Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CRASH!

Tucker breathes in deep as his mind kicks into activity. He blinks open his eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling. Maybe if he doesn't move, and just doesn't acknowledge the sound, then it won't be anything he has to get involved with.

But now there's more smaller crashes, and there's someone cursing and he can't ignore the sound of a person making a mess in his apartment so he throws his blanket off of himself and then brings his legs over the side as he sits up. He gets up, sighing heavily and taking a couple steps towards the door before he pauses and grabs the metal bat in the corner. He doubted whoever was invading at this point was dangerous- what, with the amount of noise they're making?- but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

He walked slowly to the source of the noise- his... Kitchen? God dammit, if Grif is trying to steal his food again-

But he stops in his tracks as he walks through the door, his bat poised for use. The man digging through his drawers is definitely not Grif, nor anyone he knows, actually. And he's covered in red, so much red. All over his counters and floor.

The stranger looks up, and Tucker sees his entire body tense up as he stares intensely at the bat in Tucker's hands. He's pale, paler than he should be, definitely, but having blood in him wouldn't make his skin any more pigmented. Steely grey eyes move quickly between Tucker's own and potential exits. Tucker notices the gash across the male's chest, then; the source of all the blood in his kitchen. There's smaller scratches all over his shoulders and arms, too, as well as what looks like a fucking bullet wound?

Tucker is pulled out of his thoughts as he sees the stranger move, taking quick steps towards him, but he doesn't get very far before grey eyes widen and go fuzzy, glazing over as they roll back and the male collapses on the floor.

"Oh, fuck," Tucker mutters. He drops the bat and rushes to his bathroom, where he keeps all his medical supplies. He supposes that this is where being a medical student comes in handy, though he never would've imagined that he would be put in this situation. He grabs what he needs and rushes back.

Multiple things go through his head. Firstly, getting the injuries cleaned up and closed. He's lucky to be a few years into his study, because Freshman Tucker wouldn't know what the hell to do, he would just scream and panic and probably get the cops called on him. Yeah, Church and Grif never really let him live that one down. He makes his way around the kitchen, dropping all his stuff on the floor and kneeling beside the male. There's blood all over his floor, soaking into his clothes now, but it didn't look like the stranger's wounds were still bleeding, which was both a good and bad thing. With only the slightest hint of hesitation, Tucker grabbed some cloth and his disinfectant and immediately set to work, cutting off the man's tattered, ruined shirt before cleaning up all of the wounds on the male's arms and back, first. Once that was finished up, Tucker flipped the male over, which took quite a bit more effort than a half-asleep med student was prepared for, but he managed, and got to work on cleaning and suturing the gash, and then the bullet wound.

The bullet had to be removed from his wound, but didn't hit anything important, thank fuck, and the gash was shallow but large. It took a very long time, and Tucker didn't have any anesthesia laying around in his house because he's pretty sure that's illegal, so the guy was probably in excruciating amounts of pain, but at least he was patched up and bandaged now. Tucker gets up and starts to make his way to his room to grab his phone to call the police, when he stops and actually looks at himself and his hands and clothes. He looks over at the man covered in his own blood on his floor.

Yeah, this absolutely looks like a fucking crime scene, fuck calling the cops. He sighs and instead moves back over to the stranger, pulling him by his shoulders across the floor, smearing more blood all over his apartment. He hesitates in putting the man on his couch, and instead wipes his upper body down again to clean off all the blood and just props the male against the base of the sofa so he's sitting up. He was still unconscious, and probably would be for a few hours, but Tucker absolutely needs to clean his fucking kitchen up before the blood starts staining his countertops and floor.

He sets to work as soon as he's sure the male is steady, and everything is cleaned and put away and his medical supplies are back in the bathroom within the hour. He even finds time to change his clothes, and just throws out the blood-stained pj's. Honestly, Tucker would be amazed if the male regained consciousness any time soon. He lost a fuckton of blood, and who knows how far he traveled with those wounds before literally crashing into Tucker's apartm- fuck.

Tucker quickly makes his way to check the locks on his door. He looks over them quickly, then sighs in relief. They're unlocked, but not busted. He glances over at the stranger again, and re-locks his door up before sitting on the couch across from him. Tucker manages to doze off for a little while, though his paranoia of the man in front of him prevents him from staying asleep for too long, and from going too deep into sleep.

A few hours later, probably about two, Tucker realises that the man will probably want to leave as soon as he wakes up, so having his door locked is probably not a good idea. But at the same time, leaving the medical student with wounds as bad as what the stranger has isn't exactly brilliant, either. But Tucker's not about to try to stop some stranger who looks like he could probably kill 13 people and not even begin to get hurt until the fourteenth attacker. So, he gets up and makes his way to the door, unlocking it quickly.

Much to Tucker's surprise- like, much to his surprise- when he turns around, the blond stranger is on his feet. Hardly a moment passes where Tucker can register anything that's happening before he feels his back being pressed to the wall beside his door, and cold metal is pressed dangerously close to his throat.

Okay, but where the fuck did he get the kni- oh, it's an open pair of scissors. Tucker puts his hands up where they can be seen, and tries to shrink back and be as unthreatening as possible. He thinks it wise to crack a joke, instead.

"Hey, listen man, I kinda just saved your life and not that I'm not into this whole pinning-me-against-the-wall thing, but at least buy me dinner first, yeah?"

Tucker's not sure what to do next. The stranger just glares at Tucker, his eyes angry but curious, searching Tucker's face for- for what? Finally, he releases Tucker and throws the scissors aside, yanking open the door- ha, I was totally right- and leaving without a word. Tucker pokes his head out the doorway just in time to see the man stumble his way into the elevator, clutching at his bandaged chest.

"He's definitely not going to get very far," Tucker sighs to himself. He thinks about various places nearby that the stranger could wind up. Why? Because Tucker's already figuring on going to check on the man in the morning. So, he racks his brain for various abandoned locations, and remembers an old abandoned house a couple blocks away where he, Grif and Church used to hang out and cause trouble.

Tucker huffs out a heavy breath, and glances around for the scissors. Oh, god dammit, why did they have to lodge in the wall? He was doing so well with preventing damages, too... He pulls the scissors and sets them on the table, and makes his way back to his room.

He passes out the moment he's got his blankets back over his form.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Tucker wakes up with a terrible, awful headache. For a brief moment, it makes him think that the entire previous night was just some fucked up dream. But no, the bloodstained clothes in his trash tell him otherwise as he gets up to take some medication for the pounding in his brain. He sighs as he takes them dry, too lazy to get water, and cleans himself up to the best of his ability while he's still in pain. He knows he's got to get his ass in gear and go make sure that stranger is okay, but at the same time... Is it really his responsibility to do anything for that guy?

The man broke into Tucker's apartment, bled out all over his floor and counters, passed out, and then held a pair of scissors to Tucker's throat the moment he was awake. That is plenty of reason to not go check on the male. Especially considering Tucker has no doubt about the stranger having anything but a positive response to Tucker's return. But, at the same time, Tucker reasons to himself as he brushes his teeth, I am a medical student and this guy is technically my patient? And all I've got to do is make sure the guy's not dead, because then I just witnessed a murder.

He spits out the toothpaste-infused saliva and rinses his mouth, cleaning up his sink and shuffling back to his room to get dressed. He always hated getting dressed on the weekends, but he figures he can't just go out to some abandoned building in nothing but sweatpants and slippers, so... With a huff he changes his clothes, then shuffles back to the bathroom and compiles a combination of various medical supplies that may or may not be necessary for checking up on the stranger. While he's preparing, he thinks about the various dangers he could be putting himself in.

The man didn't seem to be armed, considering he had picked up Tucker's scissors off the table instead of pulling out his own weapon. He also would be extremely exhausted, and probably have a weakened reaction time because of blood loss. Still, the man moved impressively quickly for someone who had only been recovering for two hours, and Tucker wouldn't be surprised if there was some movie-inspired cache of weapons at the abandoned house he would likely be at.

That's another thing, Tucker realises. There's no guarantee that this guy will even be at this abandoned house. It's just the most likely place, since it's the closest. He closes his eyes, sighs heavily, and then pulls on his shoes. Grabs his bag, hesitates for a moment before also grabbing his bat, then goes to his kitchen and rummages around in his fridge for a moment for an orange to eat while he walks. He starts towards his door, but hesitates again and checks his pockets quickly before rushing back to his room to grab his phone, tucking it away in his back pocket. He also stops back in the kitchen and grabs another orange. There's no doubt the man will be hungry, and he's going to need to eat if he wants to heal.

With that in mind, Tucker also makes him a pb&j, packing it away in a ziploc bag just in case. Then he heads out of his apartment. He swings his bat in his hand idly as he walks, then stops so he can peel his orange, munching away. He goes through a mental checklist, making sure he's got everything, and then switches that checklist for another regarding the wounds on the stranger's body. He knows he definitely didn't do anything about whatever injuries the male might've had below the waist, but Tucker could just give him the supplies for him to take care of those himself, so he's not worried. He's going to have to redress the chest wound and bullet wound, for sure, and possibly repair the stitches if the guy hasn't been careful enough- which, judging by the way he stumbled into the elevator the previous night, he definitely has not.

Finally, he stops in front of the building, looking at the boarded up doors and windows. He remembers always entering from the basement with Church and Grif, because he remembers how Church would whine like a little bitch about all the spiders. He wonders, now, if that's how the stranger got into the place-- assuming, again, that he was actually here. Not willing to second-guess himself into leaving, Tucker glances to either side, then ducks onto the property, quickly making his way around to the back of the house, where the cellar doors should be unlocked. If not, then there's a window on the second floor that's always left untouched, though it's definitely a lot more annoying to get to that window than it is to get into the basement.

He places his medical equipment down, and tries the door quickly. With a mighty pull, since he usually had Grif or Church helping him, he manages to get the door open with a loud groan. They always did wonder how that never alerted the neighbours. He quickly grabs his shit and makes his way down the cellar steps, carefully closing the door behind him since, again, he usually has one of the other two to assist. Once everything was back in place, Tucker continued down into the basement. Nothing down here ever worked, in terms of light or water or heat or anything. It's all busted. So Tucker pulls out his phone and flicks the flashlight on, shining it around quickly.

He's not afraid, he's been in this basement more times than he's had sex, and that's definitely saying something. But he was definitely still going to choose precaution this time, because the man has had the whole night to figure himself out, and Tucker still isn't quite sure what the stranger is capable of. He picks his way through the basement, clutching his things close as he makes his way over to the stairs that would take him to the first floor. He doubted anyone would ever stay in the basement when it was the main point of entry.

As he approaches the top of the steps, he tries to listen for any movement before busting into the main part of the house, but ultimately can't hear anything. So, he turns off his flashlight and tucks his phone back into his pocket, taking up his bat and pushing open the basement door. He tiptoes out, shutting the door behind himself, and looks around quickly. The sunlight burning through the boards is just enough to let Tucker see into the worn-down house.
He walks slowly to the living room, his grip tightening around his bat as he pokes his head into the room first, glances around quickly, then takes a couple more steps. Everything seems to be okay, so...

A creak behind him has Tucker whipping around, dropping his bag to bring both of his hands to the bat. He's hardly surprised to see the stranger standing there, and though he doesn't physically appear to be in pain, his eyes tell a different story. He's frozen still, seeming surprised at letting himself get caught. Tucker wonders if he thinks not moving will make him less visible, and lets a tiny grin show at the thought. After a long few moments of not moving, Tucker takes one of his hands off the bat, letting the stranger see his movements as slow and purposeful. Tucker watches the man's eyes as they follow his hand, down to his jacket pocket where he put the extra orange earlier.

He doesn't keep his hand in the pocket for too long, noticing how the male's eyes narrowed dangerously, and offers the orange up with as neutral of an expression as he could manage. Internally, Tucker was screaming. God, what will I do if he attacks me? I can't tell if he has any weapons. The man stares at the fruit for a long time, before lifting his eyes slowly and staring intensely at Tucker. Tucker shifts the tiniest bit, letting the weight of the bat keep him anchored to this place.

But then the stranger's eyes go to the metal weapon, and Tucker's gaze follows. When his eyes settle on Tucker's face again, there's a sort of expectancy in them. Tucker pauses, confused for a moment, before glancing back to his bat again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, really?" Tucker mutters softly. He's really going to make me put down the one thing that makes me feel safe. God fucking dammit. You know, I should have expected this. After a long time of neither of them moving, Tucker finally makes a show of putting the bat on the floor and kicking it off in a direction where neither of them could easily get to it. Tucker watches as- well, some emotion flickers in the stranger's eyes, and then the man is moving.

It's then that Tucker realises that he's still holding out the orange, and the stranger's piercing gaze is dead-set on the fruit. Panicking, Tucker tosses him the orange gently before he gets too close. It seems to confuse him for a moment, which is understandable, but the male's reflexes act quicker than his mind does, and he ultimately manages to catch the fruit and keep his distance. Tucker knows he can't stay away for forever- he has to tend to the guy's injuries- but for now... Keeping his distance seems like the safer option.

In the meantime, Tucker leans to grab his bag, plopping it onto the old, broken sofa in the center of the room. He watches the man's shoulders tense again as soon as Tucker has a new object in his hands, and Tucker can't stop himself from rolling his eyes.

"Look, guy, the bat's all I had. I'm not gonna fuckin' try some attempt on your life. I did just save your ass last night. The fuckin' thing was in case you attacked me. Which, it seemed like you would have if not for the creaky floorboards. So... Justified." He shuts up again at the glare he received, but the stranger doesn't seem to be trying to make any more moves towards him, and nor does it look like he's trying to flee, so... Tucker considers it a win.

"I've got some more medical supplies," Tucker begins again, pulling his stuff out and putting them on display for the blond. "I was figuring to clean up and redress your wounds for you, but... You seem pretty, uh... Pretty lucid, so... If you wanna just take what you need and handle it yourself, that's cool. I'll be over here if you need me." He takes a couple steps away and pulls up a chair, pulling out his phone to occupy himself while the man finishes up the orange and then makes his way towards the supplies Tucker brought.

"Oh, and I've also got a sandwich here if you're still hungry. It's, uh. Peanut butter and jelly. I-... Wasn't sure what else to make." He tries to avoid the look he's getting from the male, but the stare is so piercing it's like he can see right into Tucker's soul. Tucker opens up a game on his phone and taps away, trying to distract himself as the man undoes all of Tucker's hard work from the previous night.

He discards the old, used bandages, and cleans himself up pretty well. Enough so that Tucker can see the parts of him that need more specific treatment. Being that this is his field of work, Tucker can't help himself from pointing it out.

"There's, uh..." He trails off as the male quickly lifts his head, angry surprise written all over his face as if he didn't want Tucker to disrupt the silence. Tucker shakes it off quickly. "There's a needle and thread in my bag, if you want to, or if you want me to, re-suture the wounds. It seems like you broke some of the stitches in your hasty escape." The stranger looks down at his chest quickly, brushing his fingers over the stitches with a slight wince. He glances back at Tucker before moving again, slow and methodical this time, making his way over to Tucker's bag. He rummages through it for a moment before coming up with the items, glancing at them with an eyebrow raised before he looks back to Tucker.

"I'm... I'm in my third year of Med school training. That's why I fixed you up myself instead of calling the police or something. Plus, I mean... It did kind of look like a murder scene in my apartment and I didn't want to get involved with that shit." Tucker watches the man's eyes narrow again at the mention of murder, but he figures that it's nothing to do with him, so Tucker disregards it.

"So... I'm Tucker. Lavernius, actually, but only people I know personally get to call me that. Sometimes they choose not to anyway." He stops himself from rambling, getting himself back on track. "Do you have something for me to call you, Mister Strong-Silent-Type with a glare that would definitely kill me if looks could do that holy shit?" Tucker grins despite the genuine fear gripping his heart. The man just maintains eye contact for a long, long time, eyes boring holes into Tucker's skull.
Finally, he says, "Washington."

"What, like the state?" Tucker snorts.

"Precisely."

"Ohhh, so it's like, a codename?"

Silence. Tucker grins a little. Hearing the man's voice for the first time makes him feel a little too confident.

"That's a cool name. Do you work with others? Do they have state names, too?"

More silence.

"Oh, I guess that would be, like... Classified info, huh? Can't give your agency away or whatever."

He gets a look. Tucker shuts up.

With a huff, Tucker looks back down at his phone. He goes back to the game, tapping away again. He can feel Washington's stare, though it sometimes leaves and then comes back. Tucker just ignores it, figuring that he would just say something if he needs help. That's quickly disproven, however, when Tucker looks up and sees Washington struggling to fix his stitches. Tucker just watches with mild amusement. A few moments go by where Washington just keeps trying and failing to do his own stitches before Tucker lets out a heavy breath.

"Jesus Christ, man, I said I'd help if you need it. Do you want my help?"

"No."

Tucker deadpans. Deciding to play nice for now, he stands. It immediately catches Washington's attention, and Tucker pauses, briefly second-guessing himself and his decisions at the look Washington has on his face.

"Dude, chill. I got this. Just... Don't try to kill me, and we're cool," Tucker tries, taking a couple steps closer. Washington immediately scrambles away, reaching blindly for something to use as a weapon. He comes up with nothing, so he brings his hands in front of himself, balled into fists. What's he gonna do? Fistfight me? ...he'd probably win, honestly.

But Tucker rolls his eyes and steps back, anyway. "Fine, then. Keep struggling. I'm basically a professional though, man. Seriously. But whatever." That is a boldfaced lie and they both know it. Three years into med school is nowhere near professionalism. Not even completing his studies would make him a professional. But he said it anyway, though only God knows why. They both jump suddenly as Tucker's phone starts ringing, and Washington's eyes narrow at Tucker as he goes to retrieve the phone. Tucker looks over at Washington briefly, mouthing, "dude. Chill," before answering the call.

"Hey, Grif, what's up?"

"Hey, man, where the hell are you? I stopped by your apartment since I'm in the area."

"Oh. Uh... I'm not there right now."

"Yeah, no shit, asshole."

"Listen, man, it's great that you're back in town. It's been fuckin' forever since we've seen each other. But maybe you should go hang out with Simmons for a bit. It'll be awhile before I get home."

"Yeah, okay, but where the hell are you? Your connection is ass."

"Uh... Yeah, what was that? Sorry, couldn't hear you. You're breaking up," he starts making noises with his mouth, "I'm gonna hang up now, sorry, bye!" He fumbles to hit the 'end call' button as Grif protests mildly. Tucker sighs and stares at the device in his hand for a long time.

"I hope you're happy, Washington," Tucker says finally. "I haven't seen any of my friends since we went our separate ways to continue our studies. So... Yeah." He flops down onto the chair with a heavy sigh.

"Friends won't get you anywhere," Washington says mildly. "And I don't appreciate being blamed for your decision. I didn't ask you to stay. In fact, you can go now. That'd be preferable, actually." Tucker frowns, but remembers that he has to pick his battles, and focuses on only one part of Washington's words.

"If you had just let me redress your wounds, I could have given you your damn sandwich and been on my way an hour ago. But you have to be stubborn, so I'm stuck sitting here while you fumble with your wounds because I have to make sure you don't fucking bleed out if you mess up."

"Why?" Washington challenges. "Why do you feel like you're obligated to do that?"

"I don't know, man! You just- You're just another person, I guess. This will become my every day life eventually, so why not get the experience when it's given to me? Plus, I don't want to watch a guy die knowing I can do something about it." Tucker looks away, glaring at the ground.

"That's very noble of you, Tucker," the sound of his name coming from Washington has Tucker perking up immediately, "but nobility won't save you from the wrong situation."

"I know that," Tucker retaliates. "But I chose this life, and there's nothing you can do." Washington shakes his head, and Tucker isn't sure why he doesn't like the disapproval coming off of the blond in waves.

"Look, man, just let me bandage your wounds."

"No. I got this." Tucker wants to protest some more, but sees no point.

"You're going to have to clean them again," he says instead. "They've been exposed for too long, and there's too much dust in the air in this place for it to be okay." He gives Washington a once-over before continuing. "And have you even started to look at the smaller cuts and shit all over your arms? What about your hips and legs? Did- did whoever caused this get you below the waist? Have you checked on those? Because I sure as hell didn't." He knows he should stop now; the look on Washington's is pure, unadulterated rage. But he can't. He's just- so frustrated.

"What about your head? You've got a scratch above your right eyebrow. Did you hit your head at any point during your fight? You left before I could test you for a concussion. Did you know you lost so much blood last night that you fucking passed out?" In his anger, Tucker didn't notice that both of them stood mere inches away from each other. Washington towered over Tucker significantly, but from this angle, Tucker could see the way blood slowly seeped out of Washington's wounds again from all his fumbling with the bandages.

"You have successfully managed to do the opposite of bandaging your wounds again, Washington. They are open and bleeding again. Let-- me-- help-- you." He enunciates his last few words very clearly, holding himself up tall despite the pressure of Washington's gaze. They stare each other down for a long time, blood slowly seeping down Washington's torso. The blond seems unbothered, but Tucker can see his tiny flinches and winces as his body reacts to the pain. He just has one hell of a poker face.

Finally, Tucker feels Washington's hands brush against his own, offering the bandages and the needle and thread. Tucker takes them and steps back, lowering his gaze only slightly for a moment, before turning to grab some things to disinfect Washington's wounds. He also pulls out the pb&j so that, hopefully, Washington distracts himself with eating instead of being in pain. He offers the blond the sandwich, then points at the floor.

"Lay down," Tucker demands. "I'll take care of your wounds and shit, but I don't exactly have a table and since we're not in the hospital I also don't have any medication for you for the pain, either."

"I wouldn't take it, anyway," Tucker catches from the blond. He glances curiously, but Washington avoids his look, so Tucker doesn't push it, especially since Washington is actually moving to lie down on the floor.

Tucker gets to work immediately, cleaning up his chest and shoulders and arms, even cleaning his head wounds a bit. He fixes up some of the stitches, and then applies some fresh bandages. Washington eats the whole sandwich while Tucker wrapped his injuries. He looks at Washington.

"See how much quicker that went? Do you have anything else I should know about?" Tucker watches Washington's movement carefully as the blond sits up. His shock is practically tangible as he watches the blond bring his hands to his waistband, pushing his pants down past his hips and thighs. It takes Tucker a moment to snap out of his surprise, but he quickly realises why Washington took off his pants.

"Oh, holy shit," Tucker mutters. "How the hell did you make it to this place?" He doesn't expect an answer, so Washington's response is a pleasant surprise.

"I-" he cuts himself off and hisses as Tucker gets to work on cleaning the painful stab wound in Wash's upper thigh. "I barely managed to. Adrenaline helped a lot." He clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth as Tucker starts the suturing process.

"Fuck-ing-Christ," he gasps quickly. Tucker's surprised he's being so expressive. He barely moved an inch when Tucker was working on his chest.

"Is your lower body pain tolerance not as-... Refined as your upper body?" Tucker questions idly.

"No. Most people don't go for the legs," Washington manages to respond. Tucker nods a little, trying to get through it as quick as he can. The little pained gasps and noises make him feel a certain way that he can't quite describe, but he knows he doesn't like it. Washington seems to have some semblance of appreciation for Tucker's work, quieting down as Tucker wraps the blond's thigh with bandages.

"Is that it for the major ones, then? You've probably got some other smaller cuts and scratches that need to be disinfected, right? You're aware of what could happen if any of them get infected?" Tucker glances over Washington's body quickly, taking note of all the little things. He doesn't mean to come off as inappropriate, but something about the way Washington crosses his arms makes Tucker think he definitely came off as having more intentions than just helping Washington with his injuries.

"Yes. I know," Washington responds quietly. Tucker nods a little, but goes through the list of what to look out for, just in case.

"Inflammation, red around the edges, soreness," he lists. "You know, all that good shit. And you really should make your way to the hospital. I may know a lot, but... Well, I'm still in training. You should seek the help of people who have been in the field and have more experience." Washington just shakes his head.

"Well, then, expect me to come back more often," Tucker decides. "I'm not going to let you die, not after all the effort it's taken to get you all patched up." Washington rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest. But Tucker can practically see the cogs turning in his head. "And don't even think about leaving this place. I know every abandoned building in this city. My friends and I used to hang out around them all the time. And I know for a fact you won't be getting far with that leg, anyway."

Washington seems to deflate slightly, and nods. Tucker grins triumphantly.

"Do you have a phone, dude? Anything I can contact you through to let you know that I'm on my way or something?" Washington shakes his head slowly. Tucker figures it's something to do with whatever happened the previous night. "That's okay. I'll bring one of my old phones tomorrow. I have class, though, so I won't be around until some time in the afternoon. I'll bring water and stuff."

Tucker gets up and starts packing up his supplies. He pauses, and leaves the disinfectant on the couch, making sure Washington knows it's there. As Tucker is moving to retrieve his bat, he pauses.

"Do you have any weapons here? You shouldn't need to worry, hardly anyone comes around here, but there are two entrances to this building and you seem like the type to be hunted down a lot." Tucker ignores the glare he gets for his assumption, but Washington isn't denying it, so. Finally, the blond shakes his head.

"Right, then I'm going to leave the bat here. It'll deal quite a bit of damage if it's used right, and it's a pretty sturdy metal... Just try not to destroy it please?" He gets a look, and figures that that's as good of a confirmation as he'll get out of Washington. With a sigh, Tucker grabs his bag and starts towards the basement door.

"Just... Try not to reopen your wounds again," he says quietly. "And stay off of that leg as much as possible. I'll be back tomorrow to check on them."

When he gets back to his apartment that evening, he checks his phone and discovers multiple texts from Grif and Simmons, and it seems they even convinced Donut to join the spam. He responds to them quickly, then puts the device aside and takes a fuckin' nap.

Chapter Text

So a nap turned into sleeping for the rest of the night. Tucker isn't sure how he manages to do that all the time, but honestly, he appreciates it a lot so he doesn't question it. His alarm buzzes wildly on his bedside table, and he's already moving to shut it off even as he struggles to open his eyes. Once it's stopped, he lays back down and goes right back to sleep.

When he wakes up again half an hour later, to the same incessant buzzing, he actually manages to get his eyes open to see his screen as he turns off the alarm again. Despite being more awake, he doesn't quite feel ready to get up, so he relaxes back onto his bed and closes his eyes again, falling asleep until his next alarm, another half hour later.

To this alarm, he actually sits up. He runs his fingers through his dreads, sighing softly at the weight. Cutting them off had been on his mind a lot lately, but he hasn't yet found the time, and now that he's dealing with a wounded stranger who seems to have overdosed on paranoia... He's not sure changing the way he looks would be such a good idea. With that in mind, he gets up and gets dressed, preparing himself for his first class in... About two hours? It, of course, wouldn't take that long to get ready, but he liked to give himself time to sit around and do nothing. Plus, Donut normally stops by in the morning and they chat for a bit until they head to campus together.

Oh shit. Donut's coming. Tucker glances around his room quickly, his brain panicking for a moment and not quite functioning the way he needs it to before he kicks into activity and goes through his usual morning routine for weekdays. He's trying to push through the routine a little faster, though, since Tucker has to make sure that there's no leftover evidence of Washington's break-in because nothing gets past Donut. In the few years that they've known each other, Tucker has had an easier time hiding shit from Grif and Church than he has from Donut. The man just- has this way of convincing people to talk about themselves even if they don't want... To...

Tucker pauses, contemplating introducing Donut to Washington to see what he can- no, Tucker, focus, he chides himself. He steps out of the shower and dries himself off quickly, dressing and taking care of his hair the way he was instructed to. It's always such a pain, which is part of why he wants to get the locs removed, but now he's got bigger issues to deal with. As he makes his way to the kitchen to wipe down the countertops and mop again, just in case he missed anything, he checks the time. It tells him that he's still got about 15 minutes, but Tucker still has to figure out what the hell to do about the hole in the wall from those goddamn scissors that Washington threw.

Apparently he spends more time staring at the hole than he thought, because now somebody's knocking at his door and oh fuck that's probably Donut. God dammit. He walks over to the door as calmly as he can manage, trying to even out his breathing before he opens the door. A moment passes, and he's sure Donut's about to knock again, but Tucker opens the door first, surprising the blond.

"Oh, Tucker! How are you? Did you sleep well last night? You look tired. Oooh, you cleaned up? Is something going on? Why wasn't I invited?" Tucker lets Donut ramble for a bit about invitations and how there's a certain way to do it and everyone should adhere to a strict process and-. Finally, he stops, and Tucker knows exactly why. He sighs heavily, waiting for the question.

"Tucker?"

"Yes, Donut?"

"Why is there a hole in the wall?" There it is. Tucker hesitates, debating telling a lie, but Donut's staring at him expectantly and he can't come up with anything fast enough, so he says,

"A pair of scissors."

"Uh-huh. What about 'em?"

"They were in the wall."

"And why was that, Tucker?" Again, he hesitates.

"...I... Put them there?"

"Try again."

"I threw them? Out of surprise?" Donut seems to consider the lie, then shakes his head.

"That doesn't seem like something a medical student would do. Did something happen, Tucker?" Real concern laces his voice as Donut takes a few steps forward. "Is everything alright?" Tucker steps back the teeniest bit, but Donut's eyes still flicker towards his feet, regardless of how miniscule the movement was. Finally, Tucker sighs in defeat.

"Alright, you got me. There was a guy in here the other night and he threw the scissors at my wall." He doesn't have to go too in-depth with the detail, right? But Donut's interest seems to have been piqued at the mention of "guy" so now there's a whole new set of questions about to come.

"Oooh, sounds dangerous? What was he like? Where did you find him? Or did he find you? Oh, how romantic!"

"Donut, no, that's- that's not what happened-" Tucker tries, but he's going off, now.

"Was it safe? Did he treat you right? Did you have a safeword? I can only imagine what could've happened if scissors were involved-" Donut gasps suddenly. "Oh my God, Tucker! Are you into knifeplay? Holy moly, I never would have pegged you as-"

"Donut! Stop! We didn't fuck. He was injured and I helped him. Jesus," Tucker finally snaps, and Donut backs off a bit. He opens his mouth to start again, before glancing back at the wall and hesitating.

