sixthiterationlogs | black vs. gray

Entry tags:

black vs. gray

WHO: Agent Maine
WHERE: North Village, House 80
WHEN: February 8th
OPEN TO: Agent Washington
WARNINGS: potential talk of canon trauma? will update as needed

Something wakes Maine with a start. He jerks bolt upright, blinking blearily. Squints around to try and figure out what the hell woke him up. Not gunfire. Not combat. Sounded almost like something electrical — an alarm, maybe? — but he knows damn well that's not a possibility.

Giving up after a few moments, the Freelancer hauls himself out of bed. (Or rather, he rolls off of the two mattresses that he's pushed together on the floor.) Then he stretches, cracks his neck, and starts getting dressed in the pre-dawn light.

He doesn't notice the change in his device. And soon, his long sleeves cover the light gray band.

Ordinarily, the first thing that Maine does after waking is shave his face and head. He can't stand the scratchiness; going without food or heat for an extra few minutes is well worth it, in his opinion. This morning, however, he heads down to the cellar first thing. Stokes the fire in the furnace, idly thinking of Wash stepping barefoot onto the cold floor.

Maybe they should get — make? — rugs or something. Sure, the cold is an effective way to wake up, but it still sucks.

Once he's tended the furnace, the Freelancer heads to the main floor and glances out a window. The sun has come up enough to show snowflakes falling outside. Maine makes a face and turns towards the fireplace. Gets a fire started before he continues to the kitchen, where he begins preparing breakfast for the two of them.

That he still hasn't shaved doesn't cross Maine's mind. Not even as he absentmindedly rubs his jaw and the back of his neck, calloused fingertips scratching loud against fresh stubble. His mind circles back to how abruptly he woke — and he hopes that whatever caused it didn't bother Wash, too.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't well, even here. The house helps; he can lock the door, keep his back to the wall, but sleep is still an uncertain thing for him, fitful and often uncomfortable. He wakes up with a jolt, can't tell if it was because of a dream or a sound or if it was just time for him to wake up.

He drags a hand over his face and pulls on his clothes, barely noticing that it's actually close to warm in the room. He's not great at mornings, but years in the military have taught him to handle them, and he feels almost conscious when he finally makes it downstairs to see Maine in the kitchen.

"Wow, this looks very... domestic."

Even if Maine steps lightly, a four hundred pound man can only move so quietly. Compared to him, Wash's movement through the house is damn near silent. So Maine twitches a little when he hears his friend's voice, dark eyes rising quickly in a way that shows his surprise.

Maybe Wash was moving quietly. Or maybe Maine was just lost in his thoughts.

Whatever the case, Maine shoots his friend a quick half-smile and rolls his eyes at the comment. Gestures for Wash to take a seat as he finishes getting their breakfast together. It's not fancy — Maine's always been more interested in function than flavor — but it'll be filling.

Giving Wash another look, Maine presses his lips together for a moment before commenting, "Look tired."

Granted, Wash always looks tired. But this morning seems particularly bad. Or maybe Maine's just noticing it more.

He frowns a little. He hadn't thought he was moving that quietly. Not enough to surprise Maine like that. He's probably overthinking. He gives a small smile in return and slides into a seat at the rough table, then settles in to watch Maine move around the kitchen. It's strange. Strange that it's becoming familiar. They'd never cooked during the Project, everything made for them in the mess hall. Domesticity is not something he'd ever considered for himself, and certainly not for Maine.

But what did he know? It wasn't like any of them had really talked. Not about things like that.

"I look tired all the time," Wash points out. He doesn't think he's any more tired today than he was yesterday. North's arrival might have thrown him off a bit to be fair.

It's true; this is a far cry from their mornings back on the Mother of Invention. If he stopped to think about it, Maine might be taken aback by how quickly he's adapted to the situation. How easily he's adjusted to this new normal. Sure, he still struggles with the archaic technology, and he's more likely to scare an animal away than successfully track it. But this — brushing up on old cooking skills as he watches out for his far-too-old and far-too-tired friend — has quickly become almost ordinary in his mind.

