goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"Yeah?" God they didn't even get a funeral. None of them. Even the assholes on the front lines, all the canonfodder and drop ships that crashed, every massive swath of debris in space- they got memorials. They got to be remembered.

What's he got? A busted up lighter and a hole in the back of his head where his best friend used to be. Scars on his chest from where he'd been put down and unable to stay down.

if he'd died shit would be so much simpler.

He shakes his head at Wash's apology. "Not your fault."

it's his. If he'd just told her. If he'd just- tried to explain. Showed her what he'd found. Worked her into the plan. Maybe-

No. That's not gonna help.

"You know me. Always supportive."

"She was my friend and my CO and I miss her. Yes I'm sorry." And all of that is true. He still misses her because sometimes he's not sure that's she's actually there anymore. "I wish I could have done something."

But he'd barely been sane then, let alone in a position to help.

"No real time to plan. No plan to plan. Should've remembered that the second time around Tex asked me for help. You think a guy would learn." It'd been five years and still to goddamn soon but- helping put an end to it. Spitting back in their eye, trying for her sake. Cut them as deep as they'd cut him.

It wasn't smart. It wasn't planned. it was barely salvageable.

"You were always too noble for your own good." No matter what York may claim, no matter what his background. York is a good guy and he doesn't deserve the crap he's been put through.

Christ, why did he have to crash on this goddam rock?

"Come on. Let's get you set up. Kimball's over this way."

"In the war they called it be'n stupid." At least his former squad had up till they weren't a thing anymore. He should've stayed on. Fought in the front lines. Died like the rest of them.

instead he let a redhead with more skills than sentiment drag him into PFA for- what? Lancelot he isn't.

York pushes away from the jeep and motions for Wash to lead on. "Right behind you, bud."

"They called a lot of things stupid. Now it's the stuff they all want to claim is the best of humanity," Wash replies, that bitterness back in his voice. Suddenly qualities you wanted in a soldier just weren't what you wanted in a neighbour or hell, anywhere near you honestly.

Kimball is waiting and she looks relieved when he returns.

"Hey. Brought someone to see you. Old friend of mine. Agent York."

"Another Freelancer? Is he-"

She sounds so hopeful.

"Here to help? Sure." He pops the seal on his helmet for a chance to breathe, and a chance to smile at a pretty commanding lady that's also likely to be pretty.

What, a guy can hope.

"I'm an infiltration and stealth specialist, did a lot of work on intel runs, scouting, that kinda stuff. If you need to know how good I am at keeping under the radar, this guy thought I was dead till about an hour ago." He jerks a thumb at Wash, grinning. "So I'm pretty good."

Wash snorts and it's pretty clear he's rolling his eyes even with his helmet on. Of course York would flirt. Of course.

Kimball takes it with as much grace as she takes anything. No-nonsense usually, but she's smart enough not to alienate someone right off.

"Pleased to meet you. We can always people with those skills. Has Agent Washington filled you in on the situation?"

"Something about a rebel base and an evil federation, low supplies, not all soldiers, doing the best you can despite the odds and civil war. So. Star Wars, basically." He shrugs, tucking his helmet under his arm. "Ship I crashed in was pretty well stocked. I brought what I could with me. After I get some rest I'm gonna swing back and grab what I can, rinse, repeat till it's all here for you. I figure if you've got Wash helping you got a good cause. He's not one to assist people with questionable ethics."

"That about covers it," Kimball replied, sounding amused despite herself. "Agent Washington has been a great help. He got us out of a few tight spots. I'm grateful for you agreeing to help. We'll repay you however we can."

Wash kept his eyes on York. Hopefully this was enough to convince him to stick around for a while. Stop him blundering into things he should keep out of. "I'll get him set up Kimball. Find him a place to bunk."

"Honestly? A ride home when y'all are settled will be enough for me. I think it's safe to head back that way." Alien relics? He wants nothing to do with them. Somewhere to sleep where he won't get shot is- well. it's worth more than he's about to let anyone know. Even if he's slipped head first into another goddamn armed conflict.