"So then, if that's what happened..."

"It is."

"Then why was there a pair of scissors in your wall, Tucker?" He's got this hardened look in his eyes, and it's kind of freaking Tucker out, so he tries to explain the weekend as quickly as possible.

"So this guy broke into my apartment on Saturday night-" he holds up his hand before Donut can interrupt him. "And I know, I should've just called the cops and let them handle it, but... Donut, there was so much blood, and what if the cops didn't get here on time? Should I have just let a guy bleed out on my apartment floor? I... Plus, he was bleeding out all over my kitchen and I didn't want to be suspected, so... I fixed him up. Used my medical training knowledge and shit..."

"But Tucker, that still doesn't explain the scissors in the wall." Donut insists.

"I know! I'm getting there. It's just... He was unconscious, while I was dealing with his injuries- a gash across his chest, a bullet wound, and other smaller scratches and shit. It was a lot. But I guess he was still in that fight or flight mentality when he woke up. He attacked me, but he didn't hurt me. Look, you can check on me if you're that worried, we've seen each other mostly naked already anyway. But anyway, he attacked me. Had the scissors up to my neck and shit. But then he just... Threw them aside and left. And they got stuck in the wall. So... That's the story." Tucker can't bring himself to meet Donut's eyes.

"So where is he now?" Donut questions. It's innocent enough at face value, but telling Donut where a paranoid, injured man is currently staying doesn't seem like a great idea.

"I don't know," he lies easily. "He left and I didn't follow."

"Then where were you yesterday? Grif told me and Simmons about your call with him." Of course he did.

"Okay, fine. I went to check on him. But I'm not telling you where he is. He's barely comfortable around me, I had to practically fight him to get him to let me redress his wounds." Donut seems hurt, but nods. Thank God. Tucker lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding when Donut relents.

"Donut, you can't tell the others. I'll never hear the end of it," Tucker pleads quietly. "I know I'm being stupid, but you gotta trust me. I can handle myself-"

"Tucker, you've never been in a successful fight in your life."

"How would you know? You've only known me since college."

"Yeah, but I get plenty of stories from Grif and Church." Donut winks playfully. Tucker feels heat rise to his cheeks.

"Look, I was just a kid! I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I made stupid decisions. So what if I played a part in multiple liaisons and got my ass handed to me for it?" Tucker retorts, pouting. Donut just pats his shoulder supportively.

"Come on, Tucker. We have to get to campus. Tell me more about what this guy looks like." He grabs Tucker's wrist, linking their arms together. Tucker reaches for his bag and snatches it off the couch quickly as Donut drags him out of his apartment.

"Uh, okay," he says, stumbling for a moment at Donut's pace. "Well, he's super tall. And he's fuckin' ripped, though it's a little hard to tell when blood's spilling all over him. I think he's like, a secret agent or something, 'cause he's got a codename and everything: Washington. Like the state." Donut nods along enthusiastically, not questioning the way Tucker's voice has dropped to a hushed whisper.

"And he's blond, with like, so many freckles, dude. I don't really tend to notice them because he's really fuckin' scary, but there's so many. And his eyes, holy shit. They're such a cold grey, I feel like he's staring into my soul when he looks at me. But I mean, in a strangely beautiful way." Donut gives him a glance, and Tucker reads it as well as he would a book.

"No, I don't like him. We're not high schoolers anymore, Donut," Tucker denies immediately.

"Oh, but come on! There's nothing saying we can't have some fun! Take a chance, Tucker! I mean, if you could hear the way you talk about him..." Donut trails off.

"Donut, I've only known him for two days. Relax. I just... I don't know, I've never been in a situation like this before. Oh! Did I mention that he had a fucking stab wound on his thigh?" Donut perks up slightly, then grins a little.

"Oh? And how'd you learn that one?" He smirks at Tucker, and Tucker rolls his eyes.

"I asked if he had any other injuries and he took his pants off, duh. Strictly professional," Tucker responds. Donut is quiet for a few moments.

"How big is he?"

"Wh- Donut! What the fuck?!" Tucker stares at the other with wide eyes, feeling his face go completely red. It makes him glad, for a moment, that blush is harder to see on his darker skin. "I- I didn't look! What the hell do you take me for?!" He turns away from Donut, crossing his arms.

"Besides," Tucker continues, "it's not like I could tell anyway, even if I wanted to- which I most certainly did not- because he wasn't naked in front of me. I doubt he would be comfortable with that. He protested enough against just letting me deal with the wounds on his upper body."

"But," Donut inclines, "he took his pants off for you. That's got to stand for something, right?" Tucker snorts.

"I know of another thing that could stand for something," he mutters, adding a small "bow chicka bow wow" afterward. He gets a raised eyebrow from Donut, but ignores it, relishing in his little joke for a moment.

"Alright, well, anyway," Donut says. "I'll talk to you later, Tucker. See you!" Tucker waves, and they split off to go to their separate classes. Now, Tucker's never really been that great at paying attention to lessons as they're being taught. On his own, he can manage just fine. But in classrooms and online meetings, he tends to get bored and find things to distract himself, even if they're disruptive to the rest of the class. It's always been something that got him in trouble, but teachers and professors couldn't really do anything because, despite it, Tucker still got good grades.

Today is no different. Well, it's a little different, in that Tucker's distraction is purely mental. It's all he can do to not constantly be thinking about Washington. Thinking about the way the man's eyes narrowed at the slightest hint of unauthorized movement. The vulnerability he must've felt while Tucker was dealing with the hole in his thigh. Thinking about the way Washington just... Gave in and let Tucker redress his wounds. He thinks a lot about Washington's subtle body language. Tense shoulders, a set jaw. A straightened back. Washington was anything but comfortable around Tucker, and yet he still let Tucker do what was necessary for his injuries. And Tucker just couldn't figure out why.

He spends the entire day thinking about Washington. The mysterious man with gorgeous grey eyes and more freckles on his body than there are stars in the sky. He finds himself excited to be able to see the man again, even if Washington doesn't feel the same about Tucker's company. Luckily, he manages to make it through the day with as few repercussions as possible, given how distracted he was. He catches up with Donut and talks to him again on the way back to his apartment. In front of his door, he turns to the blond.

"So, I'm gonna go and gather some shit to take to Washington, which means you need to go home," Tucker says, trying to be nice about it. Disappointment still flickers across Donut's face, but he gives a sigh and relents. "And that doesn't mean follow me to where Washington is staying. I'm seriously not kidding about how paranoid this guy is. He will not hesitate to hurt you if he perceives you as a threat. It's... Scary, Donut. Honestly. And I want you to stay safe, okay?"

"Alright," Donut agrees with a pout. Tucker gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder, then unlocks his apartment door, pushing into his flat. Donut continues a moment later, "but you need to be careful, too."

"See you tomorrow morning, Donut," Tucker bids. Donut waves and gives a smile, but Tucker can see the worry and sadness in his eyes. He sighs and tries not to focus on it too hard. He has a lot of stuff to get for Washington.

First order of business: clothes. Washington has kind of not had a fucking shirt for the last two days, and that's a bit of a problem considering the damage done to his body. Tucker supposes he should also grab the male a pair of sweatpants or something. He supposes that one of his oversized hoodies will have to do, considering Washington is much broader than Tucker and probably wouldn't fit in any of Tucker's regular clothes. Next, he needs to get Washington something to eat, as well as a couple bottles of water that he can hold onto for the next few days. He grabs a box of granola bars from his cabinet, too, to give to Washington for the next few days. Finally, Tucker has to find one of his old phones. He knows he has them, because it's not like any of them broke before he got a new one, he just... Got a lot of tech as gifts over the years. He manages to find a couple in one of his drawers in his desk, picking the one he used the least and doing a factory reset on it before tucking it, and his personal phone, into his pocket.

With everything pulled together, Tucker briefly stops in his bathroom to replenish some of the supplies in his medical bag before gathering all his shit and heading back out into the world. The walk to the house feels a lot shorter this time, though Tucker still struggles a little bit with opening the cellar door on his own, and closing it, too. He hesitates for a moment in making himself known, but figures it would be better for Washington's paranoia if he knew what to expect.

"Hey, man, it’s Tucker," he calls, facing the ceiling to try to project his voice through the floor. "I'm comin' up from the basement. Try not to want to kill me, I have more stuff for you." He doesn't wait for any kind of response, since he doubts he would get one anyway, and forces his body to function the way he needs it to, bringing himself towards the stairs, up them, and through the door into the main rooms. He glances around quickly, still a little afraid of what Washington is capable of, but makes his way to the living room regardless.

"I'm assuming I should just go to the living room again?" He calls out into the air, even as he steps through the threshold and makes his way to the sofa. There's still no sign of Washington, so Tucker just goes about emptying his bags.

"Listen, Washington, I have like... Clothes and a phone and shit for you so if you could come out of hiding, that would be great. I didn't bring anybody with me, I'm not an idiot," Tucker sighs.

"Actually, bringing someone with you would've been the smart thing to do," Washington says from the doorway. Tucker looks up quickly, then snorts.

"Why, so you could kill them?"

"It would give you a chance to get away." Tucker thinks he's joking, but the look in Washington's eyes reminds him who he's dealing with.

"Uh..." Tucker clears his throat quickly. "I brought a sweatshirt and some sweatpants. They should fit, but... You're bigger than me, so... Sorry if it's a bit tight." He pauses, then snorts "bow chicka bow wow" to himself again. Washington narrows his eyes for a moment, then takes a couple steps forward. Tucker offers him the clothes.

"I can turn around if you'd like, but I've- oh, okay, guess there's no shame." Tucker averts his eyes anyway, out of respect. But he does steal a teeny glance, to appeal to Donut tomorrow morning. Washington doesn't say anything, so Tucker assumes he didn't notice. Which is great for him. He continues to pull stuff out of his bag.

"I brought another sandwich, and a banana for you, this time. I also have some water and a box of granola bars. They should get you through the week, but I'll still be coming around every so often to bring you actual stuff to eat, so if they last longer, that's cool," Tucker explains, pulling out the stuff as he describes them. Washington has his head through the sweatshirt, but then seems to think better of the action and takes it off again. It takes Tucker a moment to realise that it's because he expects Tucker to re-do the bandaging on his injuries. The thought is enough to make Tucker smile to himself.

"Oh, here's the phone," he says, pulling it out of his pocket. "I've already done like, a factory reset and shit on it, so it should be wiped clean of whatever bullshit I had on it before. I don't even know at this point." He mutters the last part to himself before continuing, "but if you've got something else that you do to your phones, whether it's like... Company procedure or whatever because of confidentiality or any of that kinda shit, then you can do that. I'll set you up with a way to contact me once that's all figured out, since that's kind of the point of giving you one of my old phones." Washington looks at Tucker for a long time, seeming angry and just the tiniest bit surprised at his ramblings. Tucker notes the anger and tries to defend himself.

"Look, I don't know shit about what you do. All I know is that you broke into my apartment injured as fuck and usually in the movies that means you're involved in some secret agency with some special guidelines or strict procedure to adhere to and I'm not even going to question it, okay? You even have fuckin' codenames, for God's sake." Washington still glares at Tucker, but it's not as aggressive. Now he just seems irritated. The blond snags the phone out of Tucker's hand, and moves to take a seat at one of the walls, fucking around with the device and doing some weird shit to it while Tucker continued shuffling through his bags. He tries his best to ignore Washington, despite the childish way he sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth when he focuses. Maybe, Tucker thinks, just maybe, he's not as crazy as he seems.

"Do you want me to check your injuries again? How's the pain doing for your thigh? I can bring you some, like, ibuprofen or something tomorrow if you'd like," Tucker offers, moving on to his medical supplies. Washington pauses, glancing up from the phone that he's busy reprogramming. He seems to think about something for a moment, then responds quietly.

"No medication."

Tucker nods, and doesn't question it. Maybe it's something to do with his weird spy shit. "What about your wounds? Are they alright? I left the disinfectant here yesterday, that was on purpose. Are you cleaning them?" Washington nods a little, but for some reason Tucker doesn't believe him.

"Alright, come here. I'm gonna check your shit. The damn phone can wait. No, I don't want to hear any protesting. You need to make sure these wounds are kept clean. You could die." Tucker crooks a finger at the blond, and rolls his eyes at the dramatic way he puts the phone aside and stands up, only to limp over so he can sit on the couch. Tucker leans over him, unwrapping the old bandages carefully to reveal the wounds that are definitely struggling to heal in these awful conditions. With a sigh, he glances around for the disinfectant, grabbing his cloth. He kneels in front of Washington, working carefully to get the blond's injuries nice and cleaned up, checking over the stitches and making sure the smaller cuts and scrapes aren't a problem.

"How about your thigh? Your limping seems worse today. Did you do something to fuck with the stitches there?" Washington doesn't respond, just lifts himself off the couch slightly to push the sweatpants past his hips and thighs to expose the wound to Tucker again. Tucker feels heat rushing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks and going as far as the tips of his ears. He definitely wasn't expecting to be in this kind of situation today, kneeling in front of a mostly naked, extremely hot stranger. Get it together, Tucker, he thinks to himself, sitting up a little straighter so he can access Washington's stab wound. He didn't really think about it yesterday, but he can't help but notice just how close his hands are to Washington's crotch. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, rattling his brain and trying to focus.

"Uh, yeah-" he interrupts himself to clear his throat again. "Yeah, I don't know what you were doing yesterday but I gotta fix some of these stitches so... Find something to hold onto that preferably isn't my hair, because like I said... Buy me dinner first." Tucker looks up at Washington from between his legs, and gives the blond a playful wink. He's extremely pleased to see the slightest hint of pink dusting pale cheeks.

"That isn't very professional, Tucker," Washington says, setting his jaw as Tucker starts to work on the stitches again.

"Oh, yeah, I know. But I can't help it. It's not every day that a man is blessed with an opportunity such as this," Tucker responds easily, grinning lazily up at the blond. Washington doesn't say anything, and Tucker pouts. He picks up the pace a bit, figuring any longer and the both of them would become so flustered that neither of them would know what to do with themselves. Washington just grunts and growls and just in general sounds pretty primal when he makes his little pained noises, and Tucker focuses on that instead of being so close to the man's dick despite only "knowing" him for three days. He wraps up his leg and stands back, letting Washington pull his pants back up. Tucker looks around for the sweatshirt, then offers that to the blond again, watching the way the male's shoulders and abs flex and move as he pulls the hoodie over his form. He looks away quickly when Washington almost catches Tucker staring.

"Okay, are you hungry?" Tucker moves to the food he brought, presenting it to the blond. Washington glances at the food for a moment, shifting his shoulders in the sweatshirt for a moment to get comfortable, and then just goes back over to continue working on the phone. Tucker shrugs and grabs one of the water bottles. "Hey, you might not be willing to eat but at least drink some water? How long has it been? Definitely since Saturday. You gotta stay hydrated, man." Tucker approaches carefully and sets the bottle down next to Washington before backing off again. He has to control his breathing, because that's the closest he's been to Washington aside from when he's dealing with the blond's injuries. Washington barely seems to acknowledge the bottle. After a moment, Tucker moves to take a seat on the couch.

"How are the clothes? They fit you okay?" Tucker questions idly. He glances at Washington to see if there's a nonverbal response that he missed.

"They'll do for now," the male replies. "You probably won't get them back in one piece."

"That's okay, I don't really need them back." This gets a glance from Washington, and Tucker tries to avoid eye contact. A moment later, the blond returns his attention to the phone.

"Does it take awhile?"

Washington looks up.

"The reprogramming thing. You've been working on it for a while."

"Oh. Uh, no. Y- Usually we have a specialist do it. I'm just not very good." Washington seems to get this faraway look in his eyes, but quickly snaps out of it as the phone makes a nasty beep.

"Holy Christ, I've never heard it make that noise before."

"Good."

Tucker doesn't question that one. Apparently he doesn't need to.

"It means this is the first time anyone has done this."

"Well no shit-"

"To anything with your info on it. Not just this device."

Tucker closes his mouth, then purses his lips. "So... You have access to all my shit now?"

"Eh, I could get it. If I wanted to. But I'm not interested."

Tucker nods slowly, not quite believing him. "Just... I don't know, man. Don't be a dick."

"Just said I'm not interested. Do you listen? Ever?" Washington hasn't looked up since the phone beeped. Tucker frowns. He wants to respond with something snappy, but can't come up with anything good enough, so he switches gears.

"Do you have, like... Basebook or something?" Washington lifts his head the tiniest bit.

"Basebook?"

"Yeah- oh. Whoops, I mean Facebook. Basebook is something between me and my friends, we have this DnD group and Basebook is one of those things that we've just kind of taken to calling Facebook." Washington hums.

"I do," Washington says finally, surprising the hell out of Tucker. "But it's a private account, for obvious reasons. So you won't be able to find me. I have to find you." Tucker deflates slightly.

"Alright. It's just my name. Like most people on the app. Lavernius Tucker." Washington acknowledges the information with a small nod, his fingers tapping away at the screen. Tucker's kind of amazed at how quickly he types. A few moments later, he gets a message request from "Agent Washington". Tucker raises an eyebrow at the blond.

"First name Agent, huh?" He jokes. Washington doesn't seem to find it very funny.

"No. Just Washington. Agent is a title."

"Yeah, man, I know. I'm not dumb. It was a joke."

"Could've fooled me," Washington mutters. Tucker folds his arms across his chest. He stares at Washington for a long time, but the blond doesn't seem to care, and instead occupies him with something else on the phone. He glances up a few minutes later.

"I have to make a call," he says vaguely. "No, you can't listen to it and don't follow me. I'll be fine." He gets up, his fingers tapping on his screen a couple times.

"How are you going to make a call if the thing's not acti-" he cuts himself off as it starts ringing. Washington gives Tucker a pointed look before limping his way out of the room. Tucker just flops onto the couch and grabs his phone. He's not really sure what to do, so he texts Donut.

[LT]: Hey, man.

[FDD]: Tucker! What's up? How are things with that Washington guy?

[LT]: Pretty okay. He's kind of a dick. He's in another room. Something about making a call.

[FDF]: ooo, sounds like fun. Are you going to listen?

[LT]: are you crazy? He could kill me with his bare hands, fuck no.

[FDD]: awww but aren't you curious?

[FDD]: Besides, you could probably outrun him if that leg wound is as bad as you said.

[LT]: yeah but I'd have to come back eventually. Besides, he literally knows where I live. He would catch up eventually.

[FDD]: mmmm I guess you're right. I gotta get back to my homework. I'll talk to you later, Tucker. Stay safe!

Tucker sighs and hits the power button, staring at his reflection when the screen goes dark. He looks... Tired. Has he always looked so exhausted? He hardly even notices anymore. His dreads are a wreck, and he really should get them removed. He runs a hand through them, frowning.

"Stupid hair," he mutters to himself. "So high maintenance."

"So cut it off." Washington's voice surprises Tucker, making him jump and turn quickly. Tucker blinks a couple times.

"How long were you standing there?" He asks dumbly.

"Eh, not long. Who were you texting?"

"Who were you calling?"

"That's not your business."

"Nor is this," he waves his phone quickly. Washington's eyes narrow dangerously. Tucker rolls his eyes, turning away from the blond. "It's not anybody you need to be worried about. He's just a friend of mine."

"And I was just calling my boss."

Tucker looks at Washington for a moment, trying to gauge the truthfulness of that statement. His eyes are a little guarded, but he's standing with his feet apart and his arms are crossed over his chest. It's pretty much the most comfortable he's seen the blond since meeting. Tucker takes his word for it.

"What's your boss like? Is he just as scary as you?"

"Who said they were a man?" Tucker scoffs.

"You're taking orders from a chick?" He raises an eyebrow slightly. Washington stands a little straighter, squaring his shoulders.

"So what if I am? Her boss is a man, but she is my boss. It's how jobs work, Tucker. There's a chain. A system." Tucker lets out a snort by accident, and ignores the glare he gets. He goes quiet for a moment.

"Are you guys fucking?" Well now he just sounds like Donut. But the reaction is worth it.

"Wh- Y- Are we-? No! Of course not!" Washington splutters. "She's my boss!"

"So? People do it all the time."

"Well. I don't. So there." His face turns a soft pink and he looks away. Tucker laughs.

"Dude. You guys are totally fucking," he accuses. "Can't hide that shit from me." Washington turns a violent glare on him.

"No," he says, and he sounds genuinely unhappy with the conversation taking place. "She's spoken for. And I don't see her like that, anyway. She'd probably kill me."

"So what, you're single?" Washington goes quiet for a while.

"Yes," he says finally. "I am." Tucker hums quietly, thinking about the new information. He knows it's not really that important to know, but... It's something. At least Washington is... Sort of talking about himself? Not really, but kind of. He looks at Washington for a moment, then pauses.

"What about a boyfriend?" Tucker asks.

"Tucker, I just said I was single."

"Well shit, man, I don't know. You're some mysterious guy who just appeared in my apartment half dead on his feet. I've never even seen you around before. Are you even from here?"

"I took a job here. And I just happened to end up in your apartment for cover." He glares at Tucker for a while. "I'm starting to wonder if I would have been better off dead in someone else's apartment," he mutters and turns away. "At least when I'm dead I don't have to answer dumb questions."

"Dude, you don't have to answer my questions anyway. You're choosing to. I'm not forcing you to do shit. For fuck's sake, I left my bat here for you. What do you take me for, some interrogator who's out to get you?"

"I don't know! Would you tell me if you were?" Washington fires back. Tucker thinks about it.

"No? Why the hell would I do that?"

"Exactly. So shut the hell up, because you don't know shit."

"Well, Washington, it's just a matter of trusting that a fucking med student in college isn't out to fucki-"

"I don't trust people!" Washington explodes. He takes a breath. "I'm not supposed to, anyway. I'm putting myself and my job at enough of a risk just by staying here, where you know I am. How many people have you told about me?" Tucker opens his mouth, then closes it again, and then sighs.

"One," he answers truthfully. But that's enough.

"See? And that's why I can't trust you! How many people do you think they've told? How many people know I'm here?!"

"No one knows where you are! I didn't tell Donut where you are. I- I didn't think he'd be safe enough from you!" Washington takes a step back.

"Well, you're alive, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but fucking barely. You held a pair of scissors to my neck the moment you woke up!"

"I- I wasn't in the right mindset. I was still... Still gathering my thoughts. I don't... I try not to hurt people that aren't on my list."

"Aha! So you are a secret agent! Who do you work for? The government?" Washington rolls his eyes.

"No, Tucker. I don't work for the government. You wouldn't know them if I told you."

"Then why don't you tell me?"

"Because I can't fucking trust you! Don't you fucking listen?!"

"I don't think you can't, Agent Washington, I think you don't want to, because you're afraid!" Tucker snaps.

"Don't call me that," Washington responds, his voice dangerously low. Tucker pauses, and then furrows his eyebrows.

"And why not?"

"Just... Because. Just don't." There's a warning tone in his voice, but Tucker isn't about to start giving a shit now.

"And what happens if I do anyway, Agent Washington?" Tucker watches the blond's jaw tense and relax as he grinds his teeth together. Finally, Washington looks at Tucker, the filtered sunlight of the dying day making grey eyes look almost blue. There's a glint of some emotion there- resolve?- and Tucker doesn't like it.

"Are you about to pay me to kill someone, Lavernius Tucker?" The emphasis he puts on the word "kill" is supposed to scare Tucker, he knows. But anger burns more fiercely in his chest than fear does, so he stands his ground.

"No," he says. His confidence wavers as Washington's eyes narrow.

"Then I'm not your Agent. I'm just Washington." Tucker nods, and tears his eyes away from Washington's piercing gaze. Silence settles between them. It's a deafening, suffocating silence. Tucker can't stand it. He gets up and leaves the room, headed to the second floor. Away from Washington, he feels like he has a second to breathe. Downstairs, he can hear crashes and cursing. How long before that would have been me he was throwing around? Tucker doesn't want to think about it.

With a breath, he gathers his thoughts. Organizes them carefully into what he knows, what could be true, and what he doesn't know. What he knows: His name is Washington. He works for someone who pays him to kill people. He has trust issues. What could be true: He has a squad, maybe? Or maybe it's just him and his boss. And is his name actually Washington, or is that just his codename? What he doesn't know: Who does he work for? Where is he from? Where's the rest of the people he works with? Is his company good or bad? Do they go after innocent people or criminals?

Tucker runs his hands through his hair, breathing a huff of frustration. He knows a lot less than he thought. With a small mental shake to help him pull himself together, he waits for it to quiet down again before heading back downstairs. There's one question that Tucker has on his mind that he needs Washington to answer.

"Washington?" Tucker requests. He peeks into the living room where the blond sits, drinking his water. He's glaring at Tucker, though. "Are you, and your company, the good guys?" Washington just turns his attention back to the bottle at his lips. "I need to know," he pleads. Washington brings the bottle away from his mouth.

"We aren't officiated by the government, no. But the people we target are not innocent." He looks at Tucker for a long time. "If you don't want to stay, then don't. It makes no difference to me." Tucker nods.

"So... You kill bad people, but you're still considered criminals for killing?" He asks, just to make sure he understands what's being said. Washington confirms with a nod. Tucker looks away, thinking about that revelation for a long time. This man has killed people before. That's been confirmed.

"So... Your wounds... Are they from...?" Tucker trails off quietly.

"Yeah, it... Went a little wrong. It's alright. Everyone made it out, and we got the guy we wanted."

"'Everyone'?" Tucker tilts his head slightly.

"Oh. Shit," he cusses to himself softly. "Uh... Yeah. The rest of the team I had with me."

"Did you split up?"

"That's... The simple way of putting it, yeah," he says, but he's got an almost sheepish look on his face. Tucker stares for a long time, watching Washington's expression change as he talks about his squad, even while still managing to keep it vague.

"You... You care about them, right?" Tucker asks suddenly. "You're not, like... Some heartless dick with a 'I-have-no-friends' stick up your ass?" Washington's gaze hardens immediately and he turns a glare on Tucker.

"Why?" Tucker puts his hands up defensively.

"No reason, I swear. It just... You seem fond of... Whatever or whoever you're thinking of. I'm... Pretty good at reading expressions, and your poker face is only good at hiding pain." Washington looks away.

"They are... They're my team. I do my best to keep them safe, and in return I'm guaranteed their best efforts in keeping me safe. It's how we... Function." Tucker pauses, piecing it together slowly.

"You trust them?" He doesn't mean to sound offended, but Washington doesn't seem to care.

"With my life."

"Because you want to, or because you have to?" Washington seems a little surprised at the question, and actually takes a moment to think about it.

"A little bit of both. I would never trust South to keep her mouth shut about a secret, but I know she'd have my back in a fight. And I know I can trust York to be there when I need to vent or rant or something, but... He's not that great at ranged cover, so I'd leave that to North. Though I could talk to North, too, but he'd probably say something to his sister depending on what it is." Tucker watches the blond's eyes gloss over as he thinks about his team, and he's almost hesitant to break him out of his moment.

"You miss them." It comes out as more of a statement than a question, but it pulls Washington back into the present.

"I suppose I do."

"Well, then... We should get these wounds healed up nicely so that you can get back to them, right?" Tucker swallows past the lump in his throat, not even sure why it's there, trying to prevent him from speaking.

"Right," Washington responds easily. There's silence, but it's comfortable and easy. It's a nice change from earlier.

"If you'd like, I can check your wounds again before I go back to my apartment? But it's getting pretty late and I have assignments that need to be done, so I gotta get out of here soon." Washington glances down at his chest, and then twists his body a little bit to either side before he shakes his head decisively.

"No, I should be alright."

"I won't be here tomorrow. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Tucker." His voice is laced with exasperation, but Tucker thinks he can spot a tiny bit of appreciation in Washington's eyes.

"Okay," Tucker agrees. "Text me if you need anything."

"No promises," comes the reply. Tucker rolls his eyes, but takes it. He figured it was the best he would get, considering who he was talking to. It strikes him as odd, how quickly Washington changed after their argument. He wondered if there was a reason behind it.

The walk home goes by smoothly, no random encounters or near-death experiences. He makes it back to his apartment in one piece, and as he unlocks his door and steps inside, he thinks about Washington again. He thinks about how it didn't seem like Washington was actually taking care of himself. With that in mind, he pulls his phone out while putting his things away, and shoots the blond a quick reminder.

[LT]: Hey, don't forget to clean your cuts and scratches out periodically. You don't have to stay up all night, but maybe clean them before you sleep?

[LT]: Actually, do you even sleep?

[LT]: whatever. Just make sure they're cleaned. We don't want any of your wounds to get infected, even the smaller ones.

It takes a couple minutes, and Tucker just assumes it's because Washington is being dramatic about having to actually take care of himself, but he does get a response.

[AW]: k.

Tucker stares at his phone for a long time. So he's one of those types of people, he thinks idly with a huff. He puts his phone down and pulls out all his work from the school day, settling down to get started. It takes like two hours to get through it all, and Tucker is physically and mentally exhausted from all the work. His phone has vibrated a couple times with messages, though he always tells himself to not look at the device while he's working, since he knows for a fact he would let himself get distracted by it. So when everything is said and done, he picks up the phone and turns it on. He raises an eyebrow at the actual number of notifications. He's not surprised about a couple being from Donut, there's a few various notifications from other apps, and... A couple messages from Washington? Oh boy, here we go. He opens the app and checks the chat.

[AW]: how do i know if its clean

[AW]: uhhh what if they start bleeding? Is that bad?

[AW]: nvm it stopped dont worry

[AW]: why arent you answering isnt that the point of this

[AW]: whatever, i did my best. You can complain about it whenever you get here.

[AW]: im going to sleep. probably.

Tucker re-reads the messages multiple times, checking the timestamps. There's only a few minutes between each. With a sigh, Tucker shoots a couple messages back.

[LT]: chill, I was doing my school work. I do have a life.

[LT]: there's really no way to tell other than it just... Pretty much just looking cleaner, really. All the dirt and shits gone

[LT]: and blood? What the hell did you do? Please be careful. Be gentle with the fuckin cloth.