Maine wouldn't call it "domestic." He'd call it doing what's necessary to ensure their survival. (And later, he'd likely be hit by the fact that it is domestic and have a minor crisis, but that's neither here nor there.)

The big man hums his agreement; he can't argue that. Still, it seems to him that Wash looks more exhausted than usual. He tries to put it out of his mind. Focuses on making sure he doesn't burn their food. But, just as concerns about Wash being cold invaded his idle thoughts, so too does Wash's apparent fatigue.

A faint line forms between dark eyebrows as Maine considers it. Wonders what he can do to help. Coffee's not an option, and he doesn't know where else to get Wash a good shot of—

… Oh.

The moment realization hits Maine is likely as clear as day. He freezes for a second; he blinks in rapidly; his brow clears, and he dumps their food onto two plates with something nearing impatience. He has an idea, and he's eager to try it out.

After he sets a plate in front of Wash and plops down across from his friend, Maine puts his hand on the table, palm up, and says purposefully, "Adrenaline shot."

Which possibly makes no sense at all, but Maine seems quite earnest about it. He even curls his fingers to beckon Wash, eyebrows rising as he silently asks: "try it?"

The sudden clatter gets his attention. He glances up, halfway to his feet before he's even thinking, expecting some danger. Something had to have happened to make Maine act like this. He's normally utterly unflappable, can take on anything. That's how Wash had always seen him anyway.

But there's nothing. Just Maine. Maine and a couple of plates of food and a determined expression. That's not ominous at all. Wash sits back down now that he's sure there's no imminent threat. He gives a short nod of thanks when Maine places the plate down in front of him, and grabs for his fork. He starts to stuff his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's just a little bit paranoid about where their next meal is coming from.

It takes a moment for him to realise that Maine is looking at him. He stops with the fork halfway to his mouth when Maine speaks, and glances down at his outstretched hand. "What?"

Adrenaline shot? What is he- "Try what? I'm just tired, not stuffed full of biofoam and waiting for a medic."

Ominous indeed. It's tough to get Maine to back off once he's got an objective in mind. Right now, that objective appears to be getting Wash to take his hand. But he does look faintly apologetic when Wash damn near jumps to his feet.

That's one thing Maine hasn't adjusted to. Not fully. There's a dissonance in Maine's mind; an inability to reconcile the awkward rookie with the tense, mistrustful man his best friend became. Occasionally, Maine will catch himself wanting to reach for his friend, seeking to clap him on the shoulder or punch him (gently!) on the arm. He curbs the impulse, of course; he hasn't attempted to initiate physical contact since New Years. Doesn't want to see Wash jumping away from him again.

Instead, Maine waits. He lets Wash be the one to reach for him. Just like he's doing now: sitting at the table with his hand outstretched.

... Not that Wash seems to have a damn clue what Maine's doing.

"Energize," Maine explains. Looks from the still-raised fork to Wash's face, a hint of amusement in his tone as he adds, "Coffee."

And then he gestures again, silently asking for Wash's hand ... while failing to explain why he needs physical contact.

Sorry, Wash. This is Maine's first time trying this.

Maine is laughing at him. He gives him a slightly reproachful look for it. "If we had coffee, then I wouldn't be in this position."

Sadly, coffee didn't grow on trees. Or at least, it didn't grown on trees here, and there was no magic gift box of it showing up like the shaving supplies had done. That was still weird, although he couldn't say he wasn't grateful. The tiredness though was just the background noise of his life now. Always there, always pricking at the back of his mind. And he couldn't do anything about it.

Maine is still looking at him expectantly. Finally Wash puts down his fork and sighs, to make sure it's known that he's doing this under duress. Then he drops his hand into Maine's.

That reproachful look is met with as much innocence as Maine can muster. He's not trying to make fun of Wash; he genuinely wants to help, and he thinks this will do it. What better way to relieve fatigue than with a shot of adrenaline? Maine keeps his hand extended, undeterred, until Wash sighs and gives in.

Good.

Maine gives his friend a brief smile, grateful that Wash is willing to try this. He brushes his thumb over the back of Wash's hand, holding it gently. Careful to keep his grip light and easy to pull away from. Then he drops his gaze to their joined hands and focuses.

