Smut, Gen, Angst, Fluff, Anything, Everything. PFL era, Post war, Pre Canon, AU, ETC, Full starter or pic prompt, drop it like it's hot Brackets or Prose whatever you're comfortable with Tag and go!
When the project had been disbanded, brought down after evidence of its crimes had been brought to light, it's assets had been taken over by the Oversight Committee and redistributed to more deserving endeavours.
One of those assets has been locked in this room for... for... he doesn't know. The days long since stopped being differentiated. Some days the staff come in and administer injections and runs tests, hook him up to machines. Sometimes it hurts. And sometimes he can't even remember who he is.
Most of the time he's on his own though. Like now. On the single bed staring at the ceiling. Can't sleep. It's too bright. The lights have been on for ages and he can't tell if he's imagining it, or if they've just stopped changing them to reflect a vague sense of night and day.
Keeping his head down while guilt was gnawing at him every hour of every day isn't easy. It turns out to be impossible, in fact, enough so that York spends what time he's got away and what bare resources he's got on hand to find the right time, the right place, and the right way to break back in (a third time) to wherever they've got Wash locked up.
Whatever he'd been expecting-
It wasn't this.
Decoys running through the system at the other end of the complex and he doesn't have time to really wonder at what the fuck he didn't see on the records when he pops the lock and levers the door open, armored up same as always. "Rise and shine, cupcake, we gotta go."
The door opens and the asset doesn't even bother to look. He knows the routine by now. He's done it a thousand times. He doesn't bother speaking, because they don't want him to speak. What could he tell them that they haven't found out with needles and wires by now? He isn't sure he remembers how.
He pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, hands on either side of him and easily visible. And then he just... waits.
"...Rookie?" What the hell. This isn't- this wasn't- he's supposed to bitch. Supposed to ask if he's serious. Supposed to look up at him with wide eyes and call him a jackass for leaving him behind- there should be any other mix of emotions in those eyes not this weary slump of resignation.
What the ever loving FUCK did they do to him?
York slips further into the room and reaches out, resting his hand on Wash's shoulder. "Come on. I wasn't kidding, we gotta move."
The nickname sparks a flicker of memory, but it's a dull, sluggish thing and he's given up on following those thoughts unless he has to. It just makes reality worse. It makes his dreams worse too. He doesn't like dreaming. He's glad that he doesn't very much anymore.
He hunches up a little when a hand drops onto his shoulder. What does that mean? They normally don't bother. He holds out his arms though, ready for them to handcuff him, or stick another needle in his arm. Whatever they want.
"...Wash. David-" His hand moves from Wash's shoulder to his jaw, tipping his face up. It's just a visor to look at but- come on. It's him! How can he not tell? "We need to go. I need you to get a move on, soldier, so we can get out of here and get you home."
He leans into the touch unconsciously, tipping his face against York's gauntlet. It isn't skin, but it's something. Something more real than any number of impersonal touches from the medical researchers here.
His gaze is still unfocused and there's no real sign of recognition when he looks at York, but the words must have filtered in because he stands up, unsteady, and awaiting another command.
"...shit. Okay. Just- keep your head down and follow me. Can you do that?" He'll figure this shit out when they're not in danger of being shot at. The power outage further down ought to buy them some time but getting to the pelican when Wash is like...this?
He gives a short nod. That he can do. He's very good at following orders, at following people when they tell him to move or hold out his arms or lie down. It's almost a relief to be returning to something he understands right now.
"Good, alright. It's gonna get loud." Just a heads up- sometimes catatonia can be made worse or well-
Actually it's always worse with negative stimuli. Shit they looked up while on the run. Shit they needed to know about themselves, their siblings. What they might find. He keeps himself between Wash and any possible incoming hostiles and for the first few turns of the hall? It's alright. No one thinks he'd come this way and that- well. Is damning and useful at the same time. He can work with it.
Wash follows after him, silent in the soft pumps that they'd given him to wear. He doesn't seem particularly concerned, but he doesn't really seem to be paying attention to where they're going. He manages to keep up well enough at least, trailing York like his shadow.
Keep to the empty halls, the alcoves, the exit route they'd planned for this possibility (because they'd had to have this in mind) it wasn't the ideal turn of events but it's not one that's impossible to get around. Another remote detonation, distant, keeps the guards occupied on the other side of the base as he hustles Wash out to the pelican.
The noise of the detonation, no matter how distant, startles him, and he sucks in a sharp breath, looking towards the noise. He doesn't recognise this area. it's not where they normally take him, and that is suddenly terrifying. It's been a strict routine for... for as long as he's been here, and change doesn't sit well, makes him wonder if they've found something new to do to him, some new test. Or maybe they've just got tired of him.
"Just a little further-" Out one door, one more bomb set off and he's jogging. Running, damn near sprinting to his waiting Pelican as he hauls Wash up the ramp and inside. A frantic slam of his hand on the control panel brings up the back as he nudges Wash into the familiar bench and safety rig- meant for soldiers in power armor but they're gonna have to make due. "Sit tight while I get us out of here-"
All Wash can do is follow him. Not that he has much of a choice when York's hand is wrapped around his and he's being pulled along.