[LT]: don't forget to stay hydrated. Goodnight.

He doesn't expect the response that makes his phone vibrate in his hands.

[AW]: ok. Good night.

He shakes his head a little and switches over to Donut's chat.

[FDD]: heya Tucker! How's everything going?

[FDD]: everything good with Washington? He's not hurting you is he?

[FDD]: hes gonna have somethin real big to deal with if he lays a single harming hand on you.

[FDD]: Tucker, seriously. Is everything alright?

[FDD]: oh, silly me. You're probably just doing your work.

[FDD]: text me back when youre done! I want ALL the deets! (:

Tucker blinks a couple times, not sure how to respond.

[LT]: everything's fine, Donut. Actually, he talked to me about his team earlier.

[LT]: mentioned a couple different people. Seemed to care about em a lot.

[FDD]: aw, that's cute! Maybe he's not as scary as you said! :D

[LT]: no, he's still pretty scary. He told me about his job. Definitely scary.

[FDD]: ?

[LT]: so you know how in movies heroes are always praised for hunting down bad guys?

[LT]: he does that, except he's not praised. Actually, he's a wanted criminal who hunts and kills other criminals. That's his job. He has a whole team and everything.

Tucker doesn't get a response from Donut for a while.

[FDD]: so... You are regularly in contact with a killer?

[LT]: ....yes?

[FDD]: TUCKER!

[LT]: I know! I know, okay? But he said he and his company only go after criminals/people on their list so... I mean, as long as I don't end up on their list I should be fine, right???

[FDD]: and what if you get put on their list just for knowing too much??

[LT]: ....fuck. Washington would help me, right? He wouldn't let me get hurt?? I'm helping him, after all??

[FDD]: are you sure he'd pick you over his job, Tucker?

Tucker thinks about the yelling and the crashing. About the lack of trust. He sighs. Donut is right, but... He wants to believe that that's not the kind of person that Washington really is.

[LT]: I'll talk to him, Donut. You just have to trust me, okay?

He doesn't respond for a while.

[FDD]: Fine. But one wrong move and his ass is mine.

Tucker squints, but doesn't question.

[LT]: deal. I'm going to try and sleep, now. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.

[FDD]: goodnight, Tucker. Sleep well.

He sighs and shuts off his phone, plugging it in to charge and placing it on his table. He changes into his pj's even though it's an effort he really didn't feel like making, and lays down. He's asleep within minutes.

Chapter Text

When Wednesday morning rolls around, Tucker is itching to get through the school day and get back to Washington. He got multiple texts throughout Tuesday that were more than worrying, so much so that sometimes Tucker wondered if Washington was trying to make Tucker visit him sooner. But that would be ridiculous, Washington doesn't like Tucker's presence. That's what he always says, anyway.

Tucker is awake and moving at his first alarm, eager to start the day. He knows he's only got two classes today, and he doesn't have to worry about being walked home by Donut because Donut has four classes today, so he can go straight from campus to Washington as long as Tucker remembers to grab everything he needs. So he spends the entire hour and a half that he could be sleeping during, preparing for his visit to Washington instead. He packs new bandages, and a clean cloth to use with the disinfectant; debates trying to find a shirt big enough for the blond, but ultimately comes to the conclusion that all of his things will be too small for Washington, regardless of how big they are on Tucker. By the time his third alarm goes off that he would usually only just start functioning to, all of his things are ready and he can just jump in the shower and follow his routine like normal. He even has time for breakfast before Donut shows up.

He opens the door when Donut knocks, greeting the cheerful male with a wave. The blond tilts his head in curiosity, but gives Tucker a big grin regardless.

"Good morning, Tucker!" He greets. "You seem to be in a good mood? Mind telling me what's got your spirits so high?" Tucker knows what he's implying, and chooses to ignore it.

"Yeah, I didn't have time to see Washington yesterday and I'm super worried because he sent me multiple concerning texts throughout the day," he explains briefly while munching on some toast. Donut nods a little, humming quietly.

"Alright, alright, I suppose that's a good enough reason. Excited to see your man, I see you," he teases. Tucker chokes, violent coughs wracking through his entire system.

"My- my what?!" He manages.

"You heard me."

"Donut, I told you on Monday, I haven't even known the guy for a week!"

"Oh, don't give me that crap, Tucker! I know you've got plenty of experience with one night stands. I'm sure you didn't know any of those people for more than a week, either." Tucker bites his lip. He's got me there, he thinks.

"Yeah, but this is different. I don't think I've ever tried to fuck someone who attempted to kill me before," Tucker responds, trying to occupy himself with the toast in his hands.

"Ah, but you admit to trying to fuck him?"

"No! That is the opposite of what I was doing!" Tucker whines. "Listen, Donut, I'm just trying to make sure Washington doesn't die. The guy's fuckin' clueless. He doesn't even know how to tell when a cut has been properly disinfected."

"Tucker, please don't tell me you actually believe that," Donut deadpans.

"What?" Tucker tilts his head slightly.

"You honestly believe that someone like this Washington guy who, from how you tell it, works in a consistently dangerous environment, doesn't know how to take care of his own wounds? What do you think he does in situations like solo missions, Tucker?" He stops, and looks down at his lap, thinking about it for a long time. Again, Donut makes a valid point. Tucker sighs.

"I guess I just like to feel needed for once," he mutters.

"Oh, Tucker…," Donut breathes. "You are needed, honey. Come on, let's start walking to campus." He pulls Tucker to his feet by his arm, linking his elbow around Tucker's and walking them outside. Tucker stares at the ground, quietly thinking about Washington's texts. If he knows how to take care of himself, why does he ask me for help? Why does he let me help him? Why does he pretend he's clueless? Tucker questions himself. He lets out a slow breath, and Donut glances over.

"I think I'm going to join a ceramics class," Donut says suddenly. Tucker looks up, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Why?" Tucker questions. He understands that the blond is just trying to distract him, and he appreciates it, so he'll humour him. He listens to Donut talk about all the cool things he could make, and by the time they have to part ways, Tucker already feels better.

It's not until after both of Tucker's classes, when he's standing at the open cellar door staring down into the basement, that he realises he left his things in his apartment. He could turn back. He could go home, get the stuff and come back. But he's already here. And Washington is so close… Tucker sighs and descends the stairs into the basement. He shuts the cellar door carefully, and then heads to the first floor.

"Hey, Washington, I'm back. I forgot my shit back at the apartment, so… we'll have to figure something out," he calls out. He's met with silence. He waits a couple minutes, before calling, "hey, you even here dude?" He pokes his head into the living room. There's no sign of him. Tucker frowns.

"Washington, if this is some sort of joke, it's not very funny," he says, his voice echoing eerily. The water and granola bars are still on the table, so he knows Washington hasn't left at least. There's a brief grunt, and Tucker spins around quickly. He looks towards the direction the sound came from, following a set of stairs up to a familiar face. He can't stop the stupid grin that spreads across his lips.

"Hey, man. What are you doing up there? You're supposed to take it easy," Tucker greets.

"Yeah, well, there's no bedroom on the first floor of this place," Washington says, leaning heavily on the railing as he limps down the stairs. Tucker quickly moves to take some of Washington's weight off of the old wood, helping the blond down to ground level. He walks Washington to the couch, helping him sit.

"So, like I said, I was going to bring some more stuff, y'know, clean bandages and a new cloth for the disinfectant but I kinda got sidetracked this morning and the bag is currently on my couch at home," Tucker explains briefly. "Take off the sweatshirt, I want to check your injuries." Washington raises his eyebrows slightly at the assertive tone in Tucker's voice, but obeys.

Tucker looks over the smaller cuts and scrapes first, nodding slightly at how well they seem to be doing. He cringes slightly as he peels back the bandaging, though, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. He pauses for a moment.

"Washington, how long has it been since you showered?" Tucker glances up at the blond, whose eyes have a closed-off, guarded look to them. It takes Washington a moment to answer.

"We took the mission about, uh.. Two weeks ago? And left HQ probably… Hmm… Ten days ago? That sounds about right. Ten days," he finalizes. Tucker stares for a while.

"Dude, we're going back to my place and you're going to get a shower," Tucker decides, standing straight. Washington splutters.

"Wh- I- Tucker, I've- It's fine. I've gone longer without. It's whatever." That somehow doesn't make anything better.

"It doesn't matter if you've 'gone longer without'. You need to get those wounds, and your entire body clean. Now get the sweatshirt back on, we're going to my place. We can come back afterwards, don't worry." Washington still seems uncomfortable with the idea. "Dude, what? Why are you suddenly acting so weird?"

"What if someone sees me?" Tucker stops.

"Uh, what?"

"What if someone sees me, Tucker?" Washington repeats.

"...dude. People see other people all the time. Nobody's going to care." The blond still doesn't look convinced. Tucker sighs. "Listen, if anyone tries to start shit, I'll handle it. We can even bring my bat or whatever." At that, Washington snorts. Tucker looks at him curiously.

"Do you know how to properly use that thing as a weapon, Tucker?" Washington asks, gesturing towards the bat on the floor. Tucker shrugs.

"You just hit people with it, I thought?"

"...I mean… yeah, but if the person knows to anticipate it, don't you think they'd be able to get it out of your hands in a flash? It's better to just fist fight. Bats are unreliable." Tucker hesitates for a moment.

"Yeah, well… I don't exactly know how to actually fight, so… the unreliable bat is the most reliable thing I have right now," Tucker responds. Washington falls quiet, and Tucker can't bring himself to look the blond in the eyes.

"I can teach you?" Washington offers quietly. Tucker looks up slowly. "I have to start training again soon, anyway. I have to stay in shape. So I can teach you self defense or whatever. Show you a couple ways to get out of certain dangerous situations."

"Would that… get you in trouble? With your job?" Tucker asks with uncertainty. Washington shrugs mildly.

"I mean, if anyone found out they'd be pretty pissed off, but… There's nothing saying I can't. So…" he trails off. "What do you say?"

"I mean," Tucker mutters softly. "I mean, you still have to come with me to my place to shower. But if you want to teach me some cool self defense shit that would be pretty awesome." Tucker grins childishly. Washington shrugs again.

"It's not that cool," he says, looking away. Tucker gapes for a moment before shaking his head.

"Come on, let's get moving," he says. "Put the sweatshirt on." Washington still hesitates. Tucker sighs.

"Washington-"

"Wash," he interrupts. Tucker shuts his mouth, tilting his head a little. Washington elaborates. "You can shorten it to just 'Wash'. I know Washington is one of the longer state names, so… that's what I'm comfortable shortening it to." Tucker blinks, genuinely surprised. Does this make us friends?

"Okay," Tucker accepts. "What are you so worried about?" Wash is quiet for a while.

"What if someone out there recognizes me?" He finally asks. "I… my company has made a lot of enemies with a lot of people. And my team is known, Tucker. They… our rivals are a very wide-spread group. Anyone could be a part of them." Tucker sighs softly.

"It'll be fine, Wash. Just put the hood on the jacket up and you can keep your head down while I help you to my place. You desperately need to shower, man." He has no idea if it'll actually be okay, but it seems to be convincing enough for the blond. He sighs and slowly rises to a stand, completely refusing to put any weight on his leg.

"And you'll walk with me back to this place?" Wash asks, looking at Tucker expectantly. Tucker scoffs.

"I'm beginning to wonder which one of us is the trained assassin, Wash," he laughs.

"Alright, listen," Wash says seriously, his eyes hardening. Tucker immediately backs off. "When you're the one injured to the point of being unable to walk without help, then you can say something." Tucker rolls his eyes, but nods.

"Okay, okay," he agrees. "I'll bring you back. It's still relatively early in the day, so… it shouldn't be too late when we return. Everything will be fine. Come on, lean on me. As much as you need to, I can take it." He winks playfully, and Wash gives him a light shove. The blond pulls the hood up over his head quickly, adjusting it to frame his face nicely before moving to Tucker carefully.

They make their way down the stairs to the basement, and Tucker has to let go of Wash so that he can open the door before helping Washington up the cellar steps and closing the door behind them. Tucker moves back into position, taking on almost all of Washington's weight as he helps the blond back to the apartment.

"How did you get into the house with those wounds on Saturday?" Tucker asks casually, glancing at Washington. Wash is quiet for a moment.

"I think I entered the way you did? Or maybe I broke a window… I'm not really sure anymore, I wasn't really, uh… Paying attention, I guess," he responds quietly. Tucker nods a little, and does his best to get them back to the apartment as quickly as possible.

"Hey, Wash, this is how you enter an apartment," Tucker says as they stand outside his door. Tucker unlocks the door and pushes it open, then stops and looks at Washington. "Come on in." He leads the blond into the apartment, helping him to the couch first.

"So, now that you're, uh… Normal," Tucker says, looking around, "I would like for you to know that that hole in the wall- yes, that one- is from the pair of scissors that you threw after threatening to slit my throat with them." Much to Tucker's surprise, Washington actually looks a little guilty.

"When my injuries are better, I'll fix it for you," he offers. Tucker stares for a moment, shocked into silence. Finally, he shakes his head a little.

"Nah, it's alright. It's not that big of a deal." He takes a breath. "Okay. You need to shower. Come here, let's get you to the bathroom. I'm not going to help you get undressed, though." Washington blinks.

"I wouldn't have asked you to," he replies.

"Ouch," Tucker jokes. "Not even a consideration, huh?" Wash gives him a clueless look. Tucker waves it off.

"Listen, it's been longer than 48 hours since I stitched you up, so you should be fine. But if something happens and you need assistance, then give me a yell. I'll be either in the kitchen or in the main area. I'm going to put a new set of clothes out on the bed in my room, which is the only closed door in this place. Pretty easy to find." He looks around, trying to think of what he's forgetting. "Towels are on the shelf there, and use whatever soap you want to, just be careful about getting it directly in any of your injuries. That's pretty much it. Get clean." Tucker pats his shoulder gently, then exits the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He can hear Washington fumbling around for some time before the water starts going and the sound of the faucet drowns out any further movement. With a sigh, Tucker heads out to the main section of the apartment, glancing around for something to do.

He immediately turns around and goes back to his room, rummaging around in his drawers and closet for more clothes for Washington. He sets the new set on the bed like he said he would, placing them where they would be seen as soon as Wash walked in. He hoped that the blond wouldn't get too curious and start snooping around in his room, but… he wouldn't put any money on it. He would just have to have a little faith in the morals of the blond. Whatever those might be.

Once he had the clothes set up, he left his room and headed back to the main section, immediately moving on to the kitchen. Now that he's back in his own living space, he has the opportunity to realise just how hungry he is. He makes up something quick for himself, and pauses before making some for Wash to have after his shower, too. The water shuts off some time later, and Tucker tries really, really hard to not think about the fact that Washington is super hot and is probably currently naked in his apartment. He hears the bathroom door creak open, and uneven footsteps get quieter as Wash goes to the bedroom to get dressed. Tucker closes his eyes, willing away the thoughts of a hot, naked assassin in his bedroom right now. So close, yet so far, he thinks, whining to himself quietly. A few moments later, when Tucker reopens his eyes, he's greeted by the sight of Washington leaning heavily against the kitchen door frame, his arms crossed.

His hair is spiked up and away from his eyes, despite or maybe because of it still being wet, face flushed red but quickly cooling to a nice pale colour, much better than when he was dying from blood loss. Tucker gives a small wave, his eyes glancing over the blond's body quickly before returning to his face. After a few moments, Washington sighs, and makes his way over to the table, sitting across from Tucker.

"Here, I made you some," Tucker says softly, finally breaking the silence as he pushes the plate towards Washington. The blond stares at the food for a moment, before pulling it closer and starting to eat. After a few moments, Tucker pulls out his phone and opens up his game.

"Thanks," Washington says suddenly. Tucker looks up and raises an eyebrow. "For stitching my injuries. For giving me food, and not giving away my position. For letting me use your shower. Yeah, for pretty much everything you've done for me. You really don't have to. I mean, I broke into your house, I hardly deserve thi-"

"I'm going to stop you there," Tucker cuts in. He was willing to listen to the appreciation, but self-deprecation is where he draws the line. "You're only human, Washington. Wash. You suffer and shit the same as the rest of us. You shouldn't be… shouldn't be regarded any differently when you're hurt than anybody else is just because you're wanted for murder- ...hm, yeah, that sounded better in my head." Washington stops and stares for a moment before going back to his food.

"Anyway. The point is, you should be treated for your injuries the way anybody else would be, regardless of your actions. If you really can't let yourself think you deserve this kind of treatment, then… I don't know. Consider it bare minimum or something." Tucker shrugs. But Wash lets out a tiny puff of air and nods, staying quiet as he finishes what's on his plate. Tucker lets the blond relax for a moment, as much as a paranoid killer could relax anyway, before getting up. Washington watches him curiously, and Tucker can see how his shoulders tense. He's still, understandably, uncomfortable in Tucker's apartment and that's painfully obvious now. Tucker sighs.

"Chill, man. It's just me. We can go back to my room to look at your wounds if you want the extra privacy or security or whatever, but nobody is going to be here but us." Tucker looks towards his door. "And I don't know what usually goes through your head when you feel trapped, but I think you should know that my front door is the only easily accessible point of entry. The fire escape goes to my neighbours' apartment." Washington doesn't respond, just stands up slowly and takes a half-step towards Tucker, resting his hand on Tucker' shoulder and using him for support. Tucker blinks.

"To my room, then?" He asks, trying to ignore the implications.

"Yeah. But don't try anything stupid," Wash warns. Tucker rolls his eyes, a little offended. But he nods.

"I wasn't going to. For the record, we're going to my room because you're uncomfortable in my apartment," he responds sassily.

"Well, I mean… I don't know how many people saw me enter this place versus how many people saw me leave. So… if I get recognized, and they see me with you…" Washington trails off, looking away. The topic reminds Tucker of his conversation with Donut.

"Am I going to be put on some list? Because that would be ass, man. I'm doing my best to keep you alive, I don't want to be put on your company's 'to-kill' list." Washington kind of glares at Tucker as he sits on Tucker's bed, wincing slightly as he lifts the new sweater off of his body.

"No," Wash says. "You're not going to be put on my company's hitlist. Can't say the same about our rivals, though. If anyone saw us together, they'd see it as…" Washington's eyes harden slightly, and Tucker can practically see the gears turning in the blond's head. "Tucker, this needs to stop." That gets Tucker's attention real quick.

"What? What does?"

"This, you helping me. It needs to stop. I- you… You're putting yourself in an extremely dangerous position." Tucker pretends to not hear him, focusing really hard on checking the stitches, making sure they were dried properly and none of his wounds are in danger of infection. "I'm serious, Tucker. Not only are you putting yourself at risk, but if anyone were to see us, if they were to recognize me, then they would take that as a sign of weakness within my company. They would see you as an advantage they could have over me, over my team, and they would use you to get at us."

"Would it work?" Tucker looks up slowly. "Would you let them use me to get to you?" Washington is silent for a long time, staring at the wall as Tucker continues looking over the injuries, big and small.

"No," Wash says finally. "My team doesn't know you. You would just be another casualty."

"I didn't ask about your team, Washington." The lack of response is all Tucker needs. He sighs quietly. "Listen, man, I really don't care what happens to me. You're a person, and you needed medical attention, and I'm here, so I helped. Besides, you said you'd teach me self defense, right? So even if they do come after me, I'll be able to hold my own for a little while, right?" He watches Washington's jaw tense and relax as the blond grinds his teeth.

"You need to think about this more," Washington says finally. "This… This is serious, Tucker. A lot of shit can and will go wrong if you continue being around me and you need to understand that. You can not continue being around me."

"I understand the risks and I don't give a fuck!" Tucker responds heatedly. "I'm not going to sit around and play with my dick when there are people out there in situations where-"

His raised voice is cut off by a knock, and he looks towards the front section of the apartment. His phone buzzes in his back pocket. He pulls it out and checks the text briefly, then furrows his eyebrows.

[DG]: hey i know youre here, who r u yelling at

[DG]: is the door unlocked

[DG]: sweet im coming in

The door opens immediately, and Tucker quickly pulls Wash to his feet, pushing him towards the closet. His hands are carefully placed to avoid the gash, but he pushes with enough force to get Wash moving.

"Get in the closet," Tucker whispers harshly.

"What? Why? Who's that? Are they dangerous? Do you want me to kill them?"

"No, shut up, get in the closet," he pushes a little harder, and Washington hesitates, looking towards the bedroom door dangerously. Tucker can recognize Grif's heavy footsteps as he approaches the room. For a moment, Tucker sees a hint of the same look from Saturday night in Wash's eyes before he gives Tucker an uncertain glance and lets himself be moved to the closet. "Stay here. It's okay, he's a friend. I'll come get you when he's gone." Tucker shuts the closet door just as Grif opens the one to the bedroom, poking his head in.

"Uh, am I interrupting something?" He looks around. His eyes are curious, but only barely so. He turns back to Tucker, before pausing and looking at the sweater on Tucker's bed. Shit, oh fuck he knows fuck fuck fuck he knows, Tucker panics internally.

"Dude, were you about to get laid?" Grif raises an eyebrow slightly. Tucker debates answering yes, but then he would have to explain where the other person is.

"Uh. No," he manages. "I was, uh, getting changed. Closet, clothes. Yeah." Grif snorts. He definitely doesn't buy it, Tucker thinks, looking around briefly. "So, uh. Why are you here?"

"Oh, right," Grif says, successfully distracted. "Yeah, Donut sent me. We're all meeting at his place tonight, we're gonna see a movie and catch up and shit. He says your attendance is required."

"Is it, uh, right now? Because I'm kinda preoccupied. I have, um," he racks his brain for anything, any excuse. "I have a, uh. A meeting. With a trainer. At the gym. I'm going to start getting back into fitness and shit." Grif blinks.

"You hated fitness training in high school," he deadpans. Tucker laughs awkwardly.

"Yeah, well, it was something to do. And the ladies loved it. So… Yeah, is it now? Because I have that thing."

"Nah, it's later. I'll text you the details. You should… Go back to whatever the hell it was you were doing, I guess."

"Getting dressed. For my meeting. Yes." Grif stares for a few moments before shaking his head and stepping away from the door. "Hey, Grif?" Tucker calls. Why did I do that? Grif turns and comes back, staring at Tucker expectantly. "It, uh. It's good to see you again, man. See you later." Grif rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, you too," he says. And then he's gone. Tucker takes a couple steps away from the closet and flops onto his bed, exasperated. Washington steps out of the closet a few moments later, his arms crossed.

"Smooth, Tucker."

"Yeah, that never would've worked on Donut."

"I don't even think it worked on him."

"Yeah… he's definitely going to say something to the others." Washington's eyes narrow.

"I could take care of it?" He offers, and it's such a natural phrase to him that he even looks innocent when Tucker gives him a what-the-fuck look.

"Dude. No. Grif's like, one of my best friends."

"Well, he's not a very good one if he's going around telling other people about what goes on in your life." Tucker rolls his eyes.

"It's not that serious, Wash."

"Tucker, the more people involved in this, the more dangerous it becomes. People you care about can be targeted. You need to think about this." Tucker groans. "Seriously, Tucker, this isn't something that can be taken lightly!"

"Okay, okay! Fine! Jesus Christ, quit lecturing me like I'm some kid. I'm 25, I can make my own decisions. And I'm deciding to continue to be around you. Because I want to." Tucker avoids looking at Washington. Washington limps over and sits down next to Tucker. Seconds go by, and neither of them say anything.

"Going into college, I didn't like blood," Tucker starts, staring at the ceiling. "In high school, I didn't take any anatomy classes, I didn't like health class. Hell, even getting blood tests done after every physical was… Difficult. Not because I don't like needles, but because the sight of blood means there's something wrong and when something's wrong, it's usually because of me."

"Tucker, I don't need to hear your tragic backstory," Washington says. Tucker laughs.

"Wash, it's not tragic. It's pathetic. There's no real rhyme or reason for my… for the way I reacted to blood. And there's no real reason for why I decided to go into the medical field despite how I felt about blood."

"Then what's the point in telling me?"

"I don't know. I thought you should know a bit about me, I guess?"

"I could get you killed."

"I know."

"So why?"

"Because I don't care. I've messed up a lot, Wash. This- you- are the first time I didn't mess up."

"So you're telling me you decided that your skill was better than the skill of professionals despite having a 100% fail rate."

"...Yes. But that's for another time. Anyway. Yeah. I don't know why or how. Maybe it was the pressure of the situation. I've always kind of worked well under a time constraint, I think. I don't know. But… I did it. I saved you. And I didn't fuck it up. And it feels good, Wash."

"...being good at the thing you've been studying for 7 years?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"Do you?" Tucker finally looks at Washington. He kind of feels like he was all over the place. He watches Washington shrug slowly.

"I guess," he says. He seems to have something on his mind, and even though Tucker wants to ask, he doesn't. He doesn't have to.

"I'm not that great at what I do, either. The others in my squad are all leagues better than me. I'm only part of the team because I can pick up their slack. I'm not particularly good at anything. But if, say, York were in recovery, then I would fill in for his spot. He's basically our infiltration specialist."

"So you're like a jack of all trades? I don't know, man, that's pretty good." Washington shrugs.

"I'm a last resort."

"So then who were you in for? For your last mission?" Tucker asks. He realises a moment too late that Washington might consider that too personal.

"South," he responds after a moment. "After her last mission with her brother, it was decided that she should sit that one out. I was put in her place."

"What does she do?" Washington hesitates.

"You know, I'm not really sure. I think she's just a fighter. Close-range cover fire. North is long-range cover fire."

"So then how did you end up so badly injured?" Tucker knows he should stop asking questions. He can see how they're starting to make Washington uncomfortable.

"I… We were surrounded. So I told the others to go on without me. I'm… like I said. I'm not very good at what I do. I'm expendable. They would've found someone to replace me. The others are far more valuable alive." Tucker is silent.

"You… Never expected to make it out of there alive, did you?" he finally asks. Washington shakes his head. They both go quiet. Idly, Tucker pulls out his phone and checks the time. He sits up slowly and sighs.

"We should get you back to the other place. Do you want me to check the wound on your thigh?" Washington shrugs and pushes his pants down casually.

"Sure, whatever," Wash says quietly.

"You are weirdly calm about taking your pants off, you know?" Tucker remarks.

"It's for medical reasons, right? So why would I care?" Tucker shrugs. Washington rolls his eyes, reaching for the sweater behind him and pulling it on. "I can put on more of a show when my thigh is actually functional, don't worry. I just want to get this dumb injury dealt with."

Tucker feels heat climb up his neck, spreading across his face. He checks over the injury quickly, then backs off and clears his throat.

"Welp, you're all clear. Let's get you back to the other house." He stands up, offering his hand to Washington to pull the blond to a stand. They make their way back to the abandoned place where Wash has decided to stay, and Tucker kind of hesitates before he leaves.

"You know that if someone figured out that you're staying here, you could get in trouble, right?" Tucker asks quietly.

"I know. But I should be fine. I have that kind of stuff figured out already," Wash assures.
"Why don't you come stay with me?" Washington blinks.

"Tucker, are you even listening to yourself?" Tucker looks away, sighing.

"I don't know… I know you're not really comfortable with being in my apartment, but it would make things a lot easier. You could stay in my bedroom or something…" Tucker trails off. "It's up to you, I guess. The offer is there." Washington nods, understanding.

"I'll think about it," he says, but Tucker knows the answer already.

"I have to go back and actually get changed," he says as he checks his phone for the messages detailing the get-together tonight. "Grif says Donut expects me there no later than 5:30… eh, it's 4:00, that's not so bad." Tucker looks at Washington. They make eye contact, just staring at each other for a long time. Finally, Tucker looks away.

"If you start off with light pressure, you should be able to start functioning on that leg by Monday or Tuesday. Don't push it, though, because if you start off with too much then you'll regress instead," Tucker says. "If you're still willing to teach me self defense, then… then we can probably start off with light stuff once you're out of that limp." Washington nods.

"You should start working on healthier habits, then, in the meantime," he says. "We'll start with easier stuff of course, so you'll have time to work on your endurance, but… it's good to have a head start."

"Okay," Tucker says softly. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"See you," Wash bids.

Tucker goes back to his apartment, thinking about the conversations and half-arguments. He checks his phone again for any new messages, specifically from Donut, but finds nothing. That does not bode well for me, he thinks. He grabs a snack and heads to his bedroom, getting changed and looking at himself in the mirror for some time.

Why did I tell Washington about that? He questions himself. Was I hoping for pity? Did I think that talking to him about my past would convince him to tell me about his? He sighs. He fixes his locs, trying to make them look a little neater, a little tighter. Maybe I'll ask Grif to cut them off while he's here. He checks the time again. Bored out of his mind, Tucker supposes that showing up early wouldn't be so bad.

He leaves his apartment a few minutes later, taking his time getting to Donut's place. He shares the place with Simmons and two other guys that Tucker never really cared to get to know any better. They were both a little messed up in the head, one having some sort of personality disorder and the other… well, nobody really knows what's up with him, but there have been guesses of cerebral hypoxia or other damages, or maybe he's just on the autism spectrum. But the guy never wants to talk about it, just cleverly avoids the question with cheery remarks, so nobody is sure. But Tucker doesn't honestly care. The big idiot is just annoying most of the time, always trying to get involved. Donut's always yelling at Tucker to be nicer, but at this point Tucker is about as nice to Caboose as he'll ever be.

He stands outside the front door, shifting his weight awkwardly as he listens to the laughing coming from inside. He sighs, then knocks gently. He hears Donut call, "Grif, could you get that?" And a groan, before there's some fumbling and the door is pulled open. Grif stands there for a moment, before tilting his head up briefly.

"'Sup? How was your meeting?" He asks casually, but his voice is slightly louder so that the others can hear him and Tucker knows what he's doing and pushes past him.

"It was great," Tucker says smoothly. He looks around for Donut, since that's the only thing that will be a lie tonight. But Donut doesn't seem to hear it, wiping his hands on his cooking apron as he walks out of the kitchen. "We're all set to get started no later than next Wednesday."