Exactly what Maine is supposed to be focusing on, he doesn't know. He's never done this before. Never had a reason to try. He knows that touch is a crucial component. Knows that visualization can help. So, as a crease forms between his brows, Maine closes his eyes and tries to picture it.

The image that comes to mind is a smile. Wash's smile. He pictures Wash when he was younger and happier. Eager and naive. He imagines Wash having the energy and the urge to smile, and — even as it makes something in his chest hurt — Maine wants it.

It's a long fifteen seconds. Maine is silent throughout, entirely focused on his desire to help his friend. At the end of fifteen seconds, something happens.

Yeah, he doesn't buy that innocence. He knows when Maine is teasing, and when he's being laughed at. Wasn't too uncommon an occurrence during the project.

But Maine looks pretty relieved when Wash gives him his hand. And the touch is... not awful. It's just been a long time and he's not comfortable with the contact anymore. It feels dangerous and he's really not sure what Maine is expecting to happen. But it costs him nothing to go along with it.

He watches as Maine closes his eyes, brow creasing. He looks like he's concentrating on something and to be honest, it's a bit weird. And then it happens... It's... he isn't even sure he feels it, but he feels lighter, like his shoulders aren't so knotted up anymore, and a headache that's been there for so long he'd stopped noticing it is suddenly gone. It's like breathing again, after suffocating for a long time.

It doesn't hurt as much. For a moment it's gone, all that anger, the simmering rage that's been the undercurrent of everything he's done for so long, the betrayal and bitterness. But other feelings too. Grief and loneliness and... fear/ Maybe that most of all. It's a knot of tangled emotions, jagged and thorny and for once, he can't feel it.

At first, all Maine feels is tension. It starts at the base of his neck, pulling his shoulders tight. He thinks that it's from him. Thinks that it's some kind of ... performance anxiety, or something. He's never done this before; he doesn't know how to make it work. Why the fuck isn't it working?

Then that tension crawls up his neck, settling at the base of his skull and setting his teeth on edge. An ache starts spreading out from ... fuck, it almost feels like his neural implant, but that can't be right. He tries to ignore it. Feels his eyes squeeze tight as pain shoots out and reverberates through his entire skull.

He should pull his hand back. He should stop this. But anger — so familiar, but so sharp compared to what he usually experiences — kills those thoughts before he can act on them. Something hits him in the chest, cold and hollow, and he feels himself twitch. Struggles to breathe as something claws its way up his throat, crushing him from the inside.

And then the floor gives out, and Maine is falling.

Even in distress, Maine doesn't make much noise. He's not the type to scream, shout, or cry out. A grunt; a growl; a startled inhale or exhale — those are the kinds of noises he makes when he's hurt. And, as he feels himself plummeting — as fear rips through him, translated by his brain into something he recognizes — that's the sort of noise that escapes.

Maine's eyes fly open. He grunts and sucks in a breath. Grabs the edge of the table with his free hand as his other jerks in Wash's, instinctively clinging for support. The blood drains from his face as he looks around, wide-eyed and breathing fast.

He's not falling. He can see that he's not falling. So why the fuck does he feel like he's plummeting from orbit again?

Edited (typos!) 2019-02-17 03:12 (UTC)

He feels relaxed for the first time in... oh god, it must be years. He rolls his shoulders and doesn't feel the knots in his muscles tense up and ache. He feels like he could lie down and sleep for a while, without pain and without nightmares. His grip tightens a little on Maine's hand. The feeling of relief is dizzying and he doesn't know what's causing it. Can't quite pinpoint what's going on except he thinks things might not be so bad.

Then Maine makes that noise. Wash recognises that noise. He's heard it before. Hell, he's caused it before and in those moments there'd been no difference between Maine and the Meta. He doesn't know if the Meta had made it when Wash's knife had hit him, but probably. It's a noise of pain.

Maine's fingers spasm in his and he tightens his fingers around his hand. "Maine? Maine are you okay?" That is not a good sound. Not a good expression.

