Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"For the love of god! Tucker!! Stop sleeping naked!"

Tucker doesn't even bother cracking open his eyes to enjoy Wash's scarlet blush today. The change of color due to a mix of anger and embarrassment is starting to get old after a week of this. He does make sure to stretch obscenely, arching his hips off the bed and stretching his arms wide.

"And stop that!" Washington adds, voice climbing.

Tucker lets loose a jaw-cracking yawn before scowling. He turns his head towards his door and finally squints his eyes open to acknowledge Blue Team's leader. "It's the ass-crack of dawn, again, and you know I'm still gonna be fucking sleeping. Dude, if it upsets you so much, stop bustin' in here!"

"You don't get up unless I come in!"

Tucker snickers through another yawn. "Bow chika bow wow."

"I don't— No, stop trying to distract me. Private Tucker, you are required to be dressed and outside at 0600. This is not news to you!"

Tucker scrunches his nose as he rolls onto his side and searches around for an alarm clock Caboose dug up from somewhere in the wreckage. "Dude," he groans when he sees the time, "It's fucking four fucking fifty!"

"If I don't start on you now, you'll never get going!" Wash retorts.

Tucker blinks his eyes open a little more to fix his supposed commanding officer with a look.

Wash's face can't get any redder, but his gaze flicks up to the ceiling and he clutches his helmet a little tighter against his side. "I... didn't mean what that sounds like."

"Uh huh." Tucker tucks one arm under his head and lets his other arm drape over his hip as he employs his best "come hither" look. His voice drops as he suggests, "Sounds like there's a much better option for exercise routines."

Wash's lips thin in an angry line, but as soon as he looks down at Tucker, his eyes nearly bug out, and he abruptly turns around. His voice is a tight squeak when he orders, "Get your clothes on and get outside to start your laps, Private!"

Tucker rolls his eyes and flips off Wash's retreating back before rolling over again. Closing his eyes, Tucker settles in to sleep a while longer. He should have at least a half hour before Wash braves dropping by again.

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Chapter Text

Tucker takes his hands away from the frying pan in order to readjust the tie on his dreads. He snapped his best band the other day and it's been a challenge to keep his hair up and out of the way without a good one. The eggs frying in front of him are doing fine while he futzes around. He probably should have asked Simmons a little more about where the eggs came from, but he honestly can't be bothered. They've all been living off of carefully sorted rations of disgusting MREs and dehydrated food packets. Wash has been stringent about food use and not wasting anything — not that anything ever would go to total waste with Grif around. The guy's got an instinct for potential food stores and suddenly appears at Blue base as soon as Tucker decides he can't take one more bite of rehydrated rations; it's a little horrifying watching the guy suck down the sludge that might have been an attempt on mac'n'cheese.

Tucker flips over the egg as soon as he has his hair sorted. Yeah, fuck if he's going to pass up real sustenance on the chance that the egg is like some ass-baby of a scary fanged lizard. He doesn't care anymore.

Caboose appears in the doorway, nose raised as he sniffs loudly. "Hullo! Are you making waffles?"

Tucker rolls his head in his teammate's direction to fix him with an incredulous glare. "The fuck you think waffles smell like?"

Caboose huffs and crosses his arms. "It has been a very long time, Tucker. I am forgetting what breakfast smells like."

"Fair enough," Tucker mutters with a grimace. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Grab a plate or something. I guess you can have this first one." He brightens at the idea, "Actually, you definitely can!" A taste tester, brilliant! Just in case these things do prove dangerous...

Caboose gives him a narrow-eyed look but doesn't argue against taking fresh food. Tucker grimaces at the sound of his teammate noisily shifting through the box where they set their clean dishes. (Washington doesn't settle for dirty dishes laying around overnight to attract bugs. As much as Tucker bitches about dish duty when it's his turn after a long fucking training day, he has to admit that he hasn't seen the creepy crawlies that are apparently commonplace at Red base.)

"I'm ready!" Caboose announces while shoving a plate under Tucker's nose. Tucker jerks backwards are the sudden appearance and cusses. Caboose shrugs it off and moves his plate to a more reasonable distance.

"Lower your plate to the side, dipshit! I'm gonna drop these eggs on your stupid feet like this!"

"I do not think dirt is a good seasoning," Caboose chides, but at least he follows Tucker's directions.