It's not a lie. He could consider Washington his trainer, for a little while at least. They'll be working out together, technically. Donut seems interested, so Tucker grins at him, and then looks at Simmons to dare him to question. Simmons puts his hands up defensively.

"We're going to be working on self defense techniques and shit. It'll be chill," Tucker continues. Grif seems mildly impressed at the significantly improved lie.

"That's great, Tucker," Donut says, staring at him with eyes that know.

"Donut, relax. Nothing will go wrong. It's just a precaution." And it is. He's telling the truth. Donut glances at the other two, who seem utterly confused, before huffing.

"Fine. But if something does happen, just know that I told you so."

"Deal," Tucker agrees quickly. "Where's Church? And the two weirdos? Caboose and O'Malley?"

"Tucker! They are not weirdos! And you know he prefers to be called Doc!" Donut chides.

"Uh, yeah they are? They live around us. That makes them weirdos by default. Besides, he's not even a doctor. It's the biggest offense to ask someone training to be a doctor to call someone who is not a doctor, Doc."

Donut purses his lips, and then goes back to the kitchen with a huff. Tucker laughs as he goes. He turns on his friends, humming quietly for a moment as he thinks about what kind of chaos he can cause within the place. He's about to open his mouth when the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," he says immediately, turning and taking a few steps towards the door, pulling it open. "Church! Hey, asshole!" He grins widely. Church rolls his eyes, but it's not angry.

"Yeah, hey. What's this I hear about all the shit you've been giving Grif, huh?" He shoves past Tucker in a mildly passive aggressive manner.

"Ugh, Grif's just dramatic," Tucker groans, tired of getting the same shit from all his friends.

"Hey, fuck you!" Grif says indignantly.

"No thanks, Grif," Tucker replies easily, almost automatically. Grif glares half-heartedly. Donut comes to greet Church, and they talk for a moment before Donut goes back to whatever the hell he's doing in the kitchen. A few moments of silence pass, and a wicked smile spreads across Tucker's face.

"Let's all play 'never have I ever' while Donut does… whatever the hell he's doing. The movie isn't on until later, right? So we've got time to fuck around," Tucker suggests eagerly. Simmons seems hesitant, but Grif and Church are on board immediately.

"Are we doing one or both hands?" Church asks. Tucker pouts.

"Just one, I guess. You know me too well, Leo."

"Tucker what the hell did I tell you about calling me that," Church hisses. Tucker snorts, then bursts out laughing.

"Okay, okay, I'll go first. Never have I ever tried to date anyone who wanted to kill me." Tucker smirks triumphantly as he watches Grif and Simmons each put a finger down while pointedly avoiding looking at each other. They've tried dating a couple times, but it never really works out so they've settled for a weird mix between best friends and friends with benefits. The real shocker comes when Tucker sees Church put a finger down, too.

"Alright, spill," Tucker demands immediately. "How have I never heard this before?" Church rolls his eyes.

"'Lina's one coworker is like, hot as fuck. But she hates my guts. So yeah. It was a pretty disastrous attempt."

"Your sister?" Tucker asks. "Isn't she like, 6 years older than you? Than us? What the hell are you pining after her coworkers for?"

"I don't know, man, shut up! Never have I ever asked my friends what they were thinking when they were trying to get in someone's pants," Church sasses. Tucker pouts and puts a finger down. The thing is, Church isn't really lying either. He's always been open with Tucker about his opinions of the people Tucker's been seen with, but Church has never once questioned Tucker's judgement. Tucker appreciates him a lot for it, actually. Everyone is quiet for a moment before collectively turning on Simmons for his turn. Simmons immediately flushes bright red under the sudden attention, even though everyone knows that everybody in the room is 100% comfortable with each other. They just wait patiently for Simmons to calm down and get his breathing under control, and only then does Tucker notice Grif's comforting hand resting on the ginger's leg. Tucker's heart melts.

"Okay, um…," Simmons thinks for a moment. Tucker figures it's a little difficult for Simmons to think of anything because he's not really the type to go around actively seeking to do stupid shit. "Alright, never have I ever… lost an arm wrestling match? It's not like, serious, like you guys' but… I'm kind of blanking."

"That's cool," Tucker says. "You don't have to explain yourself, man. It's just a fun game." Simmons fidgets slightly, nodding curtly. Tucker puts a finger down, watching Church and Grif do the same.

"See? You got us all on that one. Have you really never lost though?" Simmons' eyes brighten.

"Nope! I may look like a- a weird, fucked up carrot on a stick, but I have some muscle. I took uhm… Fuck, I forget. It was some sort of fighting class, though. So… yeah. Lots of people challenge me thinking they'll win."

"That's actually pretty cool," Church remarks. Simmons beams. They continue like that for a little while longer until Donut comes out and claps his hands together, bringing all of the attention to himself.

"We'll be leaving in about 40 minutes to go see the movie. I've made dinner, so why don't you boys come and eat?" He smiles brightly, waiting eagerly.

"Oh, that's what you've been doing? I'm actually surprised Grif wasn't in there trying to take samples," Tucker responds light-heartedly.

"Oh, he was," Donut grins, but there's a hint of an almost malicious intent to it.

"Yeah, he kept smacking me with his utensils so I left," Grif chimes. Tucker laughs, and they all make their way to the kitchen, where everything is set up way too nicely for it to be considered casual to anybody but Donut and his friends and housemates. They settle down and eat, and when everyone is done and everything is cleaned up, they head out for the theater. Tucker hardly even thinks about checking his phone, only briefly remembering when he passes by a sign with a W on it. He fires off a quick text while they're waiting to check in, praying Donut doesn't notice.

[LT]: hey, man. You doin ok?

He stares at the phone for a couple seconds, then glances around quickly. Donut is talking animatedly with Simmons and Grif. He looks back down at his phone as it vibrates.

[AW]: yep. just fine.

[LT]: anything new?

[AW]: nope. just walking.

"Tucker!" Donut's voice cries. He looks up quickly, his eyes wide. "Tucker, you know the rules! No phones on friend dates!" Tucker sighs and puts his phone in his pocket.

"I don't even know why you brought that thing, dude," Church adds. He shakes his head in disappointment.

"Shut up," Tucker responds moodily. "I was just waiting to hear back about further scheduling with my trainer."

"Well, he can wait. It's movie time!" Donut cheers. Tucker pretends not to notice the way Donut practically hisses when he's talking about Washington. It's a little unnerving. Donut leads them all to the line outside their designated room, where they can hear the previous group making their way out of their seats and to the exit. A few minutes later, they head inside, and Donut is again the one leading them to their seats and instructing them on what order they sit in.

Donut sits to Tucker's left, with Church to his right, and then Grif, then Simmons. Tucker sighs heavily, mentally preparing him for the hushed lecture that he knows Donut is preparing for him.

But the adverts play, and then the movie starts, and Donut doesn't say anything about Washington. Church is engrossed in the movie, and if he leans over he can sometimes catch Grif and Simmons stealing kisses from each other. But Donut somehow seems distracted but also focused. His eyes are on the screen, but any movement Tucker makes is followed by a brief glance from the blond. When the movie finally ends, Tucker groans, leaking back and stretching his arms up. He rests his hands behind his head, and turns to Donut.

"So, what the fuck?" He asks, staring with one eyebrow raised. Donut pauses in getting up.

"What?" He asks, seeming genuinely confused.

"Why the hell did you keep looking at me every time I moved the tiniest bit? Yeah, I fucking noticed, don't try to deny it." Tucker can feel the eyes of his other friends on him, and wonders if they're all on the same page as Donut. He continues, regardless. "You're being weird."

Donut's eyes widen, and then narrow. "I'm being weird? Tucker, you keep blowing us off as if we're nothing more than something to entertain yourself for a while! We're supposed to be your friends. How am I the one who's acting weird?"

Tucker sits up quickly at the accusation. "What? I'm not doing anything like that! I'm here, aren't I? Just because I wasn't home that one time that Grif came over doesn't mean anything has changed! Fuck's sake. I'm going home." He gets up and leaves, ignoring Church and Grif calling after him. If that was how they were going to be, then fuck it. He walks all the way back to his apartment, pushing into the flat and getting a bottle of water. When the bottle is empty, he settles onto his couch and rubs his hands over his face. He sighs and pulls out his phone, checking his chat with Wash. Nothing.

[LT]: any updates?

[AW]: not really. still limping

[LT]: well no shit.

[LT]: but is it better?

[AW]: not really. its only been one day.

[LT]: oh. I guess thats fair.

[AW]: why are you still awake

Tucker checks the time.

[LT]: its not that late.

[AW]: but you have class tomorrow, right

[LT]: yeah but theyre afternoon classes. Ill be around in the morning tomorrow.

[AW]: oh okay

[LT]: on that note, i do have school work from today that i should do.

[LT]: ill text later if i dont fall asleep first.

[LT]: but dont wait for me.

He doesn't wait for a response before putting the phone away, getting up and heading to his room. It's hard not to think about Washington being here as he looks around for his things, gathering up what he needs to start his work. The blond definitely seemed more comfortable in his bedroom and bathroom than in any of the other two areas. Maybe he just needed to be certain of all the exit and entry points of a room before he could be comfortable. That's so fucked up, Tucker thinks, sighing. He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on his work.

It only takes about 45 minutes, which is a blessing considering it's two classes' worth of work. Wednesdays have always been his easy day. As he cleans up, his phone vibrates on the table by his bed. He finishes putting everything away before flopping down and checking the messages. He groans as he sees who it's from. And it's in the group chat. What an asshole.

[LC]: yo wtf was that tucker

[LT]: go away

[LC]: you stormed out of the theater like an angry chick

[LC]: no im not going to go away

[LC]: wtf happened

[LT]: ask donut. Im sure hell tell you

[FDD]: absolutely i will!

[LC]: donut ive already heard your side shut up.

[DG]: yeah church isnt the only one who wants to know, anyway.

[RS]: idk if we should be bothering him about this rn guys

[LC]: nobody cares simmons

[LT]: UGHH

[LT]: fine! Do you guys really think im being weird?

[RS]: weird how?

[LT]: donut seems to think im brushing you guys aside just cos i wasnt home that one time that grif came over

[DG]: thats dumb.

[LC]: actually that is pretty weird

[LC]: tucker never leaves his fucking apartment

[LT]: wow

[LT]: thanks for that, church

[LC]: yeah any time

[LC]: asshole

[LT]: so there i told you

[LT]: leave me alone

[DG]: you are being weird tho

[LT]: uggghhh not you too

[DG]: listen man im not just going to pretend that you werent totally freaking out when i entered your apartment today

[DG]: youre usually fine

[DG]: wth is going on

[LT]: its none of your business

He switches over to Donut's chat quickly, furious.

[LT]: donut! How could you!

[FDD]: what? I didn't do anything!

[LT]: you put these guys on my case man!

[FDD]: maybe if you werent so focused on a fucking murderer this wouldnt be happening

[LT]: DUDE!

[LT]: i told you its fine dammit!

[LT]: fucking trust me! We've been friends for 7 years!

[LT]: god damn.

[LT]: i cant fucking believe you

His phone is vibrating like crazy in his hands from the group chat, so he switches back over.

[LC]: bruh what

[DG]: how is it not our business

[DG]: dude you tell us everything wtf

[LC]: what the hell are you doing man

[LC]: whered you go

[LC]: what happened to like

[LC]: literally hundreds of promises to not hide shit

[LT]: oh dont give me that shit church

[LT]: youre the one who didnt mention your sister's coworker

[LC]: it just never came up! I told you when it came up!

[DG]: and that still doesnt have anything to do with why youre not telling me

[LT]: guys

[LT]: seriously

[LT]: theres nothing going on.

[LT]: ive just been trying to set up a goddamn schedule with my trainer.

[DG]: whats your trainer's name?

Tucker stares for a long time. Does he say? Will any of them recognize it? They shouldn't, right? Why would they? He wracks his mind for a name.

[LT]: idk. He told me to just call him fletch

[DG]: thats such a dumb name.

[LT]: ikr. Said its bc he was really good at archery as a kid so his childhood friends took to calling him that

[FDD]: okay. We can all stop now. I'm trying to sleep.

[RS]: we both are.

[LT]: sorry. Goodnight guys.

He quickly exits the chat, and sees a message from Donut. He hesitates, then checks it.

[FDD]: youre right.

[FDD]: im sorry.

[FDD]: i trust your judgement

[FDD]: just be careful, tucker.

[FDD]: i want you to have fun, of course

[FDD]: but you should be safe about it, too.

Tucker rolls his eyes and closes the messages. With a sigh, he jumps back over to Washington's chat.

[LT]: so i told my friends that i have a personal trainer now

[LT]: and that hes teaching me self defense

[LT]: but dont worry, i didnt give them your name or anything

[LT]: so hopefully thatll keep them off my ass for awhile

[LT]: gives us a bit of time to figure out what to do to get you back to your company.

He doesn't get a response, so he turns off his phone and puts it on his table. He sighs and gets changed for bed, and lies down. Everything crashes over him like a wave and, unwilling to deal with it, he passes out.

Chapter Text

He finds himself awake before the sun has even finished cresting over the horizon; which is unbelievably frustrating because he doesn't even have alarms set for Thursday mornings because there's no point in being awake in the morning if all his classes are in the afternoon. But today specifically, his internal clock decided, "Fuck you, Tucker, wake up time!"

He hates it.

He tries to go back to sleep, but gives up about half an hour later. With a huff, he throws his blankets off of himself and gets up. He might as well get ready for the day, since he can't sleep anyway. It doesn't take him long to set out a change of clothes for after his shower, and since he's so completely done with all the things that have been fucking him over, he barely bothers to take care of his locs. He would stop by Grif's place later, he'd decided.

When he's cleaned and dressed, he picks up around the apartment a little bit before making his way to the kitchen to make some breakfast. While it's cooking, he grabs his phone and texts Grif. It's highly unlikely that he'll be awake, but Tucker doesn't want to risk forgetting again.

[LT]: hey man, can I drop by later to have you cut off my locs?

[LT]: i know i can just comb them out or whatever

[LT]: but i dont feel like sitting through all that

[LT]: so i just want to go down to a buzz

He stares at the messages for a while, thinking about the weight of the decision he just made. He hasn't had the locs for that long, so he's not ridiculously attached, but… he supposes he'll miss looking so cool with them. But then his mind travels, and he realises that getting them removed is ultimately the best choice, since lengthy hair doesn't seem like a very good idea for training. Besides, it's just hair. If he ever misses having long hair, it'll grow back eventually.

He sighs, going back to his breakfast and settling down to eat. Once he finishes, he cleans up after himself and then debates going to see Washington. He wonders if the blond is even awake. It's still really early in the morning, and Tucker doesn't know if Wash sleeps during the night or in the morning. Since he has nothing else to do, he texts Wash.

[LT]: you up?

[LT]: im bored

[LT]: woke up hella early for no reason

He sets the device aside and tries to come up with something to entertain himself while he waits for Washington to respond. He sighs and goes to his room for his laptop, wondering if he can find a game to play or something. As a med student, he doesn't often find enough to play games between school work and friends. And now, throwing Wash into the mix, he didn't think he would have any time at all. Well, the world sure showed him.

He settles back onto the couch, laptop in hand, and checks his phone in case he missed something while he was away. There's nothing, so he turns away. As he's about to open the laptop, his phone buzzes. He doesn't even have the energy to be surprised at the timing, considering himself always too early or always too late. He just picks up his phone and checks the response.

[AW]: what does that have to do with me Tucker deadpans.

[LT]: can i come over?

[AW]: are you prepared to work

[LT]: we're not supposed to start until wednesday

[AW]: there are still things to learn without being physical

[LT]: ugh fine

He gets up and collects the things he usually takes to Wash, wondering if he's doing okay on food. He makes him a sandwich just in case, packing it away. As he's locking up his apartment, he sends another text.

[LT]: I'll be there in a bit

He pauses as he remembers his texts from last night, telling Wash about having to tell his friends that Wash was a personal trainer. He wonders if that's why Washington is pushing to start today. With a sigh, he ultimately realises that anything bad that happens to him is entirely his own fault. His own decisions have led up to this moment. He continues on anyway, figuring he might as well finish what he started.

A little while later, he stands at the cellar door, staring at it blankly. It's open. Did Washington open it? Was someone else here? Did he contact someone from his team? Did Wash's rivals find him? Or did someone call the police? His first instinct is to rush into the building to make sure Wash is okay. But he knows that would be stupid because he doesn't know what he would do if Wash isn't okay. Besides, it doesn't sound like anything is wrong. He decides to message Wash instead, before going inside.

[LT]: Im outside. Was someone else here? The cellar door is open

He steps out of view of the street, standing to the side until he gets a response from Wash.

[AW]: oh

[AW]: its fine come in

[AW]: its just me

[AW]: my boss was here earlier to check on me

Tucker sighs softly in relief, making his way into the basement and towards the stairs to the main floor after closing the cellar door. The possibility of it being a trap only crosses his mind after he's already completely closed into the house. He pushes on regardless, making his way to the living room with a big grin.

"Dude, I knew you guys were fucking," he says by way of greeting, plopping his bag onto the sofa. There's a few moments of silence, and it lasts so long that Tucker actually starts to get worried again. But then there's a heavy sigh as Wash makes his way down the stairs.

He's still limping, obviously, but Tucker can see how the blond puts a careful amount of weight on the leg now instead of just staying off of it like he had been the previous day. Tucker smiles at him.

"Tucker. I told you before, there's nothing going on," he says. Tucker snorts in disbelief.

"Dude it's barely 8 in the morning. There's no reason anybody would see anybody this early unless it was to fuck," Tucker declares, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah? What's that say about you being here, then?" Wash retorts. Tucker goes quiet for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the blond.

"I mean, if you're offering?" Tucker waggles his eyebrows suggestively, refusing to let Wash get to him. He grins triumphantly as the blond's face turns bright red.

"Okay, let's move on from that," Washington says instead, making his way around the couch.

"I didn't hear a no?" Tucker laughs. Wash gets serious for a moment, his eyes narrowing at Tucker.

"No," he says firmly. Tucker stops immediately, and nods. Something in Wash's tone makes Tucker realise that something he's said or done is wrong, and an angry assassin doesn't sound very fun.

"Right. Okay," Tucker says with a huff. "Do you want me to check your wounds, then? Before we get into anything?" Washington doesn't answer for a moment, staring at Tucker. His eyes have softened from being narrowed and he seems a little lost in thought. Tucker blinks a couple times.

"Did I say something weird?" He asks, waving his hand in front of Wash's face curiously. He nearly screams when Wash's hand comes up and snatches his wrist, shoving it away from himself with a dangerous look in his eyes. "Woah, woah, woah, woah, woah! What the hell, dude!"

Washington immediately releases Tucker's backing up a step as he shakes his head quickly and blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, Tucker. I didn't mean to do that. It's muscle memory, to keep things away from my face," Wash explains, frowning slightly.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that one's on me, then. I wasn't really thinking. Why the hell were you staring at me like that, though?"

"Like what?"

"Like- I don't know. Like I said something weirdly profound."

Washington tilts his head slightly, then seems to understand. "Oh, I just didn't expect you to let off so easily."

"Bow chicka bow wow," Tucker says before he can stop himself. He grins sheepishly at the glare it gets him. "But seriously, uh. Yeah. Of course I did. Consent is important. I like to fuck, but I'm not an asshole. Well. I am, but not that kind of asshole."

Wash nods a little, then takes another step back and pulls the sweatshirt off of his body, signaling quietly for Tucker to do his thing after settling onto a chair. Tucker hums softly as he undoes the bandaging, which he can tell Wash applied himself, meaning he either checked it himself or his boss looked over it. He frowns slightly as he remembers that detail.

"If your boss came to see you, why didn't she take you with her?" Tucker asks quietly as he sets aside the old wraps and starts looking over the stitches. He checks for signs of infection in any of the wounds, and makes sure none of Wash's recent movements have popped any stitches while waiting for the response.

"She says I'm too injured to make it to an LZ and that I seem to be in good hands anyway-"

"Wait, you told her about me?" Tucker interrupts. Wash glares at him.

"Yes. I did. She said you seem to be doing your job well enough, so she left me here until I can make it to an LZ and get picked up."

"What's an LZ?" Tucker asks, tilting his head.

"Landing Zone. We tend to travel in helicopters when our work takes us out of our state of operation."

"Your state of… like, the American States? Are your codenames given to you based off of what state you operate in?" Tucker asks. He's starting to get the notion that his questions are becoming too personal, so he tells himself that that's the last one for now.

"Yes. But sometimes we come together in teams for certain jobs." Tucker nods a little. He wants to ask more, but being within hitting range while questioning Wash is not ideal.

"So if your job is like, super dangerous," Tucker starts, glancing at Wash as he finishes looking over his upper body. Wash pushes his pants past his thighs silently, waiting for Tucker to continue, "then how come you need my help with your injuries? Don't you guys get trained in like, basic first aid?"

"We do. But it's only the basics. And I don't need your help, I just know not to look a gift horse in the mouth." Tucker smiles despite himself. He tends to Wash's stab wound carefully, humming lightly.

"Are you doing okay with putting weight on this?" Tucker looks up at Wash, ignoring the situation like he always does. Wash shrugs.

"I mean, it's a pain in the ass, but I can remember suffering worse. I mean, I was… well, base has an infirmary so obviously trained medical professionals were helping me, but- well. I guess what I'm saying is that it could be worse. This thigh injury sucks, but it's definitely not as bad as it could be." Tucker grins proudly, pushing away from Wash and letting the blond dress again before taking a breath.

"Okay, so… you said we have some things to go over that don't involve being physical. Should we start there, then?" Wash nods a little bit and stands up, brushing a hand through his hair briefly and wincing at the motion.

"Alright. So since I obviously can't do any demonstrations, a lot of what we talk about and apply here today will be the psychological part of self defense. You said you've never fought before?" Wash crosses his arms, shifting his weight to his good leg subtly with a breath. Tucker nods, glancing worriedly at Wash's thigh before turning his full attention back to the blond.

"I mean, I've been in fights. But I got my ass kicked," Tucker admits.

"Do you know why you were beaten so bad?"

"Uh… Because I didn't know how to fight back?"

"That's an excuse, Tucker. You don't have to know how to fight to avoid getting beaten. Instinct will tell you to get the hell out of there if you can't fight back. Why didn't you fight back?"

Tucker bites his lip softly, looking away. He crosses his arms and shifts slightly, staring at a spot on the floor. "I… I guess I felt like I deserved it. I mean, I was kind of an asshole in high school. I was a huge asshole in high school, actually."

"Tucker, uncross your arms."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it."

He does, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He flexes his fingers slightly, eyes searching the room. There's a tight feeling in his chest as Tucker feels Wash's piercing gaze examining him critically.

"Do you feel vulnerable?"

"What?"

"With your arms at your sides. What do you feel?"

"Judged," Tucker responds immediately. He shifts again, arms itching to cross over his chest again, to hide his heart.

"Why?" Wash questions quietly. "I'm not judging you. I'm reading you. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable again." Tucker immediately crosses his arms, pulling his feet closer. He tries to meet Wash's eyes.

"Tucker, do you know why I made you do that?" Tucker shakes his head. "Because the way you're standing right now makes you seem small. You're trying to take up less space. You seem intimidated, and frightened."

"I'm not," Tucker says.

"But you are. I can see it in the way you hold yourself, and that's okay. But you need to learn to control that. You said you didn't fight back because you deserved the beating? Tucker, nobody deserves to get hurt. Well, no innocent person."

"But I did awful things."

"But you haven't killed anybody or stolen or committed any other crimes, have you?"

"No. But I still-"

"Then you are innocent. Maybe not good, but innocent. You don't deserve to be hurt. But your subconscious won't allow yourself to protect yourself until you believe that you don't deserve pain. So there's your first bit of self defense homework. Go back to your apartment, stand in front of the mirror, and practice telling yourself that you matter. Practice standing up for yourself, to yourself. Practice until you believe your own words. Because until you can speak up for yourself, you won't be able to act." Tucker stares at Washington for a long time. The blond shifts his weight again, applying a bit of pressure to his bad side.

"That sounds dumb," Tucker says finally. "What does my opinion of myself have to do with self defense?"

"Everything. You've already proven to yourself that you won't fight back if you think you deserve what's coming for you. So you have to teach yourself to feel worth fighting for. Because you are worth fighting for." Tucker doesn't know how to respond, staring at Wash with wide eyes. He can feel a lump forming in his throat, his eyes starting to burn. The look he gets from Wash tells him that the blond has noticed, so Tucker grits his teeth and takes a breath. He nods.

"Okay, I'll try," he agrees, trying to keep his voice steady. Wash hums.

"Alright. The next thing is comfort. There was a second reason I made you put your arms down. What was it that you wanted to do more than anything once your arms were at your sides?" Tucker thinks about it for a moment.

"Uh… I wanted to do something else with my hands. Put them in my pockets, grab my phone, clench them into fists…" He trails off at the look he's getting from Wash. "What? Is that wrong?"

"No, actually. That's exactly right. I made you uncomfortable. Your body still hasn't accepted me as a safe person. That's part of why you're more comfortable crossing your arms; you're protecting your heart and solar plexus. But because you are uncomfortable around me- which is completely normal, don't worry- your body wanted to find or do something that would make you more comfortable." Tucker thinks about his decision to grab the bat before checking the noise in the kitchen the night he found Wash. Would that be the same? He turns his attention back to the blond. "Which is good. Excellent, even. The problem comes when you ignore that feeling, like you were earlier. Yes, I noticed. It's fine. When you're uncomfortable, Tucker, I want you to get up and do something that makes you feel safer. I want you to say something. I want you to feel like you have more control over the situation. Once you feel more powerful, actually defending yourself from an undesirable situation will become easier." Tucker nods along, hanging on to Wash's every word. He's long since decided that denying anything the blond says is useless, since he ends up being right anyway.

"So what I want you to start doing," Wash continues, "is start putting yourself in situations that you can control. If your friends are arguing, step up and stop it, don't just stand by and laugh. If there's a song playing that you don't like but everyone else seems indifferent to it, change it. Tell them why. Being able to make yourself comfortable in an uncomfortable situation is crucial to being able to defend yourself. So that's what you need to work on. Self confidence and comfort. Does that sound easy enough?"

Tucker stares at Wash for a while, and then sighs softly. "Honestly? It sounds difficult as shit. I don't like the idea of making my friends uncomfortable just so that I can fight people. But I guess I really don't have a lot of choice. So… yeah, whatever. I'll try to do that shit."

Washington nods, and shifts again. He hums lightly, looking around as if searching for answers to some unknown question. Finally, he looks at Tucker again. "Have you been running? Or doing any sort of exercise like I told you to?"

Tucker bites his lip softly. "Do you want me to be honest?"

Washington sighs. "You just told me everything I need to know. Okay, Tucker. Have you ever sprinted?"

Tucker's eyebrows furrow, and he looks at Wash with confusion. "Of course I have. Everybody has sprinted before."

"Well, you're going to start sprinting. Ah-ah! No, you don't have to sprint until your legs turn to jelly. It only has to be 6 to 8 feet. I just want you to learn what it's like and be comfortable with putting 100% effort into something in a split second." Wash looks around again, and then makes his way over to where Tucker's bat is still lying on the ground. He leans over carefully to pick it up, breathing out a deep sigh as he comes back to a stand, and goes to the front side of the living room. He drops the bat on the floor again, lining it up carefully, and then limps a couple of paces away.

"Go stand at the bat," Wash says, pointing. Tucker blinks, then makes his way over, stepping around the tool and looking at Wash.

"Okay, now. On my mark, I want you to sprint towards me. Don't worry about bumping into me, you'll be fine. But you have to do a full sprint. No half-ass bullshit. Got it?" Tucker hesitates, then nods.

From there, it gets easier to snap into action as soon as he hears Wash bark the order to start. The first time, Wash gave him a small lecture on how to do a full sprint- "Put your whole body into it, arms moving, core engaged. And don't forget to breathe..."- and then he was told to do it again. Each repeat was better than the last, and by the time Wash allowed Tucker to rest, he was really regretting not bringing a water bottle.

"Good, Tucker. That was good. But I want you to work on that on your own, too. Tomorrow we can go into more general defense things. I doubt I'll be any better off for demonstrations by tomorrow, so that's still out of the question. But I'm working on that. Maybe I'll show you pressure points, or how to throw a punch. We'll see."

Tucker takes a look at the time and blinks. How had that taken 3 hours? It felt like barely any time had passed at all. He feels eyes on the back of his head and looks up, confused.

"Do you have to go to class?" Wash asks. "We can call it now, if you'd like."

"Ah, I don't have to leave right now, but I think being done for today is a good idea. I didn't bring any water. No, I don't want any of yours. I'll just stop at home before going to campus or something. You're limited to what I can bring you, so… I don't want to take from that."

Wash shrugs and takes another sip from his bottle before closing it and setting it aside. He hums softly for a moment before making his way over to a chair. Tucker watches him settle down with a wince and pull out his phone.

"Who are you texting?" He asks.

Wash looks up. "A friend. Teammate. Whatever you want to call him."

Tucker tilts his head a little. "Does he know about me? Like your boss?"

Wash shrugs. "He will in a few minutes."

Tucker nods, then pauses. "Are they going to tell anyone? Your boss and this other guy?"

"Well, I'm almost certain C- my boss has already said something to York. They're kinda close like that. But he should hear it from me, anyway. And they'll keep it between them."

Tucker pretends to not notice the stutter. "That's cool. Neither of them will want to kill me, right?"

"Not unless you fuck up somehow, I suppose."

Tucker goes quiet. "I wouldn't say that that's a comforting thought, given my tendency to fuck up at any given moment, but… cool. I guess. At least I get to live another day."

Wash snorts. "Yeah. Guess we both do." He turns his attention back to his phone.

Tucker checks the time, and gets up after another minute passes. He catches the look he gets from Wash while stretching. "I have to head out. I'll bring a clean cloth and some more wraps tomorrow. Do you need anything else?"