Wide eyes snap to Wash's, pupils all but swallowing the surrounding brown. He holds his friend's gaze like an anchor, struggling to breathe past the cold tendrils wrapped tight around his throat. Fighting to think past the onslaught of emotions that he doesn't know how to handle.

Because Maine doesn't process negative emotions. Not like most people do. He shoves them down. Suppresses them. Keeps them locked deep beneath the surface until they transform into something he can use. Until they turn into rage.

This? This grief and loneliness and fear lancing through his skull? He has no idea how to handle this. No idea how to even identify the emotions beyond how they feel physically in his body.

Maine swallows past the lump in his throat. Feels his hands shaking. He releases the edge of the table and rests a tightly curled fist on his knee. Keeps his other hand in Wash's. Keeps holding onto his friend for support.

The big Freelancer opens his mouth to say something, but he can't get the words out. He closes it. Clears his throat. Forces himself to lift his (painfully tight) shoulders in a confused shrug, then gives a jerky, uncertain nod.

He's not okay. Not by a long shot. He looks like someone just came at him with a fist full of needles. But he's not dying, so ... he should be fine. Right?

He's seen Maine in a lot of situations. Seen him do things that would terrify people watching, and take on armies with a dependable stoicism. He's seen the Meta slaughter with near mindless dedication.

He's never seen Maine look like this. Never seen him look afraid.

Wash's eyes widen at the sight of him, the way it twists Maine's face. The way his hands shake in Wash's, how he hunches over like he's trying to be small when he's never been anything other than unshakeable confidence. And it's terrifying to watch. Like a foundation of the world has somehow been knocked away.

"You're not okay. You look like shit." He stands up, moves over to Maine's side. "Are you hurt?"

If he recognized it as fear, Maine might be able to rail against the emotion with more ease. His own stubbornness might kick in, lashing at the near-foreign feeling until it submitted. But he doesn't recognize it. He just feels like he's falling.

Wash moves, then, and Maine's eyes cling to his friend just as his now-free hand had. He watches Wash move to his side, turning his head so that he doesn't lose sight of his friend. It's important that he doesn't lose sight of Wash, because fuck, he feels ... so fucking alone.

It makes no sense. None of it does.

Maine shakes his head; he's not hurt. Then he grimaces when the movement causes the ache in his head and shoulders to throb. Brings his left hand up to rub where it hurts, calloused fingers brushing over the metal port at the back of his skull — and his sleeve drops a bit, exposing gray where there should be black.

He doesn't see it. Not yet. He's only looking at Wash.

"Side effect?" he guesses, voice thick and sounding even rougher than usual. He swallows again and adds, "Should pass."

It'd fucking better pass.

"Yeah, you look like you're about to pass out, big guy," Wash says when he sees Maine grimace and rub his neck. Right over the neural port. It freezes something inside Wash to see that, even if he knows... he knows that Maine is Maine, not the Meta. He knows that Sigma isn't here. Maine can talk for himself.

It still worries him.

"Side effect... those stupid powers they say we have?" Yeah, he still doesn't really believe it. He didn't think that Maine would believe it either. Technology he can deal with, even the alien shit, but magic powers? Yeah, no. "I don't think you're meant to end up like this anyway. Let me get you some water."

Had he not witnessed someone's powers firsthand, Maine would be in the same boat as Wash. Crazy multiverses and time travel were one thing, but the idea of people having magical powers was quite another. However, Maine had seen them in action, and he'd decided to give his own a shot.

Look where that's gotten him.

The big man draws in a breath and nods. Yeah, their powers, and yeah, he'd like a drink. (He'd prefer something a hell of a lot stronger, but it's not like they have liquor on hand.) He keeps watching Wash, even when the other man goes to retrieve a glass. Feels that cold, hollow stone in his chest ache.

He doesn't want to lose Wash. He doesn't want to be alone.

He's not alone. He's not losing Wash. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Maine brings both hands up and scrubs at his unshaven face. Feels something wet, but doesn't realize he's wiping away a tear. (Why would he recognize it? He hasn't cried since he was a kid.) Instead of contemplating that oddity, he tries to turn his focus outward. Tries to turn it away from the tangled mess churning in his head.

"It work?" he asks. He hopes it did. He hopes that his friend feels better. Hopes this wasn't for nothing.

