sixthiterationlogs | chasin' down the shots they bought for me

It's painful getting back to the house. While captivity hadn't been particularly brutal, it had been exhausting, and he's still paying for it. Will be paying for it for a few days yet, no matter how much he'd like to pretend otherwise. He's grateful for Main's company, for the other man keeping so close just in case. There's a couple of times during the trek that Wash feels like he might need it, although he manages to keep himself upright alone.

Finally, finally they're there and he goes to lean against the wall as soon as they're inside, closing his eyes and just breathing. He wants to bathe. He wants to sleep.

He glances over at Maine blearily when he speaks and it takes a few seconds for him to figure out what's going on. "Is that-"

A drink. He could use a drink actually.

Given Wash's weary state, alcohol probably isn't the best idea from a medical standpoint. But Maine is a space marine, not a medic. Wash just went through some serious shit, and Maine can think of no better way to celebrate his friend's freedom (and to relax) than having a drink.

The big man shoots his friend a smile as he nods — "Hell yeah." He picks up another bottle and checks the label. Then another. And another.

"Lots," he says, sounding just short of gleeful. Then Maine grabs hold of the box and hefts it effortlessly into his arms, as though the whole thing isn't upwards of fifty pounds.

"Get clean?" he suggests, nodding at Wash's current state. They both need to bathe, but Wash was the one held captive; Maine's just dirty from the rescue. And it's an out of sorts, offering Wash a chance to recuperate privately for a while if he wants. "Can make drinks."

Any drinks that Maine makes will be highly alcoholic, but he thinks that's just what Wash needs.

Neither of them are known for being reserved, sensible sorts. And honestly, he's needed a drink for a long time. Years even. He isn't about to let a little kidnapping get in the way of relaxing by getting drunk. It's not like he's on heavy duty medication or anything at the moment.

He watches Maine sort through the bottles, one after the other. He can't help but smile watching him. He looks so happy and that's good to see.

"Yeah," he agrees, glancing down at himself. "I could use it. They didn't exactly give us showers."

He heads up towards the bathroom, only pausing to grab some clean clothes to take in with him. "Don't get started without me!" he calls down to Maine before he heads in.

If there's one thing Maine enjoys on shore leave, it's getting absolutely wasted. It hasn't been anywhere close to years since he's been good and drunk, but he still thinks that it's been far too long. The two Freelancers have been through more than enough to earn one night of drinking — and "one" is a bare minimum.

Hearing Wash's words, Maine huffs and calls back, "Unfair!" As though it's not a perfectly reasonable request, and probably the only way to keep Maine from finishing off one of the bottles before Wash returns.

(Moderation with alcohol is about as strange a concept to Maine as mercy in combat.)

But Maine does as Wash requests. He prepares their drinks without indulging. Pours double shots for both of them to start: melon liqueur and amaretto for Wash; Brennivín for himself. Then he strips off his shirt and takes a few minutes to clean up as best he can at the kitchen sink. It's not as thorough as a full bath, but he can at least get some of the sweat and dirt off his upper body.

The word Maine shoots back makes him smile as he starts running the bath. Waiting for it gives him time to think, and time to be alone more importantly. He closes the door and slides down it to sit on the ground. Taking stock is a process. He's had worse honestly. Definitely worse injuries. And he's spent enough time in prison or locked up in hospital to know what being imprisoned is like. He's not sure why it's hitting him now, or if it's just exhaustion catching up to him.

Maybe he just hates being seen helpless. He should have been able to protect himself.

He finally strips off and climbs into the bath. It's hot enough to turn his skin red and he hisses in pain when the water touches his raw wrists and some of the injuries. He scrubs at them a little, trying to make sure they're as clean as possible so he can bandage them afterwards.

It's only the threat of falling asleep and drowning that keeps him from staying in longer. The water was actually pretty soothing and helped to relax some of the tension out of his muscles. He reluctantly pulls himself out and dries off. The clean clothes feel brilliant against his skin after days not being able to change. He sort of wants to go straight to sleep, but he doubts he's going to sleep well. Probably worse than normal honestly, so he pads down stairs and into the kitchen.