Wash shakes his head a little.

"Alright then," Tucker says, grabbing his bag. "See you tomorrow."

"See you. Don't forget your assignments today," Wash responds.

Tucker rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'll remember."

The rest of his day goes by pretty slowly, between walking to campus and talking to Donut briefly before the blond left campus, and getting through the few hours of class.

It's a pretty relaxed day, though Tucker can definitely feel the effects from his exercise from earlier as the day drags on. He's barely willing to change course and go to Grif's place instead of straight back to the apartment. But he drags his ass over despite being tired, because he wasn't about to bail on his friend.

He stands outside the door, hesitating. Church would be there too, no doubt. He lived here, after all. Grif was just staying here while he was in town. It would be the three of them again, like in high school. There was a sense of nervousness, somehow. He shakes his head, getting over himself and knocking on Church's apartment door.

A few minutes later, he heard Church call, "it's open!" and huffed as he pushed into the flat.

"Hey, assholes," he greets with a grin. "Still too lazy to open the door, eh? What if I was… A murderer or something?" He tries to ignore the way they looked at him weirdly for trailing off like that.

"Yeah, okay," Church sasses. "I'm sure a murderer would have knocked first, Tucker."

Tucker shrugs. "You never know."

Grif rolls his eyes. "Whatever, let's get this over with," he says, motioning for Tucker to sit in front of him. "You're gonna sit down in front of me because I'm not getting up." Tucker nods and obliges, crossing his legs and waiting patiently for Grif to get his shit together. There's a brief moment where everything is still. Tucker blinks. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Grif shrugs and moves Tucker's head the way he wants, muttering, "you should totally pay me for this," before going to town. The whole process of cutting them off only takes about half an hour, and buzzing his hair the rest of the way down goes much quicker.

When everything was done, not even Church had anything to say on the new look. Grif hands Tucker a mirror, and then leaves to go get a broom and dustpan so that Tucker can clean up, and Tucker spends the time in between just kind of grinning at himself and running his hand over his head. He glances at Church, who is staring at Tucker with an eyebrow raised.

"What do you think, Church?" He asks finally.

Church snorts. "I think it's been a long time since you had your hair that short. It's a weird thing to see. You look like a teen again."

Tucker disagrees strongly. "Naawww, I think I look cool as hell."

Church shakes his head slowly. "You're crazy."

Tucker looks at himself again, and brushes his hand across the shortened hair once more, still getting used to it. "Aw man, he's gonna hate this," he mutters with a laugh.

"What the fuck."

Tucker looks up with a grin, dropping his bag onto the floor. "What?"

"What'd you do?" Wash asks, confusion mixed with mild concern. Tucker tilts his head, and Wash gestures mildly to Tucker's head.

"What?" Tucker repeats. "I got it done yesterday. Don't you like it? I like it. I think I look badass."

Wash deadpans. "Tucker, you look like a child."

"You know, that's what Church said too."

Washington immediately stops, his shoulders tensing as he looks at Tucker with wide eyes. Tucker pauses, tilting his head slightly.

"What now?" He asks, starting to get used to Wash's random moments of paranoia. But now Washington's eyes have narrowed dangerously, and it's a look that Tucker never expected to see again, at least not directly aimed at him.

"How do you know that name?" Washington demands lowly. Tucker blinks, confused.

"What, Church?"

"Yes," Wash hisses. Tucker's eyebrows furrow slightly.

"He's my best friend. I've known him and Grif since like, elementary school." Tucker figures honesty is the best route to take, and it seems to work as Washington's shoulders relax slightly. He looks away from Tucker and paces slowly, only appearing to be partially aware of his injured leg. Tucker watches curiously.

"He doesn't have a son," Wash mutters softly, wringing his hands together while staring intensely at the ground. "He doesn't have a son, if he did we would know. We would know. He would be part of the… there's her… but she never said anything..."

"Wash," Tucker interrupts. "What the hell are you going on about?" Wash stops and shakes his head quickly, then looks up at Tucker, seeming normal again.

"Nothing. I'm sorry. I… The name is familiar, that's all," he says finally. Tucker raises an eyebrow slightly.

"I mean… it does seem like it would be a pretty common name," Tucker offers. "Whatever you're worried about, Wash, I'm sure it's nothing." Washington sighs quietly, and nods.

"Okay," he agrees. "You're probably right. I'm sorry."

Tucker nods, and waves the apology off. "Just get over here so I can look over your injuries."

Wash nods and approaches, pulling his sweatshirt off while he walks. Tucker pretends to not notice the way Wash's muscles flex and pull at the motion, though it's pretty difficult. He focuses more on checking the wounds, though, and nods approvingly at what he finds.

"So it seems like the bullet wound is healing pretty nicely. The gash is significantly better than it was when I found you last week, but it'll still be a while before it's completely okay. The bullet wound will probably be another week or so." Tucker lists off idly, mostly talking to himself. Tucker gestures quickly, and Wash takes a moment to register the motion before moving to push his pants down. He's not as pleased by the sight he's met with, but there's some progress with the stab wound.

"This will definitely be a while before it's healed. But if you keep working with it, you should at least be able to function with it by next week sometime." Tucker looks up at Wash from where he's kneeled in front of the blond, waiting for a sign of acknowledgement. Wash seems to be avoiding Tucker's eyes, and it takes him a moment to realise why. He stands quickly, taking a couple steps back.

"Alright," Wash says finally, after he's fully dressed again and Tucker has put a sufficient amount of distance between them. Tucker coughs awkwardly, looking around for a moment as a distraction. After they've settled, Wash takes a breath and collects his thoughts. Tucker can visibly see Wash preparing his lecture.

"Alright. Today I'm going to teach you how to throw a punch. And the first thing you need to know is that, well… There's really no "proper" way to punch someone."

Tucker blinks. “Well then what the hell am I learning this for?”

“Because,” Wash sighs, “there are multiple ways to hit someone, and it depends on the angle of the strike and where you’re hitting them. For example, if you’re punching someone in the face- Tucker, stop grinning like that you look like an idiot- you’re not going to hit the side of his head with a flat fist. You’re going to turn your wrist, so that you have a greater impact.” Wash demonstrates, standing to the side so that Tucker can see the way his hand moves.

Tucker nods, and Wash takes it for understanding. He looks around, then makes his way over to a piece of wood lying on the floor. It’s slightly wider than it is long, but apparently that’s not a problem for Wash because he brings it back over and holds it up to Tucker.

“Throw a punch- Now wait!” he lowers the wood quickly, seeing Tucker immediately start moving. “Listen to my full instructions, Tucker. I don’t want you to hurt yourself, especially since we’re doing this with bare hands and a piece of wood.”

Tucker laughs. “Bow chicka bow wow,” he cheers. Wash rolls his eyes. He lifts the wood again, setting his stance to apply as little weight as possible while still centering himself.

“I want you to throw a punch, but don’t actually hit the wood, okay? Have a bit of self control. I don’t know how strong this piece is, and I don’t know how strong you are-”

“Not very,” Tucker interrupts mildly.

Wash goes on, ignoring him, “-and I don’t want anything to get broken. We’re very limited here. Throw a punch, aim for whatever part you want, as long as it’s at the wood and not at me.”

Tucker nods, then pauses. “Isn’t there like, something I’m supposed to be doing with my feet to put more power behind it or whatever?”

Wash blinks, seeming a little surprised that Tucker asked. “Well, yes. But not right now. I don’t have the functionality to be able to demonstrate stances right now. So we’re focusing on upper body demonstrations for now, and only the bare minimum.”

Tucker attempts to set a stance anyway, pretending not to notice the contemptuous look he gets from Wash. He only notices more contempt after he strikes, and he can only assume it’s because he fucked up somehow. He stands up straight, taking a small step back. “What? Was that not right?”

“No. It wasn’t,” Wash responds bluntly. “But it’s okay, because you’re only just learning. So you went for just, the whole face. Like, if this piece of wood had eyes, a mouth, and a nose, you would’ve been going for the nose?”

Tucker nods a little, shifting slightly. There’s something unsettling about discussing this kind of thing with someone who knows how to kill someone with their bare hands. He tries to shake it off.

“Okay. For that kind of thing, you just wanna keep your knuckles either parallel or perpendicular to the floor,” he shows Tucker what he means, ensuring comprehension with small glances to Tucker’s reactions and expressions. “However, for something like, maybe, going for the eyes or the temple, you would tilt your fist to match the curve of their face.”

Tucker nods along, and they do a couple more demonstrations, followed by practice strikes. It takes a while for Tucker to actually feel confident enough to throw a punch without being worried about actually making contact. By the time Wash calls it, his arms are starting to feel sore and he’s starting to feel the change in weather as the sun sets outside. We’ve been going all afternoon. Bow chicka bow wow. Man, that’s not as fun when no one else hears it… While Tucker’s mind is wandering, Wash is getting a drink and takes a moment to look over the bandages.

“Alright Tucker,” he says once he’s gone over and made sure no blood had seeped through any of the wraps. “Since you know the-”

Tucker looks up, tilting his head at Wash curiously. The blond is staring at the window, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Actually, we’re going to call it for today. I’ll show you the pressure points tomorrow. We’ll start with reviewing your sprinting exercises, then go into punches and then I’ll show you pressure points. You’ve probably got work from this morning, right?” Wash turns to Tucker finally.

It takes a moment for Tucker to shake himself out of his shock, but he nods. “Yeah. I have some stuff to do. But you don’t have to call it early. It’s cool.”

“You need to start sleeping normally. If you’re exhausted, you won’t be able to do shit. Trust me, I would know,” Wash replies. He’s reaching for his phone when he glances at Tucker again. “You can go. We’ll pick up tomorrow.”

Tucker pauses, wondering what happened. He decides not to question it, though, since pushing for information from Washington has never really ended well. He just grabs his stuff and gives Wash a brief nod. “Take care of yourself, man. Keep those injuries clean, drink water, eat… And you gotta sleep, too.”

Wash barely acknowledges him. Tucker decides it’s enough, and leaves before the blond can say anything else.

Chapter Text

Bright and early on Saturday morning, Tucker stands outside the house with a tired stare. He makes his way into the building, sore all over and weirdly exhausted despite having a decent rest. As he meets with Wash in the main room, he barely has the energy to look even a tiny bit willing to be there.

He notices that Wash looks almost the same, but somehow worse. His eyes are dull and tired, and he hasn't yet bothered to fix his mess of blond hair. Tucker chuckles briefly as the way it sticks up in various directions.

Tucker hands Wash a poptart, and they eat together, allowing themselves to wake up a little more fully before they even begin to think about starting the day. When he finishes his poptart, Tucker rubs his eyes vigorously and blinks a couple times to try and clear the sleep.

"Alright," he says finally, barely stifling a yawn. "It's been a week now. I can probably take the stitches out of that bullet wound of yours. Sweatshirt, off." He doesn't even try to hide the way he looks at Wash as the blond removes the sweatshirt. Just watches and waits, and then approaches and checks over the injuries before nodding a little.

"Yeah. I can take these out for you and let this finish healing, but you're going to have to be extra careful with this arm and shoulder." He moves his focus to the stitches across Wash's chest. "These can probably get taken out on Monday or so, and then you can have Tuesday to rest before we start getting into whatever you have planned for Wednesday."

He looks at Wash, waiting for the blond to acknowledge his words. He pauses in munching his poptart to nod curtly. Tucker turns his attention back to Wash’s wounds, cleaning them up. He doesn’t bother to say anything about the progress of the stab wound, since he’s sure Wash has a general idea of how that’s going already. He gets to work on removing the stitches, trying to be as efficient as possible.

“How are you doing with walking?” He asks, just as a way to try and distract Wash for a bit. He watches the blond tilt his head slightly.

“I think it’s going pretty steadily. I should be good to go through with the plans by Wednesday,” he responds finally, finishing off the poptart quickly.

“That’s good. What did you say we were going to do today?” He cleans Wash’s wound again as he finishes up with removing the stitches, bandaging his shoulder carefully. Wash rolls his shoulder slowly, wincing a bit.

“I’m going to run you through the basics again, and then later I’ll show you the 5 main pressure points,” he explains. Tucker nods. “The thing I want you to understand, Tucker, is that I’m not teaching you this stuff so that you can go out and beat up every awful person you meet. This is self defense. While you will be learning some offense, the goal of these lessons is to teach you how to put yourself in a position where you can escape as quickly as is available with as few injuries as possible. If someone ever attacks you, I want you to be able to react, and get out of there. Got it?”

Tucker shifts awkwardly, shuffling his feet and avoiding Wash’s eyes. How could Wash expect him to just run away when he’d have the ability to do such cool shit?

“Tucker. Do you understand? Do not stay and fight. You do not have the skills that are required for this kind of job. You might think you do, but I promise you, you do not. If you are acted upon, I need you to promise me that you’ll just get out of the situation as quickly as possible.” He waits for Tucker to show any sign of acknowledgement, but Tucker refuses. So Wash treks on, “and if the option is available to you, Tucker? Please, please, don’t jump right into a fight. Come here.”

There’s a pause, and then Tucker realises, “oh wait, you want me to approach you right now. I thought-”

“Yeah, get over here. I’m going to show you something.”

“Bow chicka bow-”

“Tucker.”

Tucker pouts and walks over to Wash, awkwardly looking up at the male. Wash looks over Tucker for a moment, then nods a little.

“Alright. Imagine I have a weapon, whatever weapon. I do have one, but you don’t need to worry about that. Now, I’m a bad guy. I’m telling you to put your hands up. Show me what you’d do.”

Tucker stands there awkwardly for a moment, shifting his weight. Wash just stares at him expectantly. Finally, Tucker huffs and raises his arms, hands level at either side of his head with open palms. Wash blinks, then snorts.

“Okay, I don’t know why I didn’t expect that,” he says quietly to himself. “Alright, Tucker, putting your hands up like that is going to get you killed. Look at all this exposed skin.” He gestures to Tucker’s torso, and Tucker flinches back slightly. Something flickers in Wash’s eyes, but he doesn’t comment.

“Put your hands down,” he sighs. Tucker does, and immediately crosses his arms, hugging himself tightly. Wash stares for a moment, and then moves to stand side by side with Tucker. He lifts his hands in front of himself, elbows tucked against his sides and bent so that his hands are about chest level. “When you’re told to put your hands up, or you want to show that you don’t have any intention to fight, put your hands here, like this. Go on, show me.”

Tucker looks at Wash for a moment, and then mimics the movement. “Tuck your elbows in, you don’t want to expose your sides,” Wash instructs. Tucker nods and obeys. Wash moves to stand in front of Tucker again.

“From here,” he starts, moving a hand towards Tucker again. Tucker instinctively reacts, avoiding Wash’s touch. “You have the ability to move your hands wherever you need to in order to protect yourself. In the event of an attack, this is the position you want so that if they do intend to harm you, you’re in place to prevent it no matter where it comes from.”

There’s a sense of guilt that settles in Tucker’s gut at the relief he feels when Wash takes a couple steps back. He hadn’t previously believed the blond when he told Tucker that the fear was still extremely obvious. But Wash hasn’t said anything and, for that, Tucker is grateful.

“Anyway, we’ll go over that some more in a few days. You need to get more comfortable around me, and we need to get to work. Come here, let’s start with your sprinting exercise.”

A couple of hours go by where they just work on Tucker building stamina and throwing punches before Wash decides to give Tucker a break. They get some water and have a granola bar, settling onto the couch. For a moment, it’s quiet.

“After this, I’ll start showing you the pressure points. Don’t worry, I’ll show you them on myself. We’ll wait until you’re more settled with me before I show you using yourself.”

Tucker doesn’t respond for a moment. Finally, he says, “okay. I’m sorry.”

Wash looks over, mildly surprised. “For what?”

“I didn’t believe you. About the body language thing.”

Wash waves off the apology. "Eh, it's a good thing. Fear will motivate you to protect yourself when you're faced with an actual threat. I mean, I'm an actual threat, but not to you."

Tucker nods slowly. "What's the weapon you said you have?" He tries to change the subject.

"Just a knife," he says, reaching to pull the small blade from his boot. "I try to always have it on me. It's more reliable than a bat." He gestures, and Tucker watches his hand warily.

"Why haven't you asked your boss to bring you more stuff?"

"You don't think I have? She refuses. Says I have to learn to work with what I have." He shrugs.

"That's kind of messed up."

"Well, I've made it this far, haven't I?"

Tucker shrugs, frowning. "That's not the point."

"I know. And I agree. But she's backed by the Director, so there's nothing I can do." He stands and motions for Tucker to do the same.. "Alright. Let's get started."

They stand in front of each other, mostly to let Tucker relax and get more comfortable with being in such close proximity to Wash. He thinks about Donut's warnings regarding the blond, and wonders if he should take any of them seriously. But he quickly switches off that thought path, wondering instead what his friends were doing now while Tucker trained with a killer.

"Okay. Tucker, focus on me here. This is important. I want to preface this by saying that the general rule for pressure points is that you hit harder spots with the softer parts of your hand, and softer spots with the harder parts of your hand." He pauses. "I can see you're confused. Let me show you."

Wash lifts his hand, but keeps it closer to his body this time. He turns his palm out towards Tucker, and gestures to the meaty section on his hand, under the pinky. "This is considered a "softer" part of your hand. Your knuckles, however, are considered the harder part. Right?"

Tucker nods a little. He could understand that part of it pretty well. It wasn't as if it was rocket science or anything.

"Alright. So the 5 points I'll be showing you today are the temple, jaw, throat, solar plexus, and of course, the groin. Don't be fooled, kicking a lady in the crotch hurts just as bad I promise."

Tucker wants to make a joke, but figures it's best not to irritate the murderer while in proximity. Wash almost seems to be waiting for it, though. Tucker doesn't bite. Wash shrugs.

"So what I mean by harder points of the body is mostly just the parts that are mostly bone. So like your temple and your jaw are considered hard, so you would use the softer part of your hand for a more powerful blow-"

Tucker can't help himself anymore. "Bow chicka bow wow! Holy shit, softer part of your hand for a more powerful blow? Jesus Christ, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were asking for me to make a joke!" He laughs.

Wash rolls his eyes. "Alright, so maybe your silence was a little unnerving. What of it?"

Tucker's jaw drops. He doesn't know what to say. After a moment, he grins. "Well if you want me to speak up, why didn't you just say so?" He has to refrain from shutting down again at the withering look he gets from Wash.

"Anyway," Wash says. "Your temple is here." He brushes two fingers along the side of his own face, tilting his head slightly so Tucker can see where he's pointing. "It's essentially right between the corner of your eye and your ear. It's considered a harder pressure point, so you would use the palm and come across in a strike or a chop." He demonstrates the way it would look.

Tucker blinks a couple times, trying to picture it so that he can get a better idea of what to do if he ever needs to utilize any of these points. Wash catches his eye, and seems to understand.

"Here, give me your hand. I know I said we'd stick to verbal lessons, but you seem to be more of a hands-on learner. It's okay, I was too." Tucker snorts, getting another look from Wash. He offers his hand to the blond, who takes it and opens his hand and walks Tucker through the motions for a palm strike, and then a chop. "The thing about going for the head," Wash says, "is that the body will always follow. If you can move their head away, the rest of them will go with."

They move on to the next point. "The jaw is pretty much the same as the temple. It's considered a harder point, so you can palm strike. However, a chop isn't recommended. You can also throw a punch, but you risk injuring yourself as well." Wash shows Tucker where to aim on his jaw, and helps Tucker with angling his fist to match the curve of Wash's face for more effectiveness. Tucker is slightly more comfortable with performing on Wash than he is with Wash performing on him. He wonders if Wash can tell.

"The next point is considered soft. The throat. You'll use your fingers here. It's right here," he shows Tucker the dip between his collarbones, pausing to pull the sweatshirt off so that he can see more clearly before pressing down on the skin to show Tucker how it conforms to his touch. "Okay? So say someone's got their hands around your neck, you would make a kind of curve with all four of your fingers, and reach and press down and away with all four of your fingers and your palm."

Wash uses Tucker's hand to show him the motion and, without actually putting his hands on Tucker, allows him to try out the move. When Tucker seems to have a good idea of what to do, he steps back to retain that comfortable distance before continuing.

"Ever have the breath knocked out of you suddenly and painfully?" Wash asks.

Tucker doesn't expect the question, so it takes a moment to register before he responds. "Yeah, it was the worst. Sometimes my little cousin would just kick the shit outta my chest while I was holding him. I lost way too much air to that little shit." Tucker pauses. "...and yeah, it also happened in fights."

Wash stops for a moment, then seems to remember something and keeps going. "Right, well, that's because they somehow either got lucky or knew what they were doing. Your solar plexus is right here, between your ribs," he places his fist over the spot, and Tucker again notices Wash's abs. He takes a moment to admire the male's body, appreciating the blessed sight, before meeting Wash's disapproving gaze. "It's extremely sensitive, but you have to be pretty precise when you hit. You'll use your fist, and put as much power into it as you can. It'll drive the air out of their system, and hopefully your attacker will be down for a while." He shows Tucker what he means, and tells Tucker to just try pressing on the spot on his own chest with two fingers so that he can feel the pain that that alone causes.

Tucker stares down at himself for a while afterwards, only seeming to realise just how much of a stick he actually is. He's suddenly glad to be doing this stuff with Wash. He wasn't lying when he told Grif he had wanted to get back in shape, after all.

"Alright, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you about all the ways you can hurt someone with a kick to the groin."

Tucker grins. "Nah, but I think I'd like to hear all the ways you-"

"Moving on!" Wash says loudly, his voice echoing in the empty house. "If you punch or knee them or whatever, chances are they'll go down. From there, try to hit one of the other pressure points to make sure they stay down. Okay? Okay. Go home, Tucker, we're done for today."

Tucker whines. "But Waasshh, tell me about the ways-"

"Go. Home." Wash doesn't seem to be interested in the friendly jokes, so Tucker looks away and glares at the floor.

"Fine, I guess. See you tomorrow."

"Right. And I hope you've been practicing standing up for yourself, because that's what we're going to be doing."

Tucker grunts, but he's already dreading it.

Monday afternoon, Tucker drops by the house with some food and a bit more water for Wash. He's surprised to see the place cleaned up a bit, with the furniture moved around to allow more space for movement. As Wash comes down the stairs, his limp slowly improving over the days, Tucker greets him with a grin.

"Hey, when did you do all this?" He gestures.

"Yesterday evening, after you left," Wash responds, rubbing his eye lightly. Tucker looks at him closely, squinting.

"Dude, I left hella late last night. Do you even sleep?" He tries to hide the real concern.

"Eh… I get some hours in. Usually."

Tucker frowns. "And also, why the hell are you moving furniture around with your injuries?" He points at Wash's thigh for emphasis.

"I had help," he responds dully, moving to grab a bottle of water. "Do you have anything other than water? I know it's healthy and all but good God it is bland. It gets old."

Tucker rolls his eyes, but pulls out a little flavour packet and throws it at Wash. "There. I don't have anything but that. But I'll bring something on Wednesday."

Wash catches the packet quickly, and immediately cringes as the sudden movement. Tucker approached within a second, his hands reaching towards Wash's shoulder to make sure he was okay. Wash just pushes Tucker back, taking a few steps in the opposite direction.

"It's fine," Wash says, "I'm fine. Everything is okay. I'm alright."

Tucker is hesitant to believe him, but nods anyway. He glances at Wash's shoulder, trying to see if any blood is seeping through the cloth of the sweatshirt. It doesn't look like there is, but then again not a lot of time has passed… He'll have to look again in a few moments.

"Relax. You'll be looking at these a little later anyway, remember? I just want to eat first." Wash moves to grab some of the food that Tucker so kindly brought for him. Tucker settles a little, and reaches for some food, too.

"If it's bleeding, I'm not going to be happy," Tucker says quietly.

Wash looks up. "You're the one who threw the flavour packet at me," he points out.

"Yeah, but you should know not to move your arm so quickly," Tucker defends.

"Yeah, but you should know not to throw things at an assassin who has been specially trained to have heightened reflexes," Wash challenges.

Tucker pouts. He spots a flicker of some new emotion- triumph?- in Wash's eyes, but it's gone before he can identify it for certain. Instead of mentioning it, Tucker moves on. "What am I learning today?"

"I'll be teaching you to control your pain receptors and how to get back into the fight when you take a hit. In the meantime, while we're eating, I want you to think of your favourite word."

Tucker blinks. "My favourite word?"

"Yes."

"What does that have to do with anything? There are so many words to pick from!"

"You'll use it as your trigger word to help you focus and snap back into action."

"Oh," Tucker manages. "I guess that makes sense. Okay." He finishes his food much faster than Wash does, and just kind of sits quietly while the other munches away. As far as he knew, meaning expressed literally this morning, Donut still strongly dislikes the idea of Tucker regularly hanging out with Wash. He hasn't mentioned Donut past telling Wash about his friends knowing he was getting back into fitness, either. He wonders idly if maybe he should start thinking about introducing them. But at the same time, Wash is right. He doesn't want to involve his friends in anything potentially dangerous.

"What's your trigger word?" Tucker asks suddenly, looking over at Wash as the blond finishes his bottle of water. He watches Wash wipe his mouth, and avoids staring at his lips for too long.

"Uh, geez… It's been awhile since I've had to use it, my reaction time is like second nature to me, now. If I remember correctly, it used to be my cat's name. Loki."

Tucker blinks. "You're a cat guy?"

"We had him when I was little. But yes, I do prefer cats over dogs."

Tucker bites the inside of his lip lightly. Now that it's been brought up, he supposes it does make sense. He can't really decide how, but it just seems right for Wash to like cats. "We didn't really have pets when I was little. I remember a fish. But he died pretty quickly," he laughs.

"Well, nothing says your trigger word has to be a pet. That's just what I made mine," Wash says quietly. He brushes his hands over his thighs, pausing at the wound for a moment before dropping his hands to his sides.

"Yeah, I know. Are you done? We should probably get started," Tucker suggests.

Wash jolts for a second, then nods, lifting the sweatshirt off of himself. "Yeah, yeah. Here, see? My shoulder is fine."

Tucker moves to check over the blond's wounds, getting more efficient the more time he spends with Wash. It's almost comforting to be able to take care of Wash's injuries the way he does, knowing Wash trusts him enough to be in charge of keeping him healthy. He cleans everything up, checks everything and then backs off a bit. "I can take the stitches out of the injury on your chest before I leave," Tucker says with a grin.

Wash nods, and pushes himself to stand. "Have you thought of a word?" He asks.

"Uh… Push?" Tucker says the word with a slight lilt, as if he's not quite certain in his choice. He catches Wash staring at him, seeming almost shocked, and puffs his chest defensively. "What? It's not that bad, is it?"

"No! No, it's fine. It's just… That was Epsilon's word, too…" Wash trails off, his eyes going fuzzy as he stares at something in the distance.

"Who?"

Wash quickly shakes his head, focusing back on Tucker. "No one, sorry. You wouldn't, uh. You wouldn't understand."

Tucker shrugs. "Whatever man. Are we going to get started or what?"

"Yeah! Yeah. Let's uh, start with your sprinting exercises. We'll use your trigger word, and get you used to hearing it. Say it in your mind, I'll say it out loud for you." Wash waits for Tucker to acknowledge the instructions, and then they begin.

They go for about an hour, warming up and getting everything settled into a good rhythm before they switch over to Tucker's punching techniques. Tucker is happy to see improvement, and there's almost a bit of pride shining in Wash's eyes, too, though he hides it well. After working at that for a while, Wash finally decides to keep moving.

While Tucker is leaned over, trying to steady his breathing, Wash starts to explain the lesson. "Alright. So today you're going to learn how to take a punch," he says. Tucker looks up quickly. "No, no, not literally. I'm not going to hit you. Calm down. Also, stand up straight and put your hands behind your head. It'll open up your lungs and help you breathe easier.

"Taking a hit isn't something you ever want to have happen. But it's something that's essentially impossible to avoid, unless you're my boss or Texas. I know you've taken a hit before,- don't try to deny it, Tucker- and what is it that you remember doing?"

"Well, I probably dropped and stayed down. I try to repress those memories."

"You're going to learn how to not do that. And it's actually pretty easy, really. The first thing you need to know is that you can't ask the attacker to stop. You can't let yourself be stopped, you have to keep going. You have to get your bearings and get back into action as quickly as possible, and that's what your trigger word is for. You get clocked in the face, you're disoriented, your vision is swimming. Focus on the word 'push!' and get yourself back in the game. Second, you need to control your pain-"

"You make it sound so easy."

"Because it is. Don't interrupt me."

"Sorry."

"Tucker," Wash sighs, exasperated. Tucker grins sheepishly. "The thing that most people don't realise is that most physical feelings are a mental game that we play with ourselves. Pain, for example. Your brain tends to be a little dramatic. If something hurts, and you know it should hurt, then your brain will automatically overcompensate. But you have to learn to control that. You'll still feel it, but start to become more aware of the things you perceive as being physically painful, and just… just kind of tell yourself 'no, this doesn't hurt', really. I'm not really sure how else to describe it."

Tucker blinks. "No offense, Wash, but that sounds really dumb." He brings a hand up to brush through his hair, feeling the buzz and being briefly confused before remembering his hair cut. He quickly shakes his head and looks up at Wash, who has a very thoughtful expression. Finally he sighs.

"I really don't know what else to tell you, Tucker," Wash says. "The only way for you to learn to control your pain is to experience it fir- Tucker, relax. How many times do I have to say I'm not going to hurt you?"

"Then stop talking about how I have to experience pain, man!" Tucker defends. "It's freaky."

Wash rolls his eyes. "Then I suppose that in order for you to experience controlled amounts of pain, you have to stop being afraid to get hurt. Stand against that wall there."

"What? No!"

"Do it, or stop coming here. You're here to learn. This is how I'm teaching you. You listen to me, or we stop this- whatever this is." Wash gestures.

"Dude. I know you're just going to do some weird shit if I do it. I'm not going to do it."

"Then leave."

"Wash!" Tucker protests.

"No."