Wash nods and squeezes Maine's hand again, then pulls away to go over to get him some water. Probably a good thing that they don't have booze. Maine looks like he might drain a bottle dry and that... that wouldn't help he doesn't think. Sometimes it could just make things worse and Maine already looks like hell. Don't want to add a hangover to that.

He fills the glass and then turns back around, only to stop dead when he sees Maine wipe his face. Is he- can't be. He's never seen Maine cry. To be fair, he's never seen any of the Freelancers cry but... he feels like he's seen something he shouldn't have. Something that makes his chest seize up with the wrongness of it.

He takes an extra moment to get the water and then heads back, and sets the water on the table in front of Maine. "Drink up big guy."

The question makes him pause as he stops to really consider how he feels. He feels... lighter, he supposes. Not necessarily less tired, but less weary. "I dunno. I could still use a solid night of sleep but... I feel... better."

Fortunately, when Maine looks to Wash again, there's no more sign of tears. Nothing in Maine's expression suggests he's trying to hide them, either. (How could he, when he doesn't realize they were there?) He offers a low noise of gratitude and picks up the glass. Drains half of it in one go during the moment it takes for Wash to consider his answer.

He still thinks that liquor would be better. But the water is good. Should probably eat some of his breakfast, too, once his throat stops trying to close on him.

When Wash answers, the big Freelancer looks curious for a second — that doesn't sound like the effects of adrenaline to him — but he shrugs off the oddity. It's a magic power; who the fuck knows how it's supposed to work? Instead, he gives his friend a brief but genuine smile, grateful that it wasn't for nothing.

"Good," he says, and he means it. Sure, this fucking sucks, and his hand is still trembling where it clutches the glass ... but Wash feeling better is good. That's all he wanted.

Wash goes to sit back down, settling in his chair and watching Maine carefully as he drinks. He looks a little better. Not much, but not like he's going to keel over at any second. That has to be worth something.

He meets the curious look with a shrug. "I don't know what you were expecting." He isn't sure anything has changed really. Maybe it's all in his head. "I just feel like... when you realise a wound you've had for ages has finally stopped hurting." It isn't a huge thing, or it shouldn't be. It's lots of small things which combine to make something bigger.

He can't explain it any better.

"What about you?" Wash asks. "Do I need to find a doctor?"

This time, Maine's grimace is entirely his own. It's not at Wash's description of a wound closing — that receives a flash of concern that Maine is far too off-balance to attempt to hide. No, the grimace is at the very last thing Wash says: "doctor."

The big Freelancer quickly shakes his head. Winces again at the rapid motion and returns his left hand to the back of his scalp, rubbing irritably at the point around his neural implant. Then he determinedly drops his hand and shakes his head more sedately. No, Wash absolutely does not need to find a doctor.

"I'm fine," he declares. And, as his feelings surrounding doctors push themselves to the surface — as his own sense of revulsion flares at the idea of a full examination and all that it entails — he does feel a bit better. A bit more like himself. Less like he's plummeting off the side of a fucking building ... or like something has been ripped open inside of him.

Maine takes another breath and reaches for his neglected breakfast. Stops as soon as his fingers touch the edge of the plate, frowning down at his wrist: his sleeve has pulled back again to reveal gray where black should be.

The concern does not go unnoticed. Wash does what he's been doing with most things to do with feelings recently and ignores it. He's not elaborating. He's not even sure how to feel about it, and just thinking about it is giving him a trickle of a headache and well, the break had been nice while it lasted.

His eyes narrow in concern when Maine rubs the back of his head, right around the implants. He knows Sigma isn't here, but hell, it makes him nervous. The stuff in their heads was more than standard issue. Shit, what happens if something goes wrong while they're here? There's probably no-one who would have a clue what to do about it.

He snorts at Maine's confident insistence. It's sort of hilarious how much Maine hates doctors. But then again, Wash has developed a healthy mistrust of them too in the last few years. He can't blame him.

"Something wrong?"

Just as Wash ignored Maine's concern, Maine ignores his friend's little snort. Needles are fucking awful, dammit. Nothing will change his mind. Nothing.