He gets a nice look at Maine standing there, half stripped off, and after a moment he whistles, plastering a grin onto his face. "Wow, that's a nice sight to come down to. Didn't realise you'd got the strippers in as well as the booze."

Total helplessness isn't something that Maine's felt in years. However, it's not something easily forgotten. Even the stirrings of it are enough to bring Maine's rage boiling to the surface; to cause him to lash out without care for what's in his way. He may not be a particularly empathetic person, but he understands that Wash might need some time alone. Just as he'll understand if his friend decides they should go on the offensive and hunt down the fake villagers.

As far as Maine knows, there's nothing more gratifying than vengeance. Nothing.

When Wash returns from his bath, Maine has several bottles chilling in the fridge and several more lined up beside their first shots. He turns at the sound of a whistle, surprise evident until he sees Wash's grin.

It's a rare sight. One that makes Maine smile back, brief but unguarded, before he huffs at his friend's words.

"Dick," Maine declares fondly. Then, just to be an ass, he twirls his sweaty, dirty shirt in the air before tossing it right at Wash. How's that for stripping, buddy?

Of course, that leaves Maine without a shirt to wear. He doesn't mind. Wouldn't mind even if Wash's comment about it being a "nice sight" was a serious one, which is a possibility Maine tries not to let linger in his thoughts.

"Yours," he gestures to one of the glasses. Then he moves closer so he can pick up his own, eager to see if the Brennivín here tastes like he remembers.

Edited (forgot a part!) 2019-04-23 06:49 (UTC)

It's not easy to surprise Maine, but it's always fun when he manages it without it being something terrible. He grins at his friend and then sputters when Maine's shirt hits him in the face. He pulls it away, and grimaces. "Ugh, Maine."

It's sweaty and dirty and Wash drops it to the floor before he heads over towards Maine to peer at the shots lined up. "You've been busy."

He grabs the first of the shots and holds it up. "Cheers."

Unrepentant, Maine sends his friend a cheeky grin as Wash dumps the dirty shirt on the floor. Thanks to his still-enhanced senses, Maine knows precisely how gross it smells. Knows that it stinks of the sweat born of ~~fear~~ stress and adrenaline-fueled combat rather than something cleaner, like heat or working out. He's still not apologizing.

"Said 'don't start,'" Maine explains. Since he couldn't get started on drinking the alcohol, he had to settle for getting it ready for quick consumption. And that's exactly what he plans to do: consume it quickly.

Picking up his own glass, Maine raises it to clink against Wash's. "Cheers," he echoes. Then down the hatch it goes, burning pleasantly all the way.

Edited (typo) 2019-04-23 22:19 (UTC)

"If I let you start, then you'd have been on your way to drunk while I'm still stone cold sober." To be fair, Maine takes a lot more to get drunk than Wash. Wash isn't a lightweight, but his tolerance is still lower than it used to be, just because of how little he's drunk in the last few years.

The clink of the glasses is the signal to start, and Wash isn't about to let Maine down. He downs the shot in one go -- it's sweet and warm and sinks right to his stomach. He feels the warmth spread through him and sets the glass down, already reaching for the next.

The Brennivín tastes just as wonderful as Maine remembers. He lets himself sigh as something like nostalgia surfaces in his mind. Smiles at his friend before he sees that Wash is going straight for the next shot.

Yeah, the alcohol showed up right on time. Guess he should thank the Observers for that. Mentally, at least; he has no idea how to actually thank them.

Maine shrugs — "so?" — and raises his eyebrows as he reaches for his own glass. "Catch up quick," he teases.

Naturally, Maine has no idea what Wash's current tolerance is like. But Maine has never met anyone who could outdrink him.

Edited 2019-04-24 01:00 (UTC)

He downs the second shot as quickly as the first and reaches for the third with a ragged sort of determination. It tastes good, and he can already feel the alcohol hitting him, sinking into his limbs.

He makes a face at Maine's teasing, and sticks his tongue out at his friend before he downs the third shot. They are going to need to start pouring more. "I'm already ahead of you, Maine," he says. "Looks like you'll need to be the one catching up with me if you want to get buzzed."

The big marine snorts a laugh and decides to take that as a challenge. He snags his third drink in his left hand and shoots the two back-to-back, then sets both glasses down on the table. With a smug little smirk — "caught up!" — Maine gestures at their fourth glasses.