Tucker stares open-mouthed as Wash turns and starts to walk away, towards the stairs leading to the second floor.

"Ugh, fine. Asshole." Tucker storms over to the wall and stands there, arms crossed and glaring at the blond. Wash stops and turns around, standing for a moment before huffing and making his way back. Except when he gets back to his spot, he doesn't stop, he just keeps approaching Tucker, maintaining eye contact.

He stops mere inches away, tilting his head down towards Tucker and peering at him. "Does this make you uncomfortable?"

"Uh, yeah? The fuck kind of question is that?" Tucker takes a tiny step away, his back hitting the wall. He has to resist breaking eye contact to look for an exit. Wash hasn't done anything yet, there's no reason to want to get away.

The tiny distance that Tucker makes by pressing against the wall is quickly closed by a step of equal distance made by Wash. He doesn't move otherwise, just staring Tucker down, unblinking.

"Dude, back off," Tucker breathes, feeling trapped and helpless. He knows what he can do, but he's reluctant to actually try anything since Wash is injured. And based on the confidence in Wash's stance, Wash knows that, too.

"No," Wash responds firmly. "I'm not doing anything wrong. There's no reason for you to be so tense. Nothing will happen."

"Yeah, but how can I know that for certain?"

"Tucker. We've been meeting every day for a week. You'd think one would be more certain."

"But isn't the point of meeting up every day supposed to prepare me for the fact that anything can happen?" Tucker can't seem to take the fear out of his voice, and he hates himself for it.

"Yes. But you need to learn to control what you feel and what you exhibit. Because if you can't control your expressions, your emotions, and what you feel, then I can guarantee that they will use that to their advantage."

Tucker grinds his teeth, glaring at Wash for a moment before taking a breath. "So then what should I do?"

"Well, you need to not be afraid of me before we do anything."

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid of what you can do. There's a difference."

"Hardly. You need to trust me."

"That's hardly fair. You barely trust me."

"Tucker, if I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be alive right now."

"That doesn't count. That's bare minimum." Tucker watches Wash pull his head back slightly, then roll his eyes. "Besides, you trusting me? As if. What happened to the whole 'I can't trust you' bullshit? Because you don't know me or my intentions? Well, right back at you, bucko."

Wash's jaw tenses and then relaxes for a moment. "Trust is earned, Tucker. At that point, I couldn't trust you. But I think I know enough to be confident that you won't do anything. I'm asking that you put the same faith in me."

"Dude, that's not how it works. You could kill me. You almost did. It's not that easy to get over something like that."

"We are literally standing 15 centimeters apart!" Wash explodes, throwing his hands up. Tucker immediately crumples slightly, bringing his hands up to cover his face with his forearms. "Tucker, wait- I wasn't-"

There's a moment of silence after Wash cuts himself off, and then Tucker feels the blond's overwhelming presence back off as he takes a few steps back.

"I'm sorry," Wash says. "We'll continue to take it slow, then. But for our next lessons, you have to let me get close to you physically. I have to be able to show you how to do things, Tucker, and I can't do that with my injuries."

Tucker lowers his arms slowly, and stands up so that he can lean against the wall and at least seem more relaxed. But he can feel his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, and he's screaming at himself for reacting like that. He takes a breath. "I'll try," he offers, avoiding Wash's eyes.

"Right. Then I think we're done for today," Wash says, rather abruptly.

"I…" Tucker trails off for a moment, still trying to catch his bearings. He thinks about his word, push, and forces himself to stand straight and take a breath. "I'll take out your stitches. For your chest. They can be removed today."

Wash pauses, then nods. "Okay," he accepts. He moves to sit on the couch, pulling the sweatshirt off and leaning back to expose the stitches.

Tucker hesitates, but then forces himself away from the wall, approaching Wash slowly. He gets his equipment for the removal process, and tries to get it done and over with as quickly as he can. Being so close to Wash is difficult, the air tense and uncomfortable. Wash seems relaxed, though, which only serves to worry Tucker even more.

Finally, Tucker backs off as he finishes cleaning the wound one last time for the day. "Okay. I'll be heading home, then. See you… See you on Wednesday." He waits for Wash to acknowledge him before packing his shit and leaving the house quickly. He stands at the cellar door for a few minutes once he's outside, before finally starting his walk home.

About halfway there, he notices a figure in the distance and squints really hard to see who it is. He doesn't usually see other people when he's headed home from being with Wash.

He recognizes the figure about 3 seconds too late, because by that point they had seen him, too. He turns his head away and focuses on the ground, picking up his pace. But it's no use.

"Tucker!" Donut calls, waving his hand excitedly. "Tucker, what are you doing over here? You don't usually leave your apartment on Mondays. Or… Any day, really."

Tucker blinks slowly to hide the eyeroll, containing a sigh. "I was with Wash," he says shortly.

"Ooooh, so he's somewhere around here?" Donut inquires cheerfully. There's a dangerous lilt to his voice.

"No. He's a little ways away."

"Oh." The disappointment is tangible.

"Why are you on this side of the city? You live on the other side."

"I came to visit! You weren't there, so I went on a walk! Now you're here!"

Tucker gets the sense that Donut isn't telling the whole truth. He calls him on it. "If you wanted to 'visit' why didn't you just ask to stay after class today? We could've hung out. Besides, we'll be around each other all day tomorrow. There's no reason for you to have come back to my place, or to have stayed on this side of the city."

Donut hums in acknowledgement. "True, but I just wanted to! Can't fault a guy for that, can you?"

"I mean I guess, but I still think it's a dumb excuse. I told you already, stop trying to find out where Wash is. You're trying to get involved in something you have no place in. You're going to get hurt."

"And you're not?" Donut shoots.

"No! I'm not. Because I'm taking lessons from Wash on how to handle any potentially dangerous situations.”

“And what if something happens before you know what to do?”

“I… We’re working as quickly as we can. We can only do so much with his injuries.” And my fear. Tucker keeps the second part to himself.

“Is that what the bag is for?” Donut idly pokes at the medical supplies over Tucker’s shoulder.

“Yes. We just removed some more of his stitches. He’s only got one other injury, but it’s pretty bad so it’ll still be awhile before anything can be done about it.”

“Ooooh. Are you sure?”

“Yes, Donut.”

“How long have you known this guy, anyway?”

“Uh… A little over a week.”

“And you guys haven’t gotten it on yet? Wow, Tucker, I’m impressed.”

“Dammit, Donut. Shut up or I’m leaving you outside my apartment.” Tucker unlocks and pushes open his door, feeling Donut follow quickly.

“So what’s going to be done about the scissor hole?”

Tucker nearly chokes. “The wha- oh. That. He offered to fix it when he was doing better. But I don’t know.” I have to convince him to come back to get another shower. He’s gotta stay clean, Tucker muses idly. There’s silence for a little while as Donut finds a spot and plops down, making himself comfortable.

“Have you been sleeping enough? You stay with him awfully late into the night. You’re a college student, you have to-”

“Yes, Donut. I’m fine. I stay so long because we have a lot to go over. But it’s okay. I get everything done, and I get… enough sleep.”

“But not healthy sleep, I presume?” Donut looks at Tucker expectantly.

“Uh… No, I guess 4-6 hours isn’t really what’s considered healthy.”

“Oh, Tucker.”

“What?? You want me to be safe and healthy? It’s not that easy, Donut! I have shit to do. I can’t waste time sleeping!”

“Tucker. One of these things is more important than the other,” Donut attempts to reason.

“It’s not like I can go back and never meet Wash. I helped him, and now I could be in danger. So he’s helping me protect myself. I’d say that’s pretty goddamn important, Donut.”

Donut sighs heavily. “I just don’t trust the guy, you know?”

“Yes, I know. You’ve only said it a thousand times. But I helped him, and he’s helping me. It’s a mutual thing. It’s okay, Donut. I promise.”

“You better not die, Tucker,” Donut says seriously.

“I won’t die,” Tucker assures. “That’s what this whole thing is supposed to prevent.”

“Yeah, well, it better work.”

“I know.”

There’s a couple more minutes of silence as they sit and think about the conversation. Tucker is slowly realising that his fear of pain is going to start causing a lot more trouble if he doesn’t get over it soon. Maybe he should just let Wash do what he needs to do. It can’t be that bad, right? He’s pretty professional, and he hasn’t hurt Tucker, or even tried to hurt Tucker, since that very first night.

“I have homework, so… If you wouldn’t mind?” Tucker gestures to the door. Donut looks up quickly, then nods.

“Right, yeah. Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tucker.”

Once Donut has left, Tucker gets up and goes to his room to do his work from the day before crashing heavily onto his bed.

Chapter Text

Come Wednesday afternoon, Tucker stands in the middle of the living room in the house, looking around in confusion and shock. He suddenly understands why Wash had gotten help with moving all the furniture to the walls, as the blond was currently walking towards him and unwrapping his hands. The freestanding heavy bag slowly steadied itself behind him.

“What?” Wash asks innocently as he notices Tucker’s stare.

“Dude.”

“What??” He’s a little more annoyed this time.

“You literally got your stitches out on Monday, that’s what!”

“Yeah? I didn’t do anything yesterday. York helped me put this stuff up.”

Tucker looks around, noticing a couple other equipment placed in a couple corners of the room. “This might be a dumb question-”

“Then why are you asking?”

“But what’s the point of these?” Tucker ignores the interruption and gestures around.

“Well, mostly for your training. But also because, like I said before, I have to stay in shape too. This is my job we’re talking about, after all.”

Tucker nods slowly, but still doesn’t see why or how he needs legitimate training equipment to learn basic self defense. “Right… What am I going to do with them?”

“You’ll learn how to punch shit, duh. Punching air or a block of wood is one thing. That?” He points to the heavy bag, “totally different. And also more, uh… Realistic? Helpful? Both of those things, yeah. So let’s get your hands wrapped, and let’s get started.”

“Woah, woah, woah. I have to check your injuries. You’ve been active as fuck from what I can tell. We gotta make sure you didn’t fuck anything up.”

Wash rolls his eyes, and Tucker swears the blond is a totally different person now that he’s in his own sort of environment. “Tucker, I’m fine. I swear.”

“Nope, not enough. Sweatshirt, off.”

It takes a moment, but Wash eventually gives in and pulls the sweater over his head, and Tucker moves to look over the injuries. They seem okay, maybe a little sore from all of Wash’s movement. But it doesn’t look like he’s agitated them too much.

“Tucker, this really isn’t necessary,” Wash complains idly.

“Yes it is. You’re still limping, which means something is still bothering you.”

“Barely! Tucker, it hardly even hurts anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s better, Wash, that just means you’re used to the pain. Let me check your thigh.”

Wash whines for a moment, and Tucker almost wonders if he prefers the paranoid, brooding Wash to the comfortable, whiny one. He tries to tell himself he doesn’t but the complaining really is getting kind of annoying. Eventually the blond lets Tucker check the rest of his injuries, and they can move on once everything is cleaned up.

“Alright!” Wash claims, clapping once. “We’ll do your usual warmups, the sprinting and all that, and then we’ll go over stances and hand positions again. I’ll help you settle into a good, comfortably balanced stance so that you’re centered and focused 100 percent, and then we’ll start training with the heavy bags. From there, I can show a couple more things regarding protecting yourself with your arms, and by the time I’m back up and in shape, we should be able to move on to legitimate work for escape and response.”

Tucker blinks a few times. “That sounds like a lot.”

“It is.”

“How long did it take for you to learn all this?”

“Uh… I don’t know. A couple months to learn it, a few weeks to put it into practice and get good at it.”

“And I’m supposed to learn it in a month?”

"Eh, you’re supposed to learn as much as you can in the time that we have, yes.”

“Oh. Hm.”

“Which means it’s absolutely essential for you to get over your fear of pain, because you will get hurt. There’s no avoiding it.”

“Yeah… I know…”

“So? Are we ready to begin?”

“Yeah,” Tucker sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”

They go through their usual routine, talking idly when Tucker has the breath to, but otherwise focused on getting Tucker prepared for anything. Wash continuously reminds Tucker about the risks and possibilities, and Tucker just brushes them aside. He knows what he’s doing and what he’s getting into, so Wash’s warnings kind of mean nothing to him anymore. About an hour and a half later, they stop and Wash lets Tucker settle down for a moment.

“Do you want to listen to music? We don’t usually, back at HQ or during missions. But, personally, I like the background noise,” Wash offers.

Tucker looks at Washington curiously. “Depends on what you play,” he answers finally.

“It’s a lot of different stuff. I’m sure that if you just let me put the playlist on, you’d find something that you like.”

Tucker shrugs. “I guess, then.”

Wash's eyes brighten slightly and he moves to grab his phone- the one I gave him- tapping the screen a couple times before some music starts playing and he looks over at Tucker. "Alright! Ready to get started?"

"Uh… yeah, one moment. Wash?" Tucker raises an eyebrow slightly.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell is up with the whole 'peppy fitness teacher' thing you've got going on here?"

"What do you mean? Am I being peppy? I hadn't noticed," Wash responds. His confusion sounds so genuine that Tucker almost feels a little crazy for bringing it up.

"You're like…," he trails off and gestures idly, getting a look from Wash. "I don't know, you're more cheerful than usual. You're like a different person. Happy, almost."

"Oh. Oh, no, Tucker, you're very mistaken. I'm not happy. I'm comfortable. Having stuff to do that's familiar to me helps a lot." He waves his arms towards the equipment lying around. "It's stuff from the training room in HQ. We're starting to get into the fun bits. Now get over here so we can start."

Tucker snorts, but goes over to Wash. They start off with some basics, with Wash occasionally placing his hands on Tucker's shoulders, his arms, sometimes his back or sides. It makes Tucker feel jittery, but if he moves he gets a glare from Wash, so he's left to suffer in silence.

It's then that he remembers one of the first things Wash told him- "If you're uncomfortable, do something. Make yourself comfortable." He glances at Wash, who's stood back, staring at Tucker critically as they try to teach him the best stance for balance. He hesitates, his legs starting to burn from the exertion, before he shifts the tiniest bit. It immediately brings relief, and he feels much more secure in his stance, too. It takes a moment before he can bring himself to look up at Wash.

"That actually looks better. How'd you know what to do?" Wash starts to circle Tucker, pushing on his arms and his back to get him to straighten up and guard himself a little better, adjusting Tucker to his new position.

"I dunno. The other thing was hurting so I moved."

"Interesting," Wash mumbles.

"Dude, that's weird. Don't say shit like that while you're touching me."

Wash looks at Tucker with a raised eyebrow before moving on. "Alright, come out of that. I don't want you to exhaust yourself." He helps Tucker stand straight, grunting softly. Tucker blinks.

"It's… it wasn't that serious, Wash, I could've stood on my own. Seriously. It's like… one step forward."

"Eh, oh well." Wash shrugs. "Alright, moving on. To movements, actually. Staying on your feet while avoiding oncoming attacks. Sounds fun, doesn't it? Don't worry, I won't hit you. This isn't HQ, you aren't an employee, and I'm not my coworkers. You're… safe. Mostly." He glances down at his leg quickly, almost too quick for Tucker to have noticed.

"Uh… okay. I'll try, I guess." Tucker's still hesitant to do anything, but he's trying to work on it, and there's no way he'll improve if he doesn't step out of his comfort zone for once.

"Great. Alright, step back into your balance, I'll try to show you how to move…" he adjusts Tucker slightly, and they continue to work well into the evening. Tucker gradually gets his legs to function the way he needs them to, the movement awkward and uncomfortable at first but slowly becoming easier. Wash shows him a couple ways to avoid getting hit without stepping out of his stance, and they work on that some more.

Finally, nearing the end of the night, as they drink water and catch their breath, Wash takes a couple steps over to the standing heavy bag. He looks over at Tucker, his eyes bright and alive.

"Do you want to keep going? I still have some stuff to teach you. Or we can wait. Up to you." Wash looks so excited to be in his world again that Tucker almost feels guilty for shaking his head.

"No," Tucker whines. "I'm tired as fuck." Wash almost visibly deflates, but hides it quickly behind a nod.

"That's okay. We'll keep it for tomorrow," he agrees.

Tucker nods a little. "What are you going to do when I leave?" He asks quietly, out of curiosity.

Wash blinks. "I don't know," he says. "Probably keep working with this stuff."

"You're not going to sleep?"

"Eh, probably not. It's alright."

Tucker gazes at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised slightly. He wants to tell Wash how stupid that idea is, but knows it won't change the blond's mind. So he says nothing.

"How have things been going with your job?" Tucker asks.

Wash looks up for a moment, then shrugs. "It's okay, I guess. The others text me every now and then."

"Seems pretty lonely."

"Eh. I'm used to it."

"If you say so," Tucker says.

"Yeah."

Friday finds Tucker stuck between Grif and Simmons. It's probably one of his least favourite places ever, but he can't seem to convince anybody to switch places with him. Is this karma? Is this the world getting me back for what I've been doing with Wash? He wonders.

He sighs. "Remind me why I'm here again?" He requests loudly. Donut glances at him from the passenger seat, but doesnt answer. Church snickers behind Tucker. In the driver's seat, O'Malley makes eye contact through the rearview mirror before returning his attention back to the road. "And why do we have the other two here too, anyway?"

Donut actually answers the second question. "Because O'Malley is the only one who can drive. Well. Simmons can, too, but-"

"I get nervous," Simmons cuts in. "I don't like driving with people in the car." The ginger shifts slightly, and Tucker leans away from the contact subtly. There's quiet humming behind him, and he doesn't have to look to know that Caboose has found a song that he likes significantly more than the others. Church gave the big kid his phone and a pair of headphones, and Caboose has been silent since.

They've been driving for about half an hour, at this point. Tucker is getting restless. Will he have time to see Wash tonight? He has homework, too. What is Donut's plan here? "Where are we going?" Tucker asks loudly.

Donut shrugs a little. "You'll see. It'll be fun." Donut turns his attention to the whole group. "We'll have to split into groups, though. There's too many of us for one trip. I believe I set it up to be myself, Tucker, and Doc, and then Church, Simmons, Grif and Caboose are in another group."

Tucker sighs heavily. Of course Donut put them in the same group. And they had to be uneven, too. What a dick. If Wash were here, Tucker wouldn't have to be the odd one out. He stares at his lap for a moment, then shakes his head quickly. The fuck kind of thought was that? The only couple here is Simmons and Grif, and they can hardly be considered a couple. He glares at himself.

A couple more minutes go by, where Tucker decides that it’s not worth it to argue for anymore information. Donut was stubborn, and nothing said or done would change his mind. But he didn’t have to wait much longer, anyway, because within about half an hour, the car was being pulled to a stop. Donut claps excitedly, getting just about everyone’s attention. “We’re here!!” he cheers.

“Great,” Tucker says. “Do you want to tell me where ‘here’ is, now?” He squints ahead of himself, trying to see the building in front of them. Donut turns and grins widely.

“It’s an escape room, silly!! We’ll go in, they’ll lock us in a room of puzzles, and then we’ll have a certain amount of time to get out!” Tucker blinks.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Explain to me how this can be considered fun?” He asks finally. Getting put into an enclosed space with O’Malley and Donut didn’t seem very fun at all. And then he realised, puzzles? Aw man, poor Church. Poor Simmons. He suddenly doesn’t feel as bad about his partners.

They all climb out of the car, and Tucker notices Church subtly fighting to get his phone back from Caboose. He snorts at them. Donut leads them all inside, explains the split groups, and it’s decided that the group of three will go in first. The staff informs the other four that there’ll be some time in between to give the crew time to set everything back up, but both groups would be able to play at some point. Donut claps happily, and they’re led into the first room.

Tucker barely gets a second to register what’s around him before there’s a splash and a fog machine whirrs to life, clouding out the entire room in a thick gray. He swats the fog away, squinting to try and see in front of himself. He can barely make out the shapes of Donut and O’Malley on the other side of the room. A few seconds later, the vents open and the fog clears, leaving Tucker and the other two utterly confused, and slightly damp. A speaker above them crackles to life with startling laughter.

“You’ve done it! You’ve all just become the first of my lab rats, oh, what an honour! Let’s see how smart you are, my glorious little pets! You’ve been poisoned. My wonderful concoction will take effect in 30 minutes. You have until then to find the cure! Good luck!” The speaker cuts out, and Tucker’s eyes widen.

“Dude, what? Do we even get hints? The fuck is this bullshit?” He looks around, his muddled brain not finding anywhere ideal to start. He searches the walls frantically for anything. The fuck kind of thing is this? How did Donut think this would be fun?

“Tucker,” Donut calls, holding up a suitcase. “This looks important. C’mere, there’s a lock on it.” Tucker gapes at him.

“How are you so calm??” Tucker reacts, unchecked. Donut blinks.

“Because this is just a fun game? You’re not actually poisoned, now chill. Come here and help me figure this out.” Tucker looks around, then pulls out his phone. The speakers above quickly come back to life.

“Ah-ah-ah, little rat! Electronic devices are not allowed. Please put it in the basket by the door. Someone will be there to collect it. You’ll get it back- If you can get out alive.” It shuts off. Tucker glances at Donut, who stares blankly. He pulls his own phone out a moment later, nudging O’Malley to do the same.

“Take ours over there, too? And then get your booty back here and help us.” Tucker nods idly and goes to retrieve the other two phones before placing them into the basket like he was told. He returns to Donut’s side a moment later.

“Alright, alright,” he breathes quietly. He closes his eyes, trying not to think about the time crunch they’re under. He looks at the lock on the case- a 5 digit code. He assumes the numbers will be written somewhere, it’s just a matter of finding out where. He stares at it for a long moment, before noticing a small arrow etched into the corner of the case pointing outwards. He squints at it.

“Donut, where was this? Where’d you find it? Put it back exactly the way it was,” he says quickly. Donut looks at him, confused. Off to the left, he makes note of a flickering light that could be making a pattern, too. Donut looks like he’s going to protest, but he ultimately agrees and returns the case to its spot. Tucker rounds the table, finds the arrow, and then follows it across the room. He shoves aside the curtain hanging on a window in front of a brick wall, and crouches to squint, searching for anything to tell him. Etched into the wooden wall is a 5 digit number, with another arrow pointing in another direction.

“Try, ‘24110’,” Tucker suggests, glancing back at Donut. He watches the blond put the numbers in, and then look up at Tucker and shake his head a little. “Fuck, okay,” Tucker says, tracing the arrow along the wall to another one, pointing downwards to a small vent on the floor. Tucker squints at it. His hands definitely won’t fit in there. “Which one of you guys has smaller hands?”

Donut looks at his hands, then at O’Malley’s. He pauses. “Probably Doc.” Tucker gives Donut a look for calling him that, but jerks his head anyway. O’Malley comes over wordlessly. His silence makes Tucker uncomfortable.

“Can you fit your hand in there?” Tucker asks, pointing. “Try to find, like, a slip of paper or a key or something.” He glances up at the speaker on the ceiling, giving a mild glare. He can feel his confidence slipping, and brings his thoughts away from questions like, how long has it been? with a huff. O’Malley holds up a small metal rod, standing up.

“Is this what you want?” He asks quietly, tilting his head. Tucker inspects it for a moment, before looking around quickly.

“Well, if it was down there it’s probably important. Hold on to it, man,” he says finally. O’Malley nods. Tucker keeps looking around, trying to find anything else. There’s some shelves in the corner, so he moves to search them quickly, lifting various objects and moving papers. He examines the sheets a little more closely, and there’s a snow globe that looks particularly suspicious, but he doesn’t linger for too long. He finally decides “fuck it” and completely shifts the whole shelf aside, revealing a panel with a small, circular keyhole.

“O’Malley, bring the key here please,” he says quickly, beckoning the male over. Above them, the speaker crackles to life with more laughter.

“10 minutes, dear pets!” The voice says simply, before shutting off. Tucker swears under his breath, grabbing the key from Doc and shoving it into the lock. The panel drops, and probably close to 10 pages fall out of the wall and onto the floor.

“God dammit!” Tucker swears. He crouches and reaches for the nearest piece of paper. Some of them are full sheets, and some are just little slips of paper. He looks over them all quickly, trying to find something that connects them all. He looks up, “Donut, see if you can find anywhere that needs another 5 digit number. 24110 can’t just be nothing.”

“Can do,” Donut agrees, and starts moving things and checking under other items.

They don't end up solving the puzzle, but according to the staff they got really close. It frustrates Tucker, but there's not much he can do. He sits outside and waits for the other 4 with Donut and O'Malley. The other two talk quietly between themselves, and Tucker just stays out of it.

He hadn't thought of it before, but now he can only wonder what would happen if he was in a real situation like that. Something where he'd only have a specific amount of time to get out of something or some place before the next check-in, or before his captors came back to… To what? What really happens to people in captivity? Is it truly like the movies? Or worse?

Tucker notices Donut staring at him curiously, and realises that he had, at some point, crossed his arms and brought his knees slightly closer to himself. He forces himself to relax and puts his arms down, shooting Donut a "what?" look. Donut shakes his head and looks away.

The others come out half an hour later, Church looking absolutely pissed and Simmons just tired. Grif has a smug look on his face, and Caboose looks clueless but happy. Tucker glances between them all, before asking, “Well? Did you complete it?” Church glares at him, and Tucker laughs. “I’ll take that as a no.” He regrets not being able to hear the inevitable shouting that would have come out of a frustrated Church, and the bickering between Simmons and Grif. But at the same time, the way he treated Doc and Donut definitely wouldn’t have gone over well with the other three. Caboose might have even complained, too. He sighs softly.

“Are we done here, then? Can we go home?” Tucker asks, looking specifically at Donut. Donut hums, debating.

“I suppose it is a two hour drive home… Alright, let’s go. It was fun while it lasted, right?”

“Yeah but next time you bring us 2 hours away from our city, maybe make sure the activity will last longer than the time it takes to get there,” Church criticizes. Tucker looks at Church with wide eyes, half-shocked by the bluntness. He must’ve gotten really angry. He hopes it won’t be a problem for the entire way back.

they get back to their city, everybody separates and goes their own ways from Donut’s place. Tucker pulls out his phone while walking, figuring to shoot a text to Wash to let him know he wouldn’t be there. The sun was already starting to set, so there was no point in trying to get to the house and still have enough time to do anything significant.

[LT]: hey man im not gonna make it today.

[LT]: donut and the guys took me 2 hours out of the city to do a stupid escape room

The response is surprisingly quick.

[AW]: An escape room?

[LT]: yeah. It was dumb.

[AW]: did you finish the puzzle?

[LT]: wait, you actually know what an escape room is?

[AW]: yeah, we do them all the time. It’s a good way to get used to working under pressure.

[AW]: of all the things to miss training for, an escape room is probably the best option.

[LT]: oh. Well. no, we didn’t finish it.

[LT]: but we were told we got really close.

[AW]: tell me about it when you get here tomorrow.

[LT]: okay.

[LT]: I have homework to do, I’ll text later or something.

[AW]: alright.

Tucker sighs. He’s glad Wash wasn’t too pissed about Tucker missing training. He had genuinely expected a much worse reaction.

When he goes back to Wash’s on Sunday, they spend hours reviewing everything Tucker has learned. At the end of the night, Wash insists his thigh is doing better. After checking on it thoroughly, Tucker gives in and agrees to take the stitches out, on the condition that Wash be extra careful for the next few days. With the stitches finally removed, all they have to do is make sure the wounds stay clean and don’t get infected. His chest and shoulder are significantly better, too. Tucker feels a sense of pride every time he thinks about it, and goes to sleep knowing he’s truly on his way to becoming a medical professional.

Chapter Text

“So,” Wash starts, shifting slightly. “Remember last Monday? When we first started working with your trigger word, and I told you yours was the same as ‘Epsilon’s’?”

Tucker perks up, sitting straighter. He wonders if this is Wash’s version of exhibiting trust; if this is Wash’s attempt to get Tucker to be more comfortable around him. “Yeah?” he responds.

“We… Epsilon was kind of like… Kind of like my trainee. Kind of like you right now. We were… Some of us were given trainees to take under our wings and teach to become future agents. Epsilon was mine. My Boss had, uh, had Sigma, but he was given to Maine. North got Theta. York’s trainee was Delta. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“Okay…?” Tucker can’t help but feel that there’s more to this story. He doesn’t want to push though, because Wash is shifting again, wringing his hands together and avoiding eye contact.

“We went…” he trails off, closing his eyes. “We went on a mission. We tried to tell the director that some of them weren’t ready yet, that we should continue with their training for a few more days. He insisted we go through with it.

“Epsilon… Epsilon disappeared. During the mission. He was by my side one moment, and gone the next. We couldn’t get him on the radio, couldn’t find him in the building. Couldn’t get access to the tracking device all our trainees had on them. And we wasted so much time looking for him… It was supposed to be a get-in-get-out job. We… We had to leave without him. We… still haven’t found him. And there’s been no sign of him since.”

Tucker stares at Wash for a long time, tilting his head slowly. “Is that why my trigger word was such a shock? Because you were reminded of… Of Epsilon?”

Wash nods a little.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker says.

“For what?” Wash responds.

“I didn’t know. I would’ve picked something else.”

“That’s exactly what I didn’t want you to do,” Wash sighs. “Come on, do your weird check-up and let’s get started. We’re uh… I’m going to start showing you how to get out of pins and locks. I might start with showing you how to pick locks a couple different ways, or maybe I’ll show you how to untie a couple different ties…” he trails off as Tucker gets up and checks over his injuries. There’s a sense of ease between them, it’s different from usual. Tucker notices that Wash definitely seems less tense, like a huge weight has been lifted from his chest. When Tucker steps back, Wash stands up. He rolls his shoulders slowly, then twists his body a tiny bit to work out some of his sore muscles. Tucker watches how his arms and chest flex, blinking a couple times.

“Will I be as fit as you are?” Tucker blurts, then slaps a hand over his mouth. Wash looks at him with confusion.

“I don’t know. I was always kind of fit before I became an Agent. You might put on some muscle mass, but it probably won’t be much, since this is just basic self defense.” He walks over to a small bag in one of the corners, rummaging through it. “So, do you want to start with ropes or cuffs?”