Dark eyes rise to meet Wash's at the question. The big man hums noncommittally and indicates the band with a little jerk of his wrist. "Different color," he explains. He doesn't sound bothered by it. It's hard to be concerned about something so trivial when he's still trying to keep tremors out of his fingers. But it feels like he should know something about this. Something about gray, and...

... Shit, it's still hard to think. Whatever his power did fucked him up. Maybe it ripped adrenaline out of him and left him in some kind of deficit. He doesn't know.

Instead of dwelling on it, Maine pulls his plate in close and tries to turn his attention outward again. Tries to focus on Wash. His best friend, seated across from him. Not gone. Not leaving him. He's not alone. He's fine.

He's fine.

"Anything new?"

It's a weak attempt to start what may very well be small talk. But Maine's casting around for anything to keep his mind from curling in on itself.

Edited (there was too much shaking going on) 2019-02-21 02:33 (UTC)

Wash glances at the band. He thinks he remembers it being a different colour, but couldn't say for sure. He's been ignoring the idea of powers, so the colours don't mean much to him. "Did you get a new one? Or has it just... changed?" That's a little disconcerting. Has someone managed to sneak in and change the band? Or maybe the band can change colour.

"New? Nothing I can think of." Neither of them is great at small talk are they? "The usual routine. I made some more notes at the library. Might be useful."

"Changed," Maine answers with a little shrug. He picks up his fork and begins poking at his food, wondering vaguely where his appetite went. After only a few seconds, he sets the utensil down to prod the gray band with a thick finger instead. Trying for what's likely the umpteenth time to find some sort of clasp.

"Mood band?" he suggests, mostly in jest. A past conversation concerning appropriate colors for soldiers comes to mind; he manages a slight smile as he adds, "Not purple."

As they both know, purple would be a terrible color.

The small talk may be stilted, but Maine latches onto it like a lifeline. Raises his eyebrows as he looks at Wash, urging him to elaborate.

"That's... I don't know if that's weird or not." He's guessing not. People seem pretty insistent that the colours mean something so he thinks it would have been mentioned somewhere if they changed frequently. If it has changed though... does it really matter?

Wash gives a soft chuff of a laugh. "I don't think my mood has ever been teal."

At least Maine is smiling. That's better. He still looks like he could keel over at any moment. "I dunno... maybe purple would suit you," he says teasingly. "I can just see it now, enemies screaming in terror as a giant in purple armour bears down on them."

It's not unusual for Maine to brighten when he gets a smile out of Wash. What is unusual is how drastic the difference is. Maine still looks like he'd rather crawl in a hole than face the day — but when Wash laughs, the way that Maine's eyes light up and his posture straightens is unmistakable.

That smile is all Maine wanted.

He returns his friend's teasing with a little huff of his own laughter. Then he feigns offense, waving a hand as though in dismissal. "Not North," he declares. The sniper's not as big as Maine is, of course, but he still fits the bill of "giant in purple" well enough.

Edited (words are difficult) 2019-02-26 11:07 (UTC)

Wash wishes that he could take Maine's laugh as a sign that everything is fine. Unfortunately, the project was full of people who would be cracking jokes on their way to hell so it's less reassuring than it would otherwise have been. He still prefers it to the way Maine's face had gone ashen.

"Alright then, no purple. Orange? Big orange giant? Red? Red might work... Or we could decorate you with polka dots. How's that sound?"

Things are far from fine, but they're better than they were. After all, Wash is smiling. Fueled by the empathy that's usually so hard for Maine to fully grasp, the big man all but basks in that expression. Feels better just looking at it — even if "better" is still far from fine.

As Wash suggests one color after another, Maine's face scrunches, torn between amusement and his valiant attempt to continue feigning offense. He huffs again, this time in protest, and declares, "Horrible!"

"No, I think I'm onto something here!" Wash replies, shaking his head. "Polka dots. Big pink and yellow ones, all over. They'll really stand out against the white." At one point he would probably have said this was the dumbest conversation he'd ever had, but since then he'd met Caboose. This is positively tame in comparison. And it's making Maine seem better. That's all he wants.