There's gunshots and noises and it's all so loud and as soon as they get in the pelican he curls up, wrapping his arms around his head. it's too much, far too much when his world has been reduced to white and soft voices.
Getting out quietly is- well. Not entirely possible but he can make sure they aren't tailed. He'll have to choose that over complete stealth, otherwise they'd be overrun in half a damn second. They hit atmo with the usual shudder of of the hull before they're orbiting and he locks in their path to join up with the freighter he'd pinged for a ride.
Old buddies, all that shit. Not enough to really get them out of the area but enough to give them a little cover while he figures out what he's working with.
York slips back to the cargo bay, crouching in front of Wash. "Hey. Hey? How you holding up?"
He can't breathe. His head is spinning, too much stimulation after so long of nothing. And it hurts. He tries to force himself to breathe slowly and calmly, but it doesn't work.
Someone is there. Wash flinches when he speaks, drawing himself into a tighter ball as far away as he can. He doesn't know what's happening, what's going to happen, but it's not going to be good. It never it.
"Shhh, shh. It's me. Wash? Buddy?" His hands are gentle against Wash's shoulders, the sound of his helmet clattering to the floor almost unbearably loud, a crackling counterpoint to the shallow, not quite panicked breaths from one of them. Both of them? Who knows.
"Nope. Feel pretty alive, honestly, and a little freaked out. It took awhile to get any idea of where they were keeping you- I'm sorry." He shouldn't have left Wash on the ship in the first place.
"No. I'm not hearing this. You're not real. I'm not going to do this again." How many times has he dreamed or hallucinated that someone came for him, only for them to vanish, to leave him again with the crushing realisation that he was alone.
"I- okay. Just sit tight, alright Wash? I'm gonna get us somewhere safe." He can promise that much. Sure he didn't think he'd actually MAKE IT this far in the plan but he'd planned for the next part.
What else is he going to do? He's been sitting tight for a long time. There's nothing else to do. He pulls away from York, drawing his knees up to his chest, eyes still tightly shut.
"You're not real. Not real. Not again. Just leave me alone."
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Angst and Trauma
One of those assets has been locked in this room for... for... he doesn't know. The days long since stopped being differentiated. Some days the staff come in and administer injections and runs tests, hook him up to machines. Sometimes it hurts. And sometimes he can't even remember who he is.
Most of the time he's on his own though. Like now. On the single bed staring at the ceiling. Can't sleep. It's too bright. The lights have been on for ages and he can't tell if he's imagining it, or if they've just stopped changing them to reflect a vague sense of night and day.
so much of both
Whatever he'd been expecting-
It wasn't this.
Decoys running through the system at the other end of the complex and he doesn't have time to really wonder at what the fuck he didn't see on the records when he pops the lock and levers the door open, armored up same as always. "Rise and shine, cupcake, we gotta go."
Re: so much of both
He pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, hands on either side of him and easily visible. And then he just... waits.
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What the ever loving FUCK did they do to him?
York slips further into the room and reaches out, resting his hand on Wash's shoulder. "Come on. I wasn't kidding, we gotta move."
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He hunches up a little when a hand drops onto his shoulder. What does that mean? They normally don't bother. He holds out his arms though, ready for them to handcuff him, or stick another needle in his arm. Whatever they want.
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Wherever that ends up being.
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His gaze is still unfocused and there's no real sign of recognition when he looks at York, but the words must have filtered in because he stands up, unsteady, and awaiting another command.
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Might be tricky.
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Actually it's always worse with negative stimuli. Shit they looked up while on the run. Shit they needed to know about themselves, their siblings. What they might find. He keeps himself between Wash and any possible incoming hostiles and for the first few turns of the hall? It's alright. No one thinks he'd come this way and that- well. Is damning and useful at the same time. He can work with it.
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There's gunshots and noises and it's all so loud and as soon as they get in the pelican he curls up, wrapping his arms around his head. it's too much, far too much when his world has been reduced to white and soft voices.
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Old buddies, all that shit. Not enough to really get them out of the area but enough to give them a little cover while he figures out what he's working with.
York slips back to the cargo bay, crouching in front of Wash. "Hey. Hey? How you holding up?"
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Someone is there. Wash flinches when he speaks, drawing himself into a tighter ball as far away as he can. He doesn't know what's happening, what's going to happen, but it's not going to be good. It never it.
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"It's just me."
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"You're dead," he says quietly. York was dead. All of them were. It's just him/ They'd told him.
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"No. I'm not hearing this. You're not real. I'm not going to do this again." How many times has he dreamed or hallucinated that someone came for him, only for them to vanish, to leave him again with the crushing realisation that he was alone.
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And the next.
Running and hiding, that was the plan.
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"You're not real. Not real. Not again. Just leave me alone."