As soon as Tucker slides the omelet (mostly eggs with like 8% additives from whatever shit seemed reasonable to put in) onto Caboose's plate, the tall Blue stabs a fork into it and lifts its wobbly yellow mass to his mouth. Tucker is distracted from cracking more eggs by watching with rapt attention. Oh God, please let this be edible so I can enjoy it in peace. And not kill Caboose. Tucker isn't the part of the team-killing fucktards on Blue Team, after all.

Caboose makes the lewdest sound he's ever made as he stuffs half the omelet in his mouth and chews. Tucker grimaces at the noise that should never ever come out of Caboose's mouth, but doesn't turn his attention away.

Eventually Caboose finished chewing and bites off a third of the remaining egg. Mouth full, he enthuses, "This is the best! Okay Tucker, I promise to clean up your sheets. But I need another plate."

Tucker's eyes narrow. "What did you fucking do to my sheets?" he demands in a low voice.

Caboose widens his eyes innocently and stuffs more egg in his mouth.

Gritting his teeth, Tucker makes himself take a deep, calming breath. "You know what? Clean it up so I can't even tell what the fuck you were trying to do and maybe I'll make you another omelet." Caboose cheers through his mouthful of food and dashes out of the room. "God, I don't wanna know," Tucker groans to himself.

He's pouring the next mix of eggs into the pan when Wash shows up in full armor. Tucker watches him from the corner of his eye but doesn't turn to look at him fully. He won't be the one to break the silence. He's put in his time for the day and left the field angry after Wash snapped at him for doing a shit job at stacking or whatever the hell they were supposed to be doing. Tucker doesn't care anymore, and until Wash showed up to stare at him, he'd been starting to unwind.

Finally Wash breaks the silence, asking, "Where did you get eggs?"

Tucker shrugs casually, glancing at the growing pile of egg shells sitting on the makeshift counter-top next to the hot plate he's using to cook. "Miraculously appeared out of thin air," he quips.

The tilt of Wash's helmet suggests that the guy is actually debating if Tucker's being serious. Rolling his eyes, Tucker cuts off further questioning by explaining, "Simmons snuck some over before Grif knew how many he'd found."

Washington's frown is obvious in his tone when he speaks; "And just where did Simmons find these? Do we know where they come from? Did you even try testing them to see if they're safe?"

Tucker turns his head to fix Wash with a glare. "You know what? I didn't ask the nerd where he got 'em, but if there is some sort of test to run, I'd guess he'd do it. And Caboose just ate some and he seems fine!"

A crash sounds from the sleeping areas, followed by Caboose's "Ow" and "Tucker did it!"

"Or y'know, still like Caboose." Tucker yells in that direction: "Caboose! That better not have been my bed or I swear to god I'll—!"

"Noooo, no. Everything is fine!" Caboose shouts back unconvincingly.

Tucker looks back to Wash. "If you want to go be pissy about something, go see what the fuck Caboose did to my room this time."

"I don't... what?"

Tucker shakes his head and sprinkles what little mixings he has into the omelet. "Whatever. Just don't get all snippy about some eggs, is all."

Wash sighs, then takes of his helmet. He moves closer, his steps hesitant, and Tucker pauses a moment to wonder about the uncertainty on the other man's expression. Instead of going with the tinge of worry, he demands, "Have you been sleeping at all, dude? We could have a fucking slumber party in the bags under your eyes."

That startles Washington out of his funk; his eyebrows arch high and he reels back. "What? Why are you so weird?"

Tucker smirks as he flips the omelet. "Hey, just callin' it like I see it, Agent!" He tilts his head to indicate the dishes box behind him. "Grab me a plate, would you?"

Wash eyes the frying pan skeptically before turning away. Tucker hears him set down his helmet before digging into the box with more care than Caboose.

"You know this omelet isn't for you, right?" Tucker asks casually as Washington returns, holding the plate between them, like he doesn't want to get too close. "But I guess that doesn't matter since these eggs might be dangerous."

Wash shifts awkwardly and his hand goes up to rub the back of his neck, a sure tell that he's feeling sheepish. "Well... I suppose it's possible..." he trails off, clearly struggling to admit that he's wrong. "...I was a little hasty..."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Tucker exclaims as soon as Wash gets out his totally half-assed apology. He turns to face Wash and starts jabbing the spatula at him. "It's real food, asshole! If you're gonna get all paranoid and snippy about it, you can stick to your crusty 'safe' freeze dried shit. I don't have to waste this on—"

"Tucker." Wash stares at him intently and speaks in that irritatingly overly calm tone. "I'm sorry. Also, your eggs are burning."

Yelping, Tucker whips back around to the pan and lifts it off the burner. "Plate, now!" He shoves the omelet out of the pan a little frantically, but Wash easily catches it with the plate. Only the thinest edges of the omelet got burnt.

"Thank you." Wash's lips twitch in that way they do when he's clamping down on amusement at something that his teammates did.

Tucker scowls at Wash as his leader steps away already cutting into the eggs with a fork. "That was a damn dirty trick to cheat me out of my food!" he accuses.

Wash widens his eyes in far too good of show of false innocence. "I'd never." He spears a bite and stuffs it into his mouth. The pleased groan he emits leaves Tucker slack-jawed. Wash's eyes flutter shut as he chews on a second bite, and there is no fucking way that Agent Washington is making an O-face over goddamn eggs. Tucker can't look away.

Tucker flicks off the burner's switch to try and cool down the suddenly too hot room. That's obviously what was doing it. He reaches for more eggs, but his gaze keeps flitting back to Wash.

Half the omelet is gone when the ex-Freelancer seems to come back to himself. A flush dusts over his cheeks as he darts a look at Tucker — who's still staring. Wash clears his throat and cuts some more pieces. "Ah... it's, um. It's good," he coughs. He spears another bite and has it halfway to his mouth when he stops and blinks at Tucker. "Uh... you already had some, right?" he suddenly sounds doubtful.

Tucker shrugs as he gets back to whisking the eggs with a fork. "A couple hungry idiots wandered in," he deflects.

"Tucker..." Wash sighs.

Irritated by that all too familiar sigh that always whispers disappointment in Tucker's ears, he goes to snap at Wash, but is brought up short when he turns to find a fork-pierced bit of egg hovering in front of his face. He blinks in confusion.

This time Wash sounds amused, "I usually can't get you to shut your mouth, Private."

There are any number of ways to answer that, and they all clamber for attention in Tucker's head; ultimately, he just leans in to grab the bite of food offered to him. Not to make it weird, he quickly withdraws to chew. He's almost too distracted to taste it at first. Then it hits — real eggs, even if they aren't quite what he's used to — and there's that bit of salt and pepper and some herby green flakes that were in a spice bottle.

"Oh, man," he moans, "that's heaven." He drops his mixing fork onto the counter-top and gestures for Wash to hand over some more food. "C'mon, share this with me, and I swear I'll split the next one!"

Instead of just handing over the fork, Wash spears another bite and holds it out for Tucker.

It isn't until they've done the exchange for a third time that it really clicks for Tucker how weird this is. His gaze flickers up and their eyes lock. Wash stares back at him, expression strangely vulnerable as he watches Tucker with a little furrow between his eyebrows, like he's trying to puzzle something out.

Feeling flustered — and Jesus, Church would be howling with laughter to see it — Tucker turns abrupt back to what he was doing, flicking back on the hot plate and pouring the egg mixture into the pan. "Uh, thanks." He clears his throat awkwardly. "You finish that. Changed my mind, I want one all to myself."

"Y-yeah, sure." Wash quickly steps away, putting several feet of distance between them until he's leaning against the wall and finishing his omelet, eating much slower.

Their moment, whatever it was, passes as an awkward silence settles it. That isn't broken until Caboose charges into the room minutes later with a tight bundle of what looks like sheets covered in some yellow paste. When Tucker finds out they're his sheets and that they're filled with mustard, he nearly brains his teammate with the frying pan. However, the need to rescue the eggs saves the big idiot. Wash steps in to try and mediate, and somehow fifteen minutes later, after Tucker's managed to eat his eggs and get back to making more with what little supply is left, Caboose's second omelet includes mustard, much to his teammates' disgust.

At the end of the evening, their stomachs are full, good tastes linger on their tongues, and Wash has taken over dish duty despite it being Tucker's night.

It's a good day, and whatever Tucker had been angry about earlier doesn't matter anymore. It isn't worth remembering.

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