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!
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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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."