There's something else that might make him feel better. Wash doesn't want to tell him, but he probably should before things get messy. "You know... North is here," he adds reluctantly. "Bumped into him in South village."

Maine can't help himself; his mock-offense vanishes as he snorts another laugh. Then he shakes his head, still-pale face brightened by a grin. That has to be the worst color combination for armor ever. Of all time!

Then Wash mentions North, and Maine's eyebrows lift in surprise. North is here? Shit, that's... Maine's expression falters, his initial pleasure cut through with confusion. How is he supposed to feel about it? It's good that North is here — they need allies, and North is definitely that — but it's not good that he's here. Be better if he was back home and on mission.

More importantly, why did Wash hesitate to tell him? Why didn't he say something earlier?

Eyebrows drawn back down in a frown, Maine tilts his head in question. Watching Wash as he silently asks for more information.

"I dunno. I think it'll suit you." It's good to see Maine laugh. He doesn't like how much Maine's reaction had worried him. Guess he'd never really put that behind him, even if his interactions with the Meta had been less than friendly.

Ugh, he knew this was coming. Maine's confusion... he doesn't remember. Not that he would have known anyway... probably. He's not sure how much of Maine was left by then. He probably wouldn't have cared about a lot of things at that point.

Wash sighs and sits back in the chair, arms folded across his chest, closed off once more. "I told him to stay the fuck away from me. He can go to hell for all I care. But you should probably know."

To Maine, that response is so out of left field that all he initially does is stare. Then he blinks, working to make sense of it. Trying to imagine Wash — Wash, who always seemed so friendly with North, York, and even South — telling North to stay the fuck away.

It doesn't make sense. Oh, he can picture Wash saying the words. The rookie was always fire and steel beneath that naivety. Still is, even if the fire's turned cold. But he can't imagine why Wash would say it to North.

Maybe something happened with South. Maybe North got involved, as usual.

He watches Wash fold his arms and lean back. Watches that smile vanish as his best friend closes off again. Maine's hand twitches in a restrained urge to reach out. Can't do that—

— and the hollow feeling in his chest burns like someone's twisting a knife.

Maine tries not to grimace. Folds his arms in turn and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. Torn between the bizarre desire to curl in on himself and the need to keep Wash with him.

"Why?"

He feels like he's being interrogated, even if it's just Maine watching him. He doesn't want to tell him all the shit that happens. He definitely doesn't want Maine to know about the Meta. Doesn't want to make him have to experience that, even second hand.

But the rest of it? Well, Maine knows something went wrong. Can tell it just by looking at Wash, older and exhausted and angry.

He thinks over the words, turning them over on his tongue. He doesn't want Maine to go after North either. He's not completely opposed to it, but he doesn't want Maine to have to deal with killing a teammate because of him.

Finally he sighs and shakes his head. "Things got... bad in the Project," he says finally. "North, and South also, and York, they broke my trust in a pretty bad way. I don't want anything to do with him."

The explanation manages to say everything and nothing at the same time. Maine continues to frown, lips pressing together as he considers it. Things getting "bad" sounds like a massive understatement. So does the way Wash describes his friends breaking his trust. The fuck could they have done to hurt Wash so much?

Still trying to find words, the big Freelancer wets his lips, unconsciously preparing to speak...

... And then he remembers what happened the last time Wash saw Freelancers pitted against each other. He remembers the new recruit, Texas. Remembers Wyoming handing him ammunition; remembers York refusing to cooperate; remembers throwing a grenade and watching it fly past his target. He remembers Wash's shout before the Director ripped into the rookie on the training room floor:

"Those maniacs!"

Dark eyes drop from Wash's face, focusing instead on the table. For the first time, Maine feels something twist uncomfortably in his gut. Feels like maybe — just maybe — he did something wrong.

Could something like that have happened to Wash? Could he have been the target in a three-on-one match?

Maine swallows past something caught in his throat. Feels his jaw working as his teeth clench. Part of him wants to ask about it. Another part knows he needs to back off. Still another part wants to shove away from the table, go find North, and drag the answers out of him. He remains silent, warring with himself, until he raises his eyes and sees again the way that Wash has closed off.