"Water," he explains. An attempt to lessen the possibility of a hangover — as well as something he knows Wash needs after his time in captivity.

Maine reaches for bottles to start refilling their drinks. This time he pours himself whiskey with a high enough proof to make his nose twitch. Wash's drinks receive more care: raspberry liqueur and vodka; butterscotch liqueur and Bailey's; and Bailey's, Kahlua, and amaretto.

There, that's much better. Sure, Maine probably could stand to drink at least 3 more before he even gets buzzed, but Wash isn't going to hold that against him.

"I'm not here to drink water," Wash grumbles, but he dutifully sips at it anyway, before giving up and gulping the whole ting. He's probably still dehydrated. The walk back to the North village hadn't helped matters there.

He drags up a seat and sits down so he can watch Maine pouring the shots. He's still... tired and sitting is easier. He hates recovery. He'd rather be injured so he'd feel like he has reason to feel this way.

Good decision, Wash. Maine just might try to hold those drinks hostage otherwise. Emphasis on "try"; he'd relent quickly enough, believing that Wash's relaxation is more important than avoiding a hangover.

Again: Maine is a space marine, not a medic.

But Wash drinks the water, and Maine hums in satisfaction. Takes a large gulp from his own glass once he finishes pouring Wash's drinks. Then, seeking to put a smile back on his friend's face, Maine decides to name the shots as he pushes them forward.

"Purple Hooter," he says, nudging the raspberry one towards Wash. "Buttery Nipple." That's the butterscotch one, of course. Lastly: "Orgasm."

Hey, he didn't come up with the names. He just poured the shots.

He finishes off the glass of water and sets it back on the counter, ready for the next drink. Maine is pretty good at this. Wash appreciates it. He knows his taste runs to the sweet and sugary, not that he's opposed to beer or straight vodka. But he likes a little flavour when he has the opportunity.

Maine pours them with a deftness that belies his size. Wash's smile only grows when he starts to name them, earning a snort at the second and an outright laugh at the third. "Chance would be a fine thing," he says as he grabs the 'Orgasm' and downs it in one go.

Edited 2019-04-25 21:54 (UTC)

There's an offer on the tip of Maine's tongue. One that he might be able to excuse if he'd had enough alcohol, but he's still far too sober right now. He silences it by shooting one of his glasses of whiskey. It smells more like rubbing alcohol than anything fit for human consumption, and he shudders as it burns the whole way down.

"Shit," Maine curses happily, barely suppressing the urge to cough. He shakes his head and sets the glass down, immediately reaching for the next. "Strong."

And he sounds delighted about it.

With the offer safely suppressed, Maine gestures to the glass that had contained the 'Orgasm.' "Add whipped cream," he says. "Makes 'Blowjob.'"

Wow. If Maine's saying its strong then it must really pack a punch. It definitely does from the expression on his face. "Must be close to pure ethanol if you think it's strong."

He's far enough along by now that the words come a little easier, and his expressions are a little less guarded. He's warm and tired, and picking himself back up. He picks up the next shot and leans back in his chair, but doesn't drink it yet. When Maine explains he raises an eyebrow. "Okay, you're just making these up."

Judging by the "flammable" warning on the bottle, Maine guesses that it might be close. He grins and shrugs, downing another glass with that same full-body shudder. The taste isn't great, but it could actually do the job of getting him drunk.

With a quiet chuckle, Maine shakes his head as he pulls up a chair of his own. Settles down into it in turn, noting that the wood feels cool against his bare back. Noticing it could be the result of his enhanced senses, or it could be the alcohol finally kicking in. He hopes it's the latter.

"Popular party drink," he explains. Given Maine's habits on shore leave, he would know. "Don't use hands."

He tugs his third glass closer and leans over it, as though he's about to drink using only his mouth. The glasses are too large to actually demonstrate, but he figures Wash will get the idea.

There is something pleasant about the way that Maine shudders when he drinks, the way it rolls through him. Wash is probably just far enough away from sober that he notices this and pays a little more attention than is strictly appropriate. He tears his gaze away and grabs the next shot, but holds off for now. He doesn't want to get blackout drunk. Not yet at least.