Kimball looked uncertain at that, and glanced at Wash. Wash shrugged.

"That might take a while," Wash said, rubbing the back of his neck, an old habit. "The feds have a habit of shooting down any ship that tries to leave. Not sure how they're doing it but... it's been pretty effective so far."

"When I say 'when y'all are settled' I don't mean like, for the night. I mean when this is over." He flicks a hand to the caves, the soldiers- everything. "I'm not gonna bail with a job half done. That's a dick move. We get this sorted. We get this place fixed, get your home back to being- well. Your home again. Make sure it sticks. Then worry about getting me off planet."

Anyone made of less stern stuff than Kimball, and Wash would have bet on them crying. Instead she just nods, but her relief is palpable. Hook line and sinker, and for the first time in a long while, Wash feels sick with guilt and filthy for doing this.

"Then you have my gratitude," Kimball says. "Once this is resolved, we'll do whatever we can to get you home."

Wash nudged York. "Come on, I'll show you to where you'll be sleeping. Get you some coffee."

"Until then just tell me what you need done and I'll do what I can to see it happen." It's the least he can offer. Crashing here is what he got for trying to bum a ride back home and- well. Maybe he's supposed to be here. Make up for everything he fucked up in the past. He snaps a smart salute to Kimball- not mocking in the slightest, and turns to follow Wash.

"When you say coffee do you mean actual coffee or that tinned stuff we got on the MOI?"

Kimball salutes back just as smartly, a gesture of respect from one soldier to another. Wash nods instead, able to get away with being more familiar by now.

"I mean actual genuine coffee. It's one of the, admittedly few, perks of being here. They grow real coffee."

"Oh thank fuck it's been...years." They didn't have it on the ship and when you're on the run? No real time to grab coffee. Or food. real food. "Please say you have something besides MRE's. Please. I might just kiss you if you say you have real food."

Wash laughed and reached up to unfasten the seal of his own helmet, tugging it off. "We have real food, although I'm not sure I'm comfortable with our relationship moving this fast. At least ask me on a date first."

"Dinner, mess, now. Don't even have to dress pretty." He hooks an arm around Wash's shoulders, giving him a sideways hug. Jesus. Food. REAL food.

"Oh good. I'm not sure polished armour counts as formalwear and that's about the best I've got." He's been living in military gear for most of his adult life. He's not sure how to go back to civvies.

He lets York tug him close and hug him, even hugs back a little, for a brief moment. For a moment it feels like they're back in the project, before things went south, when they could be friends, not rivals.

"It's this way."

"I think there was something about dress uniforms early on in the project? Before they remembered we were kind of top secret and shouldn't have anything other than the norm. Which got Ruined at Casbah." He sighs. That hadn't even been what he was wearing when they got there or when he left and it STILL ended up on fire.

"Yeah, that didn't last long," Wash said dryly. He guided them towards a long low building that served as the mess hall for the rebels. It was early for the dinner service, but the cooks would be willing to hail a new hero, he was sure.

"Dress uniforms are itchy and stiff anyway."

"But they made you look damn good. Women love a man in uniform. Hell. Men love a man in uniform. I used to get so many numbers..." He sighs. Back when it meant something to be a soldier. When he had a squad that he could talk about. When he was shooting aliens.

And here he is, taking pot shots at people again.

Fun times.

"Well, you stay here you'll probably be getting a lot of numbers." As if to prove a point, a small group of rebels are sitting at one of the benches, and they blatantly stare and whisper with awed reverence when the two Freelancers pass by. "It gets a bit awkward," Wash adds more quietly.

"It's only awkward if you let it be, kid. What'd I always tell you on leave? Be friendly and let them down easy." Sure, the flirting is fun but- war. War is a shit time to get involved with anyone. Or to not get involved with anyone.

It's complicated, don't ask him.

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