Tucker coughs loudly and suddenly, spluttering. His eyebrows shoot upwards, and he stares at Wash with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, what?!” he practically shouts.

“For… escaping locks…?” Wash tilts his head slightly, staring at Tucker strangely. “I just told you what we were starting with.”

Tucker settles down, taking a deep breath. “Sorry,” he says quietly. Wash shakes his head. “Uh… Start with uh, locks- the cuffs, first, I guess. I’ve picked a couple locks before, but never in this kind of situation.” He rubs the back of his neck in response to the disapproval on Wash’s face.

“Alright, well, come here. I’ll show you what to look for when you’re picking locks. There’s a couple different kinds, and you need to be able to identify them quickly and correctly before you can try to undo them.” Wash pulls out multiple pairs of cuffs, setting them all down on the table. Tucker feels his heart rate pick up as he holds back from making any jokes. He tries to focus.

A few hours later, Tucker can, for the most part, get out of any of the pairs of cuffs that Wash puts him in. He feels proud of himself, and it makes him more confident around the blond, blurting out dumb jokes and comments. Sometimes, Wash manages to smile or chuckle. That makes Tucker feel even better about himself. They move onto rope ties and knots, and how to undo the various types. Wash shows Tucker various wrist and foot positions that he can use to give himself the advantage, should his captors tie him up while he’s conscious.

“But,” he says, “more likely than not, you’ll have to just figure out what knot they used while you were out, and go from there.” Tucker nods, and pays close attention. They work together to teach him how to undo the knots. Then, Wash even shows Tucker a couple ways to tie a few different knots, in case Tucker needs to restrain somebody for his own safety. It gets a little awkward at some points, especially when Tucker is carefully straddling Wash, who’s lying on his stomach, with his wrists held together against his back, trying to tie a knot.

“So, wait,” Tucker said, staring at the rope. “It’s… Over, and then under- and…”

“Wrap the looser end underneath, and then put the single string through the loop,” Wash instructs. Tucker follows the directions slowly, the bright red rope clashing starkly against Wash’s pale, freckled skin. They continue like this for some time, demonstrating the different types of knots. Finally, Wash steps back and flexes his wrists, rubbing them gently.

“Alright, let me show you one last thing,” he says, glancing outside. “Sometimes, people will use zip ties for restraints. They’re extremely weak, though, and they’re usually only temporary. So if you see that you have zip ties on your wrists or ankles, try to find an exit and get out of there before they can restrain you in a more complicated manner. I’ll show you how to get out of them on your wrists and forearms.” He ties a tie around Tucker's wrists, showing him how to hold them if he’s given the option. He then shows Tucker the motion, but his chest wound prevents the blond from actually demonstrating the action. It takes Tucker a few tries, but he manages to bust the tie eventually, and they work their way up in number of ties, until Tucker can’t do any more.

“Let’s just pray they don’t use more than this, then,” he says, almost teasing Tucker as he cuts the ties off. “Your feet are basically the same, but you have to be a little stronger, and you’ll have to find something to steady your chair on because it’ll take a lot of force.” They practice that together, Wash again slowly demonstrating instead of actually performing, and Tucker attempting and eventually succeeding.

At the end of the night, Tucker is tired, but he feels good about himself. He thanks Wash, and the blond gives him a look.

“For what?” he asks.

“I dunno,” Tucker says with a shrug. “Teaching me all this stuff, I guess. I know I made a dumb decision, but you totally could’ve just left me lonely and defenseless. So… Thanks for not doing that.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’d be alive right now if it weren’t for you, Tucker. So… Thank you.”

Tucker nods, and grabs his stuff before heading home.

When he gets home, he spends some time trying to get his homework done, but finds himself relatively distracted. His phone is off to the side and on Do-Not-Disturb, but that’s not his problem. His wrists tingle dangerously as he swipes his pen across paper, and he slowly finds his own mind wandering back to the feeling of being held together. He thinks about how Wash’s hands moved skillfully over anything he happened to touch, how confident the blond was. He thinks about his own confidence, how he wasn’t afraid to be rendered defenseless in the presence of Wash- a stark contrast to the way he reacted previous times. He thinks about how sure Wash was, pressing cuffs, rope, or zip ties around Tucker’s wrists without ever making the restraints too tight or too loose. Making sure Tucker was okay, that he was comfortable.

It takes a moment for him to realise he had wrapped his own hand over his wrist, rubbing gently where the rope had pressed into his skin earlier. He quickly releases his hand, picking up his pen as he shakes his head. Shakes his head to clear his thoughts, clear his mind, focus his brain on his work. But he wonders if Wash would hold that same sense of certainty in… other situations. Being so sure of himself, knowing exactly what he was doing in order to make Tucker-

Tucker shoves his books aside quickly, shuts off his light and closes his eyes. This was not/ going to be a thing he would let himself indulge in. Wash was a killer, a trained killer. Tucker takes a breath, ignores his own thoughts, and forces himself to go to sleep before the things in his brain get any worse.

Returning to Wash on Wednesday was almost unbearably awkward. He had spent the entirety of Tuesday ignoring a stinging burn in his wrists that itches to have him restrained again. He knew they would continue their work with restraint and escape, but he also knew that they wouldn’t stay on ropes and cuffs and zip ties for the entirety of the week. Eventually he’d have to get over the loss of pressure around his wrists, because there was no way-

“I think that, since we’ve kind of started a little backwards, I’m going to just stick with the trend. Today, and probably for a bit of tomorrow, I’m going to show you how to get out of certain pins. Various things like chokeholds and- are you okay?” Wash stops in the middle of his explanation as he notices Tucker has frozen in the middle of checking over Wash’s injuries. “Is something wrong, Tucker?”

Chokeholds? Pins? For fuck’s sake… Tucker thinks. He takes a breath, and then risks a glance at Wash’s face. He looks almost worried. Tucker shakes his head quickly, clearing his mind. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. I just remembered something, that’s all. It’s cool.”

Wash regards him carefully for a moment, before nodding. “Alright,” he says. He takes a second to remember what he was saying. “Alright, but yes. I think that’ll be our focus for today and tomorrow. There’s a lot of ways to get out of certain pins, but there’s also plenty of ways to get caught in them. So once we’ve taught you a couple of the more common holds, I’ll teach you how to avoid getting into them in the first place. And that should just about make up our week. That sound good to you?”

Tucker rubs a hand over his face as he nods slowly. “Yeah, yeah sure. That’s cool.” He can’t stand being so close to Wash anymore, so he finishes up and steps back, letting Wash get up. He looks at Tucker for a moment, a curious gaze reflecting briefly in his expression before he looks around.

“Tucker, are you sure you’re alright?” Wash asks.

“Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m cool. It’s cool. I’m all good, baby,” Tucker assures quickly, pausing for a moment as he registers his words before bringing his hands out in front of him quickly to apologise profusely. “Holy fuck, oh my God, why did I say that, I’m so sorry-”

“Tucker, what is with you today?” Wash has this flustered look on his face that could be seen as positively adorable if Tucker hadn’t known the man was capable of snapping another man’s neck with ease.

“I don’t know, man,” Tucker whines. “I don’t know. I do that sometimes, I don’t know why. It’s just a thing, I guess.”

“What, calling people baby?”

Tucker looks away. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I don’t really know why. It’s something my parents did a lot with their friends.” Friends? Are we friends now? He asks himself. Before he has any time to get lost in his own mind again, Wash shrugs and gestures to Tucker.

“Let’s get started, Tucker. I think we’ll spend today on standing holds and pins, since I’m still dealing with my leg and all. I don’t think the pressure of kneeling or laying will do much good for the injury.” Wash shifts slightly, as if to prove his point. Tucker just agrees wordlessly. It’s not like he knew enough to be able to protest, anyway. Seeing his nod, Wash looks around for a moment, twisting his mouth slightly as he thinks about where to start. “Alright. Uh… Considering how you reacted last time I had you against the wall-” he cuts off with a glance as Tucker snorts and quickly covers it with a cough, “-maybe we should stay away from it for now. Come here, we’ll start with just… Some simple stuff, for now, I guess.”

Tucker is a little curious about Wash’s rather sudden change in demeanor, but he doesn’t say anything, because he’s sure they’re both acting a little weird to each other at the moment. Without a word, Tucker walks over to Wash until the blond puts his hand up, stopping Tucker with gentle pressure to his chest. “That’s good enough,” he says lowly, avoiding meeting Tucker’s eyes for the briefest of seconds before taking a steady breath and making eye contact. Tucker can visibly see the moment the blond goes from Wash to Washington, his shoulders straightening and eyes hardening slightly as he goes into “teacher mode”. It makes Tucker shiver slightly, but only a little. So maybe he’s just cold.

“Alright, Tucker, I know that in the past you’ve kind of had uncertainties about letting me get anywhere near you with anything that might be dangerous, right?” Wash doesn’t let Tucker answer. “I need you to 100 percent trust me here, because this is important and your life may depend on it some day. Okay? My hands will be around your neck, but yours will be around mine, too. I’ll have you in a headlock, but you’ll have me, too. Later today, we’ll be against the wall. This is a mutual activity, we do this together. We have to trust each other not to hurt one another. I, personally, know I’m on board. I need you to be, too. Are you on board?”

Tucker stares at Wash for a moment, a little scared, but also slightly amazed at the amount of care he’s showing. He feels his wrists start to tingle again, and pauses to glance at Wash’s hands, before taking a breath. He thinks about how easy it was for him to let Wash restrain him. He nods slowly. “Yeah. I’ll do my best,” he agrees. Wash nods back.

“Alright, then. Give me your hands,” Wash says, holding his hands out. Tucker lifts his own, his palms feeling heavy as he lets Wash lift his arms up. “Don’t choke me, okay? This is just a demonstration. Here, wrap your hands around my neck.” He lifts his chin slightly. “A little tighter, yeah, that’s okay. Alright, this is a two-handed choke. It’s not really used all that often in my field of work, but you never really know what’s going to happen, so I’ll just teach you whatever comes to mind. So usually, what people would try to do is put their arms between their attackers and try to push them apart, push them off, whatever. Or they try to pull them apart with their hands. That’s not ideal, and if your attacker is bigger and stronger than you, then it definitely won’t work.

“What you should do instead,” Wash explains, showing Tucker the incorrect ways as he speaks, “Is tense up your neck, draw it back like this, and then push your whole upper body, head, shoulders, chest- push it forwards and down, ducking under their wrists. The idea is to put a good majority of your body weight against their thumbs, since that’s the weakest point. You’ll use your momentum to turn and run, afterwards. Because like I said before, if you can run, do it.” Wash shows Tucker slowly at first, and then they set back up and Wash demonstrates the move faster. Tucker is almost amazed at how easy it is for Wash to be in a situation like this.

He steps back slightly to let Tucker know that he doesn’t have to worry about setting up again, and says, “If you put your weight into the weakest point of their hands, then odds are you’ll escape. This goes to most other pins, as well. If they have your hands above your head, slide your wrists to whatever side their thumb is on. Any time they’ve got your hands on you, you move to whatever side their thumbs are on. If that’s the left, the right, forward, doesn’t matter. That’s the weakest point, and that’s where you should send your weight.” Tucker nods a little, understanding. “Do you want to try it?”

There’s a pause, the air heavy between them. Finally, Tucker nods again. “Yeah, I think I can do this. Just… You won’t hurt me, right?”

“I would never,” Wash assures.

Tucker takes a deep breath. “Alright, I guess…” He steps a little bit closer, within arms length of Wash, and lets the taller blond wrap his hands around his throat. The slight pressure he adds for effect has Tucker slightly worried, but it never goes beyond his point of comfort. Grey eyes watch Tucker’s face closely, and Tucker waits for the signal to make his first attempt.

“Alright, try it. Remember, go low, put your whole body into it- Yeah! There you go, that’s it,” Wash says brightly. “That was good, Tucker. Let’s try again.”

They work on it for a few minutes, stepping into the action with various scenarios of how Tucker might end up having his neck grabbed in this way, and Wash encouraging Tucker to act as quickly as he can. He wants to make sure that Tucker can register a movement and react to it with as little wasted time as possible. When Wash feels that Tucker has performed well enough, they take a brief moment to drink some water before moving into the next type.

“That was really good,” Wash says, taking a sip from his bottle. Tucker nods in acknowledgement. His face feels like it’s on fire, and his throat sings in protest. He feels open and exposed without Wash’s hands on him now, and it’s strange. He tries to ignore it. Over time, as they got more comfortable, Wash began to put a bit more pressure on Tucker’s throat, making it more and more difficult for Tucker to get out. But he managed to succeed each time, and was met with small grins and words of encouragement. It made him feel good, like he finally had some redeemable quality about himself.

“Alright, ready to move on?” Wash asks. Tucker takes a breath and nods a little. “Okay. This one is more likely to happen, but should only happen if you fail to keep your six guarded. This is the headlock I mentioned. Come stand behind me.” Tucker moves accordingly, and waits patiently for the next direction.

“Bring your hands up, wrap your non-dominant arm around my shoulders, like so,” he grabs Tucker’s wrist and pulls his arm across his shoulders, bending Tucker’s arm at the elbow so that Tucker holds Wash flush against his chest. Tucker lets out a small breath, feeling it fan across his own face as it hits the back of Wash’s neck. “Alright, now bring your other hand up, grab your non-dominant wrist, and pull back. Pull, secure it tight. Okay, that’s a little too tight, loosen up a bit. There. You’re holding?” Tucker nods.

He barely has time to register what happens before he realises Wash has managed to twist out of the lock, and shoved Tucker away. Tucker blinks, shaking his head with confusion. “What the fuck?”

“Do you want to see how I did it?”

“Isn’t that the point of this?”

Wash shrugs. “Here, pull me back into the lock.” He stands in front of Tucker again, letting him wrap his arm around his neck again. “Okay. So what’s going to happen here, is you’ll want to go towards their hands, right? Because that’s the weaker point. If you go towards their arm, they’ll just catch your head and keep you there tighter. So, you’ll want to take a step forward with the leg on the side of their hands, and then bring your other leg back and between the two of you, stepping outside. This will twist your body, and you can bring your head down and under their arms, and then you use your hands to quickly shove your attacker away. I’ll do it slowly.” Wash performs each step, reiterating them as he moves and then gently pushing Tucker away with a small step back. “Think you can do that?”

“Uh… Yeah, I think? Actually, can I see it one more time?” Tucker asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, of course,” Wash agrees, demonstrating it again. This time, Tucker feels more certain.

“Alright, yeah, I think I got this," he says, grinning a little. Wash steps behind him, and he immediately feels less sure of himself.

"If you want me to stop and let go, just say so. This is only training, and I don't want you to associate these lessons with stress since you absolutely need to have a level head when you're put under pressure," Wash says, pulling Tucker back against his chest and wrapping his arm around his neck. He holds Tucker close, and Tucker can't help the heat that rises to his cheeks, flushing his entire face a bright red. He has to consciously refrain from pressing closer to Wash, reminding himself of the reason that this is happening.

"Okay," Tucker breathes. "Just tell me when."

"Whenever you're ready," Wash responds. His breath warms the side of Tucker's head and ear, where Wash speaks. Tucker can't tell if Wash has lowered his voice because of their proximity, or if he's lowered his voice because he feels just as awkward. Or if maybe Tucker is imagining things. He takes a breath, prepares himself to leave the warmth of Wash's hold, and manages to succeed in his performance on the first try, with the exception of not pushing Wash too hard because of his injuries. He looks at Wash with happy, genuine shock and pride. Wash gives a small smile back, and lowers his arms slowly. Tucker glances over the blond's face, admiring the way the smile fits his features so nicely. Then he notices their maintained proximity, and Tucker quickly steps back, avoiding Wash's eyes.

"Do you want to try again? Like with the other one? Practice it a few times and then test you in a couple scenarios?" Wash asks. Tucker hesitates. Could he handle being so close to Wash for so long?

Do I want to miss this opportunity to be close to Wash for so long? He asks himself, then looks at Wash and nods. "Yeah. Let's do that. I'm okay," he says, assuring Wash's uncertain look. They practice for some time, but don't linger on that particular exercise for too long because of the closeness it requires, and the potential for Tucker to accidentally hurt Wash by shoving him too hard. When they finally decide to move on, Wash seems a little unsure.

"That's really all there is for standing holds. The rule is generally the same, go for the weakest points; thumbs or hands. The next few are…" Wash trails off slowly, glancing at the far wall. "They're wall pins. But if you're not comfortable, I can come up with a different plan." Tucker follows his line of sight, and sighs softly.

"No, we should continue. I have to get over myself eventually," he resigns quietly. He makes his way over to the wall, leaning against it subtly. Wash watches, and follows him slowly after a second.

"We'll follow the same pattern as with the other two. I'll show you how to do it, and then you'll practice it a few times. It's what makes you seem more comfortable, from what I've noticed." Wash turns his back to the wall, and presses against it firmly. "Stand in front of me, here."

Tucker is slow to move into place, fidgeting a little bit. He wonders if Wash remembers his smart-ass remark the first night they met. He knows that Wash has already said he wasn't in the right headspace, but, at the same time, he doesn't seem to have any problem recalling the events from that night. Then again, actions and feelings tend to stick better than words do. Tucker can feel himself becoming increasingly concerned about how he'll react to being held against the wall by Wash again. And not all of his concern is focused on the bad reactions.

“Alright, Tucker,” Wash starts, pausing to think about where he wants to start. “The next few things I’m going to show you are going to be very similar to the other two pins, but being against the wall gives your attacker the advantage because they can apply more pressure, and you have less room to make a move. I think we can do a couple choke holds, and maybe a few pins with arms above heads and all that.” He seems to be trying very hard to word his explanations as appropriately as possible, pausing and rethinking his sentences as he says them. Tucker nods along, trying to stay focused and not think about what a fucking embarrassment it would be if he somehow ended up turned on during all this.

“So, okay, uh… Let’s start, I guess. Here, put your hand like this,” Wash grabs Tucker’s hand and pulls him closer, guiding him to his neck, “and uh… Yeah, that’s okay, the pressure is fine, get that look off your face. So, obviously, there’s a weak point in this, right? You’ve only got your thumb on this one side. So that’s what I’ll take advantage of, and you really just won’t be able to stop me.” As if to prove his point, Wash pushes his palm against Tucker’s arm, essentially shoving it off of his neck as he rotates and then wraps his arm around the back of Tucker’s neck and pulls lightly. He stays there for a moment to let Tucker register what happened, before letting go and stepping back as he raises an eyebrow. “Think you can do that? It’s pretty simple.”

Tucker nods, though he’s a little worried about pulling too tightly. He just has to stay calm. He presses himself to the wall, and watches Wash warily as the blond approaches. He seems a little concerned, maybe a bit uncomfortable, but neither of them say anything for the sake of Tucker learning to defend himself. Wash stands in front of Tucker, shifting his weight from one leg to the other slowly. Tucker waits, because there’s really not much else he can do.

A beat passes between the two where they find the confidence to make eye contact, holding it for a few seconds before Wash nods, and Tucker responds similarly. Wash still seems hesitant, but he finally brings his hand up to Tucker’s neck, his grip turning firm, but not unfriendly. Tucker’s first response is to tilt his head up slightly, wanting to avoid the touch in any unnecessary places, like under his chin. Wash gives Tucker a silent ‘go-ahead’ to make his first attempt, and Tucker takes a short breath before pushing out of Wash’s grip with ease. He lets go of him and looks at Wash brightly, and it’s like all of the tension that had stood between the two had dissipated with that simple step.

“Good, that was good,” Wash says, trying to keep his voice even. Tucker nods. “Come back, we’ll do it again. Like the rest.”

Tucker returns, keeping his mouth shut as the pressure of Wash’s hand returns to his neck. He finds it much easier to fix his gaze on Wash’s face, not quite so uncomfortable anymore. It was almost like that was his version of a test for Wash- as if he was finally getting his answer for whether Wash would ever actually harm him. And the blond passed.

“I appreciate your trust, Tucker,” Wash whispers softly, and the amount of genuine feeling behind the softly spoken words shakes Tucker to his core. It’s enough to make Tucker shift aside his inappropriate intentions for a while, because it makes him understand the importance of focus and effort for these drills.

“It’s cool,” Tucker responds, trying to keep his composure. “It’s… Nevermind.”

Wash gives him a brief look, but brushes it off and gives Tucker the nod to try again. They keep at it for some time, and eventually Tucker’s good enough that they feel like they’re just about ready to move on.

“One more time?” Wash offers, standing a little ways away.

“Sheesh, Wash, if you want me against the wall so bad, you just have to ask,” Tucker remarks boldly. Tucker watches with a grin as Wash’s face lights up red with blush, before he shoots Tucker a look.

“I did ask, Tucker. One more time?” Tucker coughs out the water he was drinking, shaking his head quickly.

“Woah, who are you and what did you do with Wash?” Tucker scratches his head, avoiding making eye contact. Wash laughs- actually laughs. Tucker stares, amazed. It takes a moment for the blond to recompose himself. He looks at Tucker with a small smile, before it drops suddenly as he sees Tucker’s expression.

“What?” Wash asks seriously, tilting his head slightly. “Did I say something wrong? Is there something up?”

Tucker shakes his head quickly and looks away with a soft smile. “No,” he says, looking up again, “I’ve just… I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh like that before.”

Wash rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Eh, one of my specialties, I suppose,” he says smoothly.

“I can show you my specialty,” Tucker offers, moving one of his hands subtly to his crotch with a stupid grin. Wash flushes red again and covers his face quickly, looking away.

“God, Tucker, stop. Let’s just move on,” he chuckles softly. “Besides, what happened to dinner first, hm?” Tucker almost misses that last part with how quiet it was. He bites his lip softly.

“You remember that?” He asks softly. “I thought you were out of your head that night?”

Wash shrugs again. “Yeah, I was. It was that line being one of the least expected lines ever that got me to snap out of it, though. So it’s a little hard to forget, considering it saved your life and mine.”

Tucker supposes it makes sense. He rubs the back of his head awkwardly for a moment before sighing. “I couldn’t really think of anything else. I was confused and scared, and when I’m put into uncomfortable situations I tend to-”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Tucker. It’s okay. I get it. Stress does weird things to the mind and body. Come on, let’s keep moving. We don’t have all day,” Wash interrupts, gesturing. Tucker takes a breath, then nods.

The rest of the night goes much smoother, and Tucker couldn’t be happier with it.

Tucker never thought he would hate being on the floor as much as he did currently. Somehow, there was something far more embarrassing about being pinned on the ground when there were no hard feelings, in comparison to when there was a real reason to be pinned to the floor. Wash had shown him previously how to get out of this specific hold, but he was struggling to remember everything because holy hell, a hot blond was straddling his hips and had his hands around his neck. Wash was being careful, of course, and neither of them were too concerned about his thigh, though it was something that Tucker kept in the back of his mind. But Tucker was mostly preoccupied by the blond’s face that leaned closer curiously, blinking slowly.

“Tucker? Are you alright? You remember what to do, right? Do you need me to show you again? Should I get up?” Wash asks. The concern was touching, but Tucker was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed.

“No, no, Wash, it’s alright. I- I got this. I got this,” he assures, though he’s not sure if it’s for himself or for Wash’s sake that he does so. Tucker takes a breath, staring up at Wash before finally bringing his hands up to the blond’s shoulders.

“Right, and then at the same time as you move your hips, push me off to the-” Wash cuts off with a gasp as Tucker follows the instructions to a T, coughing softly and looking at Tucker with wide eyes. “Holy shit, perfect. Once your attacker is off of you, you have a couple options, but like I said-”

“I know, I know. If there’s an opportunity to run, take it. Sheesh, Wash,” Tucker sighs, releasing the blond’s wrists. Wash smiles and sits up, and Tucker follows suit. They sit there for a moment, before Wash gestures for Tucker to get on his back again.

“Come on, then. Let’s run it again. You know the drill.”

A couple of minutes later, Tucker finds himself on top of Wash for a change as the blond demonstrates another way to get out of the same kind of pin. They sit and talk for a moment, since Tucker isn’t heavy enough to do anything significant to Wash’s body’s ability to continue to function(like cutting off blood circulation or something). It makes Tucker wonder how long he could get Wash to sit like this with him, completely vulnerable beneath him. Well, not completely vulnerable, since he is still a trained assassin, but… mostly vulnerable, if he wants to be. Tucker is suddenly and very unpleasantly thrown off to the side, and finds himself stuck in the position he had Wash under, staring up at the blond with wide eyes. “Yo, what the hell, man?” He asks, startled.

“You weren’t paying attention. I could see it in your eyes, you spaced out. I need you to focus, Tucker, and if sitting like this is the only way you’ll keep your eyes on me, then so be it,” Wash responds seriously. Tucker bites his lip softly. Was I really that obvious? Or is he just stupidly observant?

Tucker looks at Wash, who’s staring back at him with disappointment written all over his features. “Uh… Right. Another way to escape the mount. Uh…” Tucker trails off slowly. Wash sighs.

“Alright, so first of all you’re going to want to keep your elbows as close to your body as possible. You don’t want your attacker to be able to come up any further than where he starts.” Wash says, pushing Tucker’s elbows against his sides gently. “I’ve got you here like this, and what you’re going to do is bring your right arm across to my left side, and wrap your hand around my wrist like so…” Wash trails off to show Tucker, and then continues, “and your other hand will come back here to hold my tricep, keeping my arm locked in place. Because if you’ve got your right hand in a grip like that, then the only way I can get out is by pulling back, so you’ve got to prevent that too.”

Tucker nods, holding on tight while still trying to be gentle. He tries not to think about the subtle feel of Wash’s muscles bunched beneath his fingertips, keeping his eyes trained on Wash’s face as he continues to speak. He also tries much, much harder to not think about the warmth of Wash’s body pressed so close to his own.

“Alright, now cross your left foot over my right calf, like that, yep, and do the same for the other foot, yeah. And now, from here, just lift your hips the same way as with the other, and since you have my arm-” he cuts off as the air is pushed out of him with the force of the move, and he takes a moment to regain the lost breath before blinking up at Tucker. “Yeah, just like that. Good.”

Tucker smiles down at him. “I paid attention, see?”

Wash rolls his eyes, and assesses the way Tucker is situated above himself with a quick glance, before shifting slightly, and flipping their positions again. “Yeah, I see. But you’re not going to have time to brag about being able to get out of someone’s mount before they have you locked again- and more securely. You have to push away as soon as you’re free.”
Tucker huffs, and Wash pulls back, shifting back to the middle of the floor so that they can continue without the threat of bumping into anything around them. “Whatever, let’s just keep going,” Tucker sighs.

“Okay!” Wash says loudly, clapping. “Today I’m going to show you a couple different ways to help you be able to jump back into action and get back on your feet when you’re pushed down. I’ll show you the proper way to protect your head, and the best way to fall when pushed because, let’s face it, your first instinct when you’re shoved is to do what?”

“...Haven’t we done this already?”

Washington stops for a moment, considering it. After a second, he hums. “Yes,” he says, “but you pussied out so we didn’t get very far. You chose your trigger word, and then refused to let me show you how to control your pain.”

“Oh.” Tucker sighs. “Wait- 'pussied out'? Seriously, Wash? That’s what you’re going to call it?”

“Yes. Now, you should remember what I had explained if you remember that we had started on this topic before. However, just in case you don’t, here’s a little recap: If you happen to be knocked off balance- let it happen. I’m going to show you how to do that.” Wash grins. Tucker is glad that they’re finally moving on from pins and holds, because yesterday brought him way too close to being turned on than he would ever care to admit to anybody. Granted, he didn’t really have any choice when he inevitably told Donut about it, but all he got from the blond in response was a knowing- albeit, disappointed- look. He wasn’t as thrilled to be back on the topic of pain reception, but he supposed it could be worse. At least he now knew he wasn’t in any real danger with Wash.

“And, just to clarify, you’re not actually going to like, hit me or anything, right?” Tucker asks cautiously. “I mean, I know you won’t, or at least I hope you won’t, but I-... I guess it’s nice to have that reassurance?”

Wash sighs. “No, Tucker, I’m not going to hurt you. Nothing we do today will hurt you, unless you let it. C’mere.” He gestures, and Tucker steps closer, glancing at the blond’s thigh and noticing how he’s relaxed significantly on putting weight on his leg. Tucker smiles slightly. A sudden, sharp pain shoots up his shoulder suddenly, and Tucker shifts back immediately, bringing his hand to his upper arm.

“Ow! What the fuck!” he shouts, surprised and feeling betrayed.

“Oh, come on. That didn’t hurt, Tucker. All I did was pinch you! And not even that hard!” Wash defends.

“Yes it did, prick! Sheesh,” Tucker pouts.

Wash rolls his eyes. “Alright, then, let me rephrase,” he says. “It shouldn’t have hurt. Come here.”

Despite knowing where this was going, Tucker approached again anyway, shifting back towards the blond. Immediately, without warning, Wash brought his hand up and pinched Tucker again. Tucker watched the whole time, glaring at the blond. But the sharp pain from the surprise factor was no longer there, and in the end it was just a small pinch. Wash smiles knowingly at Tucker’s lack of response. “Shut up,” Tucker grumbles.

“You see, the thing about pain is that it’s mostly a result of surprise. The unexpectedness of it amplifies your feelings. So in a fight, you should expect to get hit, no matter the situation. If you expect it, then when it actually comes, you won’t hurt as much. You’ll still feel it, of course, and a hard enough hit will pull a reaction out of you even without the pain factor, but it’ll be easier to come back from. Hit me.”

Tucker was on the verge of zoning out when Wash’s last two words shocked him back to the present. Tucker draws his eyebrows together. “What? No! I’m not going to hit you,” he denies immediately.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Tucker mumbles.

Wash laughs, but it’s not the genuine laugh from before. It’s more mocking than anything. “Tucker, believe me when I say that you won’t hurt me. Trust me, and hit me.”

Tucker still hesitates, but eventually sighs defeatedly. “Okay, where?” he asks reluctantly.

“I dunno, anywhere. Surprise me,” Wash responds with a smirk.

