d wanted drama he certainly has it now, and why can’t he just let it go?
He knows why. He wishes he didn’t.
A faint creak sounds from inside the room, like someone shifting in their chair, and Wash drops his hand away, listening, half-preparing to vanish quickly if it seems like either of them are about to leave. It’s just followed by a long sigh, however, and then Tucker’s voice comes through clearly: “You are the biggest dumbass ever.”
“Of all time,” Caboose says in dejected agreement, his voice so low as to barely be audible.
Wash isn’t conscious of deciding to move; he just finds himself at the doorway again, hands hooked against the frame, matching the pair of alarmed stares with his own. “What did you just say?”
“Uh,” Tucker says.
Caboose has snatched his hand away from where he was poking at the strip of yellow adorning Wash’s helmet; now he folds both together on top of the table, tilts his head to stare at some point near the ceiling, and says unconvincingly, “I do not remember saying things.”
He means to change the tone of this confrontation, to say something that will prove he’s not completely psychotic, but there are different memories in his head now. A tan-armoured soldier snorting at him from across the assessment floor and saying I’m gonna have to break it to you, Wash, you say that way too much for it to tell me anything about your sit-rep. Being holed up in the infirmary and having to sacrifice his pillow for an indignant throw when his visitors cut him off in practised chorus. Accidentally giving himself away on what’s meant to be a blind-run and being unsympathetically informed that of course anyone who knows him is going to know-
“Oh my God,” Tucker exclaims, and Wash nearly jumps. “I can’t take it anymore.” He plants his hands on the table, and for a second Wash thinks he’s about to rise and storm out of the room, but all he does is twist towards his team-mate. “I can’t believe I’m doing this… Caboose. Where’s your best friend?”
“Sleeping!” Caboose says instantly, shoulders lifting as he brightens. “Or on holidays. In the land of memory and naps. He has to find the mean lady of his dreams and she is super good at hiding, so he can’t come back yet, but that is okay because he is having adventures and we are having adventures and one day they will be the same adventures and not just dreams.”
Tucker stares as blankly as he can through a reflective faceplate. “Okay, that was a lot creepier than I was expecting but,” he turns to Wash, “look, dude. I think he gets it, he just doesn’t…get it. I mean, you have the same armour as Church and you do the same shit he was supposed to do and just, I don’t know, it’s not like you’re the same person but you’re kind of the same guy. You know?”
As little as a fortnight ago that would have meant all the wrong things to Wash, but that time has passed and it turns out that at some point during it he’s learned how to translate. Not the same person, but the same guy; the same role. When phrased like that, Wash thinks, it’s as though Church becomes less of a name and more of a title. His grip on the doorframe loosens slightly.
Tucker clearly feels his silence is a bad sign, because he sighs with a frustration he’s quick to turn back on Caboose. “Who’s that?” he demands, pointing at the former Freelancer.
Caboose glances between Wash’s face in the doorway and the helmet on the table, and his hands twist together. “I don’t want to play this game anymore,” he says uncertainly.
“No,” Wash says before Tucker can press him further. It comes out softer than intended, and he clears his throat to try again. “No, it’s…it’s fine. You’ve made your point.”
The Blue tilts his head to side-eye him, scepticism clear. “Uh huh. Is that ‘it’s fine because I’m going to stop freaking out every time anyone says anything that starts with ch’ or is that ‘it’s fine because I’m going to kill you all in your sleep’?”
“The first one,” he says. It comes out more dry than anything, which would be alright at any other time, but not here and now and after that. He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Look, I- goddammit. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly, Caboose.”
“Oh that’s okay,” Caboose says, at the same moment Tucker goes, “Wait, he gets the apology? That’s bullshit.”
Wash snorts without rancour, finally dropping his hands away from the doorframe entirely and stepping back into the room. “I think I owe you an apology for more than just today.”
“Oh,” Tucker says. “Well…fuck, man, there’s no need to be a girl about it.” He shifts in his seat for a second, and then leans to pick up Wash’s helmet from the table, bouncing it in one hand. “I’m just glad you’re over it so I can ask for cheese again. You are over it, right?”
“It might take me a while, but…yes. I’ll try to be over it.” In the name of appearing personable, he adds, “And now that I think about it, it might even be a way to solve the problem with the paperwork.”
“Hey yeah,” Tucker says. “You have fun with that. I’ll just be glad you’re a lot easier to train than Caboose.”
That stops him dead. “Excuse me?” Wash says, arching both eyebrows.
He has to lift both hands quickly to catch his helmet as it’s lobbed at him, and the smirk in Tucker’s voice is easy to hear. “Maybe we should have just picked you a whole new name and tried that instead. Like Fluffy.”
“Sir Agent Fluffington,” Caboose mumbles, to the tolerant disregard of both parties.
Wash eyeballs the smug soldier for a moment, then shifts his gaze down to his handful. “Hm.” He rubs his thumb over a smudge on the visor, and then swings the helmet up to settle it into place, watching the readouts flicker back to life. “You don’t think Caboose would make that a little hard?”
Tucker pffts, kicking back in his seat. “Caboose makes everything hard,” he says, and promptly freezes.
“I think you know what goes here,” Wash says, his tone as utterly deadpan as he can get it, and is out the door before Tucker can stop spluttering long enough to form a response.
The forty-seventh time it happens, he lets it go.