Trust. They broke his trust.

Well, Maine's sure as fuck not going to do that.

So, after a far-too-long pause, Maine nods in acceptance. Wash doesn't want anything to do with North; Maine won't force the issue.

That isn't even the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of the Freelancers fighting anymore. It seems so long ago, distant and blurred, like it had happened to someone else. He remembers it from the wrong angles sometimes and it makes his head hurt. It was even the first sign that things were fucked, just the most obvious, and none of them had realised.

He sort of regrets saying anything now. Should have kept his mouth shut, figured out another way to break things to Maine. He wouldn't pretend, no, couldn't stand that not when thinking about what had happened made his skin crawl. But there must have been another way, right?

Then Maine nods, just nods. Doesn't demand answers, or ask questions, or make worried noises. Just... just fucking nods, and it settles something inside him. He lets out a slow breath, and nods in return.

"Great."

Sometimes, Maine's propensity for accepting unpleasant things without question is a fault. A weakness, even. It certainly didn't help his future self, in whose ear Sigma whispered words that ultimately twisted Maine into a monster. Right now, however, it's an advantage.

Wash returns Maine's nod, and some of the tension seems to drain out of the smaller man. Maine watches it without comment. Lets his lips quirk up slightly, both acknowledging the tense moment and showing his willingness to put it the fuck behind them, never to be spoken of again.

Well, except for one word: "Thanks."

For telling him about North, he means. It's good to know, even if he's not sure what the hell to do with the information yet.

"You deserve to know," Wash replies. They'd probably bump into each other sooner or later anyway. He doesn't want Maine to think he's hiding big things from him. He is, but... but not like that.

Besides, Maine works better with a team and Wash isn't a team player anymore. It's fucked up. But Maine deserves that much, and Wash isn't going to risk an argument because he hates North.

Deserving to know information is something that's seemed increasingly rare over the years. The Project encourages not asking questions; Maine, who has never been particularly inquisitive, has abided. He doesn't need to know the reasons behind each order. It's enough to know that what he does, he does for the greater good.

So there's a moment, when Wash says that he deserves to know, that Maine looks slightly taken aback. But then he nods, smile widening a bit more. It's a little weird ... but it's nice.

There's a lot of things that Maine probably deserves to know. There were a lot of things that all of the Freelancers had deserved to know that they'd never been given. But those are stories for later. Much much later. Or never. Never is good.

It seems to make Maine happy and maybe that's enough for now.

"Are you feeling any better?" Wash asks after a moment.

The big Freelancer doesn't have to think about it before he hums an affirmative. He's not back to normal, but whatever happened seems to be fading. It's mostly echoes now, like the ache of sore muscles the day after they hurt the most. Or like an injury dulled by painkillers. Still present, but healing.

Strangely, he can pinpoint what's helped the most: Wash smiling. Maine's not sure how to feel about that. Doesn't think that he should share the information. Might make things awkward.

Instead, Maine holds his hand out flat with his palm facing down. Watches it for a moment, then looks back to Wash with a satisfied nod: his hands aren't shaking. Visible improvement — and certainly no need for a doctor.

He looks down at Maine's hand when he holds it out. Yep, that's definitely better. He doesn't think he's seen Maine shake before. Even bleeding out, he'd always kept a tight grip on his weapons. It was what you did. Die with a weapon in your hands.

It's still weird to see Maine like that, but... he looks better now. Wash can let his uncertainty fade back a little. "Good. Don't scare me like that again."

That Wash had been scared by his reaction isn't something that had crossed Maine's mind. Then again, he has no idea how bad he looked. Has no idea that he'd been wiping away tears. It might just be a turn of phrase, but Maine still blinks in surprise. Then he nods once, firmly.

He doesn't want to scare Wash. He never wants to do that.

After giving his serious answer, the big Freelancer considers for a moment, wondering if humor would be ill-timed. Probably would — but he doesn't want Wash to be worried or scared. So he exaggerates a sigh and shakes his head, as though disappointed in something.

"Weekend plans," he laments, then shakes his head again. Like he'd had grand plans to scare Wash, and they've all been dashed.

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