Tucker rolls his eyes at the sass and throws a punch, remembering the way it felt to hit the wood block. His fist connects roughly with Wash’s side, and the blond barely does more than step backwards a few paces to regain his balance. Once he’s recomposed, he casually approaches Tucker again.

“See? Not so bad. Remind me to keep you on the heavy bag for longer, though. Your punch is still a little on the weaker side.”

Tucker scoffs. As if he’d remind Wash to make him do more work. He freezes, then nods defeatedly at the look Washington’s giving him. They stand for a moment, Tucker thinking about how easily Wash had basically just ignored the fact that he was punched. Is that how he had managed to take a bullet so well? Will Tucker be able to do that? He’s drawn out of his thoughts with a subtle cough.

“Alright, moving on. Unfortunately I don’t have a mat, so you’re probably going to get some pretty nasty bruises and a headache, but the next thing we’ll work on is protecting your head. I know your instinct is going to tell you to stop your fall, but that’s not going to do you any good. You’ll just hurt your wrists, and there’s no guarantee that you’ll actually successfully stop yourself from bashing your head on the floor. No matter what happens, I need you to protect your head at all costs.” Wash sounds genuinely stressed about it, and Tucker can’t bring himself to do anything other than nod. “So what you’re going to do is bring your arms up like this- yeah, follow my lead- and place your hands behind your head like so. Palm over palm. Tilt your head down. Yeah. The meat of your arms will protect you if you land on your sides, and your hands will protect the back of your head. This is essential.”

“So what, are you going to push me?” Tucker asks, dropping his arms when Wash does.

“No, you’re going to fall. We can do a trust fall exercise if you want, but only once or twice before you have to start hitting the ground. And you have to keep your head protected, no matter how worried you are about hitting the floor. But the trust fall exercise really won’t do much for you except get you comfortable with the feeling of air rushing past you, to be honest.”

Tucker thinks about it for a moment. On one hand, he doesn’t know how well he’ll be able to convince himself not to panic. On the other hand, he does know that, now that he understands what Wash means by controlling his pain, it won’t be as bad as it could have been, and he’ll be able to take the fall physically. He just has to accept it mentally. Biting his lip softly, he mumbles, “I think I’ll be okay without the trust fall thing.”

Wash gets this mild approving look in his eyes that Tucker tries to ignore. “Alright. The other thing is that-” he cuts himself off, hesitating for a moment before sighing. “Okay, don’t make any jokes here. This is serious. Have you heard of the phrase ‘trust your gut’?”

Tucker tilts his head slightly, a little bit worried about why Wash would think Tucker could make any jokes here. Tucker nods slowly.

“Alright, same premise here for taking a fall, but in this case, your phrase will be ‘trust your butt’. You’ll have a much easier fall if you land on your ass and then roll back, trust me. Actually, that’s where we’re going to start. Watch me, then do it yourself.” Wash takes a moment, takes a breath, and then drops down and rolls backwards, bringing his arms up to protect his head as he falls. He lands on the floor unharmed, and looks up at Tucker. “Let out a breath as you fall, it’ll help you focus and get back up if you can take in air the second you’re out of harm’s way.”

They spend a bit more time working on falling, and it takes Tucker multiple tries to not immediately move to catch himself when they were falling forwards, but by the end of the night Tucker is falling with the utmost confidence in his ability to fall safely. Granted, his hips, shoulders and elbows are littered with bruises, and his knuckles are grazed slightly from the floor of the house, but otherwise he’s okay.

By Saturday morning, he’s ready to continue his lessons with Wash, pulling open the door with a loud groan and making his way into the cellar, bringing along snacks and water and extra medical supplies that are now mostly just in case any minor injuries happen while they’re on the floor or if they bump into something. He’s already opened the basement door when he realises that Wash is already talking to someone.

Chapter Text

The second voice is rough and masculine, so Tucker already knows it’s not Wash’s boss. Tucker hesitates, not sure if he should intrude on them. They sound friendly, so it’s not like he has to worry about Wash being in danger. After a few more seconds of deliberation, Tucker pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps through, shutting it as he announces his arrival. “Hey, Wash. I’m here.” He lets himself get to the living room before asking about the other individual. “Who are you talking to?”

Wash looks over at Tucker for a moment and gives him a short wave, answering the other male- taller than Tucker, about the same height as Wash, short brown hair, dressed casually to fit in with the atmosphere of the room. The left side of his face is scarred over, his eye completely blind- before turning to Tucker fully. Wash clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then bites his lip. “Uh,” he says, “Tucker. You’re here.”

Tucker glances between Wash and the other male, before nodding. “Yeah? I’m supposed to be?”

“Yeah but, it’s, like… Early.”

“Not really? I mean, maybe I woke up a little earlier than usual but still. Who’s this?” Tucker gestures.

The guy hasn’t said anything since Tucker walked in, but there’s a small smirk gracing his lips, and he’s got a knowing look, as if he’s in on some joke that Tucker doesn’t fully understand. But he speaks up, and introduces himself, since Wash appears to be frozen. “I’m York,” he says, approaching Tucker with his hand out. Tucker recognizes the state name, but still glances at Wash before putting his hands up and going defensive. York seems mildly impressed. “Wow,” he says, glancing back at Wash, “you have been teaching him things. But relax, kid. I’m sure Wash would kick my ass if I did anything to you. Tucker, was it?”

Tucker straightens his back slightly, lowering his hands but still remaining cautious until Wash gives him the okay. He takes York’s hand and shakes it as he nods. “Yeah. Lavernius Tucker, but only close friends and family call me Lavernius, and sometimes they still choose not to.” York nods and releases the handshake, stepping back.

“You’re the one who’s been helping Wash, yeah? And gave him the phone and all that?” York glances back at the blond, who seems to have shaken himself out of his own mind, and is watching the two with interest.

Tucker follows York’s look for a moment before nodding. “Uh…,” Tucker mumbles. “Yeah, I guess. Unless there’s some other Tucker that I don’t know about.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

York chuckles softly, and claps a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Well, you’ve done a pretty good job with him, kid. I’ll give you that.” Tucker forces himself to refrain from flinching away from the hand on his shoulder. He looks to Wash for help.

“Alright, that’s enough introductions, then,” Wash says, stepping forward a few paces. York’s hand drops off Tucker subtly. Tucker is trying to remember what Wash told him about York in his stories. Wash seems to pause, then tilts his head slightly. “Actually, York, didn’t you say you brought Delta with you today?” York glances between Wash and Tucker, then nods a little, seeming cautious. “Why don’t we introduce those two, then?” Wash suggests.

Tucker sees the way York hesitates, before finally sighing. “Yeah, I’ll go get him,” he agrees, pulling out his phone as he heads towards the basement door. York pauses there, laughing softly. “He sent me a message about a “stranger” trying to enter. Guess he saw you, Tucker.”

Tucker’s still not used to being directly referred to, and hesitates in his response. By the time he feels like he has something to say, York has disappeared down into the basement. Wash immediately shakes his head quickly, and lets out a heavy breath.

“So…,” Tucker says slowly.

“That’s York. He’s a coworker of mine. You should remember some of what I’ve said about him, right?”

Tucker hesitates. “He’s the one who’s probably the closest to being a regular friend, right? And uh, I can see why you said he’s not the best at ranged cover…” Tucker trails off.

“He’s also our infiltration specialist,” Wash reminds Tucker. Tucker apparently doesn’t hide his surprise very well. “What? You didn’t know that? Could’ve swore I told you… Oh, I might not have mentioned him by name. He usually does the phone reprogramming thing for us,” Wash reiterates.

“Oh,” Tucker confirms. “Yeah, I remember now. He’s-”

“Talking about me when I’m not here, huh?” York’s voice calls, cutting Tucker off with a lighthearted tone.

“I was just reminding him of a few small things I’ve mentioned about you before,” Wash assures mildly. York raises an eyebrow.

“So you talk about me even when I’m not here?” He asks, and there’s a slight edge to his voice now.

“No,” Wash responds quickly. “Not really, I mean. Listen, man, I’m not stupid. I haven’t said anything significant. What he and I do is for his safety, because he decided to get invol-”

“Would you please quit talking about me like I’m not here?” Tucker interrupts with a huff. “I understand the whole ‘top secret’ bullshit and I have no plans to put you or the rest of your team or the rest of your company in danger. I haven’t mentioned anything about these lessons to anyone except Donut, and he’s sworn to silence, even if he’s a pain in my ass about it. The rest of my friends just think I’m going to the gym now.” Tucker shrugs mildly.

York stares at Tucker for a few long seconds of silence before giving a curt nod, and turning towards the figure beside him, who Tucker hadn’t previously noticed. “Delta, go ahead and introduce yourself,” York encourages.

“My name is Delta. I was assigned to Agent New York to assist and learn from him in missions and in training. It’s nice to meet you,” Delta greets politely. The formality throws Tucker off slightly.

“Uh, yeah. Name’s Tucker. Nice to meet you, too,” Tucker responds. “Uh… How old are you?”

“I’m 25. I started training with Agent York when I was 18,” Delta responds with a smile.

Tucker stares at Delta for a few minutes, blinking. He turns to Wash. “Didn’t you say these guys were like, trainees or something? Shouldn’t he be an official agent 7 years into the program?”

Wash bites his lip, humming lightly. “Uh, yes and no. Delta technically isn’t supposed to be working with York anymore. The apprentices were… Sent home? After… After I lost Epsilon.” The room goes quiet for a moment. York is staring at Wash with some sort of surprise written into his expression. York turns to Tucker.

“He told you about that?” York asks.

Tucker glances at Wash and then nods. “Yeah?”

“Agent Washington is rather sensitive about the topic,” Delta explains quietly. “He usually tends to avoid mentioning Epsilon or the others. For him to so freely bring it up of his own accord means he’s comfortable with everyone present, an uncommon feat.”

It takes a moment to register Delta’s words, but once Tucker realises that Delta has essentially driven home the point that Wash is comfortable with Tucker, he can’t help but let a slow smile crawl across his lips. He nudges the blond gently, teasing him quietly. “Aw, Wash, you shouldn’t have,” he coos playfully. Wash shoves Tucker back, pushing him away.

“Shut up,” he mutters. “And don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

Tucker laughs. “Yeah, that seems to be a recurring problem. Anyway, what are these guys doing here?” He gestures, then pauses, and asks them directly. “What are you guys doing here?” Tucker sees the way Delta glances at York for the explanation, rather than just spilling everything he knows. It’s almost admirable, and a little weird.

York hesitates to answer the question, appearing to deliberate on word choice for a few moments. “There’s… The company has picked up on increased activity from a major group of criminals. We’ve- well. I’ve been assigned to ‘scope out’ the area and any potential threats. It’s a little ways away from here, but I figured that while I was nearby I would check on Wash and see how his recovery was coming along. I’m glad to see that he’s being taken care of.” He falls silent for a brief few seconds. “Seeing his recovery, I would say fuck it and just bring him along, like I have Delta with me. It’s low-risk, and I could bring Wash back to HQ with me and he could finish recovery and get back on the field ASAP. God knows we need him,” he pauses with a pointed look at the blond, “and the others are falling apart without our light-hearted teammate.”

Tucker opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but York holds his hand up, imploring Tucker to keep his mouth shut. “But,” York says, “the boss wants Wash to stay here. I don’t know why, don’t ask. I’ve got some more equipment too, since I figured on stopping by when I got the assignment. She told me to bring you some stuff to make sure that you’ll be able to defend yourself, if need be. She doesn’t think there’ll be any problems, but your prolonged stay in this area could… alert someone.” He seems to be talking directly to Wash now, so Tucker just waits his turn.

Wash nods along, listening to York intently. After watching the way they interact, and seeing how Wash seems to hold himself more seriously and uptight, versus his relaxed stance when it’s just himself and Tucker, Tucker finally makes the connection to York being of a higher ‘rank’ than Wash. In this situation, Wash is no longer top dog, and that position goes to York. “That’s great. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out, and I’ll let you or C- uh,” he glances at Tucker. “You or Her know if I see anything out of the ordinary. It’s about damn time I get some more shit to protect myself.” The remark is serious, but carries lighthearted undertones, like he knows better than to doubt his company’s plans.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Tucker finally thinks it’s okay to speak up. “So, uh, Wash,” he refers, “are we going to do any training or…” Tucker fidgets mildly, tapping his fingers lightly against his thighs. He tries to ignore the way York looks at him, his expression curious and impressed, but also cautious. Tucker continues tapping, getting more uncomfortable as the seconds go by.

“Umm,” Wash hums softly. “I figured we could just chill today, actually. That was the plan even before York got here. You’ve been doing pretty well the past few days, and I wanted to let you rest and let your bruises heal a bit before we get into sparring. Uh…” Wash blows a breath out slowly, thinking for a moment. “If York actually brought some like, weapons and shit, I can show you a couple disarming moves if you want. Maybe we can do some knife evasion? Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”

Tucker’s interest is immediately piqued at the mention of knives. “Hell yeah!” he says enthusiastically. “That sounds cool as fuck.”

York seems mildly offended by Wash's remark, scoffing. "'Course I "actually brought" stuff, asshole. Let me go get it. Delta, give me a hand, bud." He takes his leave, and Delta follows shortly after.

While York is gone, Wash turns to Tucker. "So," he says, "the general rule of thumb for knife evasion is the exact opposite of what your natural response will be."

"Isn't that the case with most of what we've learned?" Tucker asks, deadpanning.

It makes Wash pause and think about it for a moment. "I mean, yeah, kind of. I guess so. But anyway, you typically want to stay close. Come here. Hold your hand in a fist like this. Alright, now swing like you have a knife." Tucker hesitates before making the motion, surprised when Wash steps forward to block the hit instead of jumping back to evade. Tucker realises after a beat that their closeness has made it significantly more difficult to bring his arm back to himself, thus making it almost impossible to hit Wash.

Wash can see Tucker making the connection, and almost smiles proudly. "You understand, yeah? If you stay close, your attacker has less space to move, and it'll be harder to swipe the knife at you. Try it, I dare you."

Tucker is about to shift when the door opens again, and York stands, blinking. He grins. "Alright, break it up, lovebirds," he teases. Tucker flushes red, but Wash just rolls his eyes.

"Ignore him," Wash mutters, his warm breath fanning against Tucker's ear and making him shudder subtly, "he's like that to everyone."

"Hey! I see you whispering in his ear! It better not be anything naughty. Or maybe it should be," York laughs. "Then he'd actually have a reason to be as red as he is."

Tucker tries hard to follow Wash's lead and ignore the continued laughter, shifting to try to bring his imaginary knife down on Wash a different way. He's easily intercepted, however, and pulled ever-so-slightly closer as he continues to attempt to swipe at Wash. Their breaths mix together, the soft panting from their short scuffle the only sound throughout the room.

"Did you think you could catch me off guard, Tucker?" Wash finally asks, his voice low and quiet. "Is that what that was?" There's a small smile playing on his lips.

"No," Tucker denies immediately, "well, maybe a little. But you said to ignore him, so I was just, doing what you said."

"Wow, at least this one listens," York acknowledges with a snort. The look he gets from Wash is a warning, and everyone in the room can tell. Tucker backs away from Wash finally, huffing. York gestures to the stuff he and Delta had brought in, that they had placed down while waiting for Wash and Tucker to separate. "This is what we've got for you, Wash. Real weapons, knives and guns, and as much ammunition as we could spare for you. And Delta even went through the truck to find some training knives for you and Tucker to use," York says. He glances at Delta with a smile, acknowledging him with a quiet, "thanks, buddy."

"It is not a problem," Delta responds. He glances quickly at his wrist watch, and his demeanor changes. "We should get a move on, Agent York," he says, "we are on a tight schedule, remember?"

York sighs softly and nods a little. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It was good seeing you Wash, but we gotta head out. Hopefully you'll be back in HQ with us soon. Keep in touch, alright? And remember: protocol comes first."

The last sentence feels more like a warning than a farewell, and Tucker doesn't have any clue what it means, but Wash nods curtly. "I know," he says. York raises an eyebrow, and then gestures to Delta and the two head out, leaving Tucker alone with Wash once again. Tucker waits to hear the cellar door close, and then turns to Washington.

"So…," he says, "about that knife evasion?" He holds up the training knife curiously, examining it. He notes the rough scratches in the rubber and how worn the handle is, and wonders how long this particular knife has been used on the training grounds. Wash takes a breath, rolling his shoulders slowly.

"Right. So you have a basic idea of what you should do in the event of someone attacking you directly. But what should you do if they come from behind?" Wash grabs the knife from Tucker, switching their positions so that he's behind Tucker, holding the knife to his neck, and holding him in place by his shoulder. Tucker freezes, his eyes wide.

"Uh…," Tucker stutters, "try to escape, obviously. But I can't move forward because that's how I get my neck sliced, and I can't duck or I'll get my face sliced. So… I don't know?" He genuinely isn't sure what to do, since just pushing the knife away seems like it'd be too easy to be the correct solution.

Wash hums softly and Tucker wonders if it's a good or bad thing. "Put your hands up, Tucker. Like I taught you, just like you know how. Right, that's good. Can you figure out what to do now?" Wash's voice is soft, and Tucker has to bite his lip softly to refrain from leaning back against the other male. His distraction doesn't go unnoticed, Wash snapping his fingers in front of Tucker's face and pressing the knife harder against Tucker's neck. "Focus! How do you get out of this, Tucker?" Wash demands.

"I don't know!" Tucker relents. "Why the fuck are you asking me, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be teaching me this shit??" He can't help it as his frustration bubbles over, feeling warm with embarrassment.

Wash sighs, and the added warmth to his skin makes Tucker shudder. "It's alright, Tucker. Calm down. Take your right hand, and grab my hand with the knife. Good, grip tighter. Make sure you have a firm hold. Bring your left hand behind mine, and cup my hand. Tightly. Yes. Now, push forward, away from yourself. Make sure you keep your grip firm. Don't let my hand slip out of yours. Pull my arm as far over your shoulder as possible, so that my elbow is in front of your shoulder. Now you can use your right hand to push up on my elbow. In a real situation, this will at least make them drop their knife. If you're lucky, it'll also dislocate their elbow. Remember to use your palm, because the elbow is a hard surface so you strike it with the soft part of your hand."

Once Tucker has been run through each of the steps, Wash pulls his arms back and resituates himself to the original position. "Now, do it again, but faster," Wash says, "and also be careful. Only apply a little bit of force to my shoulder and elbow. You don't want to actually do any damage." Tucker takes a breath and complies, glancing over his shoulder afterwards to check in with Wash before promptly looking away again. He had failed to realise that Wash's face would be so close to his own from being pulled forward. He turns more slowly this time, releasing Wash too.

"Was that better?" He asks, trying to regain control over the rapid beating of his heart before he lets Wash anywhere near him again.

"It was. Let's run it again."

Later on that day, they were working on an evasion tactic that Tucker was having a particularly hard time working with. After all the disarming techniques and special step-by-step escape maneuvers that Wash had been teaching him all day, with both knives and guns, this one was just… avoid getting slashed, pin the knife to his hip, and avoid letting Wash pass the knife to his other hand.

He had such a hard time managing this because he couldn't keep his grip on Wash's hand once he had managed to pin the knife to his hip. While grappling to keep Wash's other hand away, he somehow always managed to slip up and let the knife-wielding hand go. That's why when Tucker finally manages to successfully pin Wash's hand to his hip and place his hand firmly on Wash's shoulder to keep the other arm from wrapping around himself, he's so swept with surprise and joy that he immediately releases Wash and wraps the blond in a tight hug.

For several moments, Tucker lets himself enjoy the happiness he felt from finally succeeding at his task. When he notices that Wash still hasn't moved from his tense stature, he loosens his arms and starts to take a step back. He's stopped in his tracks when he hears the rubber knife clatter to the floor and strong arms pull Tucker closer. He feels the blond slowly relax, accepting the physical affection reluctantly as he rests his head on Tucker's shoulder.

"Good job, Tucker," Wash praises quietly. "You've been working diligently, and it's paying off. I'm proud of you." Tucker tightens his arms around Wash again since it doesn't seem like the male plans on letting go any time soon, and nods a little.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me," he admits. Tucker ends up being the first to let go.

Things only got even more strange from there. On Monday, Wash insisted to Tucker that he was finally feeling one hundred percent better, and that they could actually get into some real sparring. With a reluctant confirmation from Tucker after checking all of his old injuries, they agreed to set some basic rules before they had their first match.

Tucker obviously lost. By a lot.

He barely managed to avoid the first punch that Wash threw, and was promptly knocked on his ass by the second one. Wash placed his boot on Tucker’s chest, pointing the decoy gun at him. “You’d be dead, Tucker,” Wash says, frowning. Tucker rolls his eyes and shoves Wash’s foot off of himself.

“Yeah, no shit, Wash. But it’s fine. I’m not dead. And besides, I wasn’t ready. There wasn’t, like, a countdown or anything. I didn’t expect it. You gotta warn a guy before jumpin’ his bones, man.” Tucker cringes, feeling like that sounded a bit too much like Donut for his liking.

“I’m not- Tucker, what? You think someone is going to count down before they punch you?”

“Uh, yeah? Or at least yell or something. Give me a bit of a warning. Like, ‘oh shit, they’re comin’ for me,’ you know?”

“No! That’s not-” Wash takes a breath, closing his eyes. He reopens them slowly. “Tucker, nobody is going to give you any sort of warning before they attack. Especially not the kind of people I deal with. Let’s go. You can have the honor of the first throw this time.”

Their spars and scuffles went on for what felt like forever that day. They tried a couple of different scenarios too, even going as far as hiding in rooms and initiating surprise attacks. Tucker always lost, but he feels like he had improved, even just a little bit, by the end of the day. He takes a seat next to Wash, huffing after a sip of water.

“You know, I still stand by the fact that you didn’t have to be such a bitch,” Tucker admonishes.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Wash refuses to look at Tucker, the smallest smile curling at the blond’s lips.

“I mean, you didn’t have to kick my ass so hard. You couldn’t have maybe, I don’t know, let me win? Not even once?”

“No, Tucker. That wouldn’t have taught you anything.”

Tucker leans back and groans. “Why does everything have to be a lesson with you?”

Wash doesn’t respond for a while, letting silence settle between them. “Because, Tucker,” he says finally, “we don’t know when, if, you’re going to have people showing up at your door demanding information on me and my company. You’ve gotten yourself in a lot by involving yourself with me. You know this. So it’s going to take a lot to make sure that you’re prepared for anything.”

“Geez, it was a joke,” Tucker mumbles.

“Yeah, well, this could be your life on the line that we’re talking about,” Wash reminds him, “and I don’t want to cut any corners.”

Tucker feels strangely touched by Wash’s show of care. He stares at the empty water bottle in his hands for a few minutes before getting up. “Welp, I gotta head home. I’ll uh… I’ll see you on Wednesday. For more of… This.” Tucker waves casually, grabs his stuff, and leaves.

It’s not like he doesn’t want Wash to care about him. He just doesn’t understand why he does. The blond has no reason to give any of a fuck about Tucker. He supposes that the kindness is what does it for him, and that maybe Wash feels the need to repay Tucker for some fucked up reason. Even then, though, Wash didn’t need to go this far. He could’ve given Tucker some basic tips and sent him on his way.

Instead, they’ve spent the past month working together in close proximity. They’ve become… friends, in a way. Tucker closes his eyes, trying to turn his mind off so that he can finally get some rest. He doesn’t know why Wash cares, but it feels good to know that he does.

His phone buzzes, waking him up. He rolls over and checks it, swiping his thumb across the screen to read the message.

[AW]: Goodnight, Tucker.

Tucker smiles to himself, shuts his phone off, and falls asleep.

“Oh my fucking God!” Tucker cheers, sitting up and throwing his arms in the air. “Holy shit! I fucking did it! I beat Agent fucking Washington!” He climbs off of Wash’s back, helping the other male to his feet as they laugh together.

“Yes, congratulations, Tucker. You did it. I’m proud of your progress.” Wash pats Tucker’s shoulder gently, giving a soft, genuine smile. “I’m happy I could be the one to bring you this far. I… never got the opportunity to see Epsilon get to this point.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a badass now, too, so who fucking cares? I’ll kick anybody’s ass.” Tucker dances around like a kid. After all the work he had put into the fighting yesterday, and all the time they spent working on it this morning, Tucker was beyond thrilled to have actually won. The look he gets from Wash has him stopping, though. “What?”

“Tucker. Please just remember that the things you’ve learned will only help you momentarily. These techniques were designed to get you out of trouble with as little harm as possible. They are not fighting moves. You cannot stay and fight. Please, do not stay and fight.”

Tucker stands up straight, recognizing the seriousness. “I know, Wash. But these assholes won’t know what hit ‘em if they do come for me. And that’s all thanks to you! Hell yeah!” He goes back to his victory dance.

Wash watches with mild amusement. “You do know you have to beat me several times before I deem you worthy, right?”

Tucker’s shoulders drop immediately. “Aw man. Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious.”

Tucker tilts his head back dramatically. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll just kick your ass again.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Later that afternoon, while making his way to his last class of the day, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He’s pleasantly surprised to see a message from Wash.

[AW]: hey whens your class done

[LT]: uhh.. Around 3-ish?

[LT]: idk, prof sometimes doesnt let us out right away.

[LT]: why

[AW]: was just wondering if i could come over

[AW]: i need a shower

[LT]: oh. Yeah

[LT]: sure, man. I’ll let you know when I’m omw home

[LT] it’s about the same distance between campus and my apartment, and the house and my apartment

[LT]: but i should be able to get there a little before you so you won’t be waiting outside the door

[AW]: ok thanks

After class, Tucker makes it about 5 minutes into his walk with Donut before remembering to text Wash that he was on his way. Donut splits off where he usually does, heading back to his own place, and Tucker can’t help but look forward to getting back to his apartment. After what feels like such an amazing accomplishment, it’ll be good to see Wash in a more casual setting. They can talk about normal things like…

He blanks, and then realizes that he’s been standing outside his apartment door looking like an idiot for who knows how long.

He pulls his key out of his pocket, grabbing the knob at the same time. It twists open before he even gets the key in the lock, and Tucker immediately knows something is wrong. He takes his bag off and sets it outside his door before opening it slowly and stepping inside. His hands slide against the wall, flicking the light on and sweeping his gaze over his apartment.

Nothing is out of place in his main room. He takes a few more steps inside, leaving the door wide open just in case. Stepping around his couch, he makes his way over to the kitchen and pokes his head inside, glancing around quickly. He grabs a steak knife from by the sink and hides it in the waistband of his pants before moving on to the hallway.

He gets a few paces towards his bedroom door before something clatters behind him and he turns, immediately bringing his hands in front of him. The man before him is unfamiliar, his face mostly obscured by a mask that covers his mouth and nose. Tucker forces himself to think about his training with Wash, refusing to let panic take over.

"CT, inhabitant's home," the male mutters. Tucker quickly turns and places his back to the wall as his bedroom door opens and another figure emerges.

"Who are you?" Tucker demands, glancing between the two quickly. "Why are you in my apartment? What do you want from me?"

"Only information. Cooperate and maybe we'll let you live," 'CT' sighs. Tucker is surprised to hear a female voice. "Where is Agent Washington?"

Tucker tenses. This is it. This is what he's been training for. Literally. "Fuck you," he spits. "I'm not telling you shit."

"Fine. Then you'll just have to come with us."

Tucker turns just in time to block an attack from the male, ducking under his arm and shoving him away towards CT. She sidesteps her partner quickly, steadying him as she passes by, and charges towards Tucker. He realizes she means to tackle him at the last minute, and braces himself for impact, bringing his arms up to his head and taking a breath.

They fall to the floor and she immediately moves to knock Tucker out, but he shoves her off to the side, limited by the close space of the hallway walls. He jabs her in the neck to keep her on the ground for some time and scrambles back to his feet, heading back to the main room of his apartment. Before he can make it to the door, he's tackled back to the ground. He curses, punching wildly at his attacker until he finds himself immobilized, staring up at the male spitefully.

"Why can't you just fucking cooperate?" The male growls.

"Get– off of me!" Tucker responds, bucking his hips and throwing the male over himself, pulling his arms free and getting to his feet again. He notices CT at the hallway door, and glances towards his apartment door. She follows his look, and moves to block his exit. He swears softly.

In his distraction, the male has gotten to his feet and is re-orienting himself, adjusting his mask.

"Come on, kid," CT tries again. "If you just tell us where Agent Washington is, we can be on our way."

"Bullshit, you'll kill me first and then leave," Tucker retorts.

The room is quiet for a moment.

"He's got us there," the male admits.

"Yeah. So. Fuck dying, thanks." Tucker reaches for the knife, pulling it out and gripping it tightly. "Come at me, hoes."

The elevator dings softly a little ways down the hall. Everything stops. Tucker tenses. He glances between CT and her partner, before making a break for it towards the door. He's stopped by CT, who wrenches the knife out of his hand and pins him against her body, holding the knife to his neck and facing the door. Her partner stands at the wall, waiting.

Tucker can't help it. He feels his self control slipping, his breathing picking up as he feels like he's less and less likely to escape this situation alive. CT has his hands pinned behind his back, so he can't escape the way he knows how. And if he warns Wash, he'll be killed for sure. All he can do is wait.

The blond hasn't come into view yet, though, despite several minutes passing since the elevator stopped. Finally, he comes around the corner, standing as far back from the door as possible.

"Tucker!" Wash calls, surprise and concern lacing his voice. His eyes leave Tucker's face, looking up at CT. Wash's eyes narrow. "Connecticut."

"You know this lady??" Tucker shouts.

"Quiet," CT demands, pressing the blade against Tucker's neck further. Tucker hisses as it pierces skin. He feels his own blood drip down his neck slowly.

Tucker watches Wash's expression change from concern and confusion to resolution when he sees the blood. The blond sets his stance, preparing to charge.

Tucker closes his eyes, feeling the grip CT has on his wrists get tighter. Footsteps thunder, and Tucker shouts, "Wash, no! There's two! Look-"

He doesn't even get to finish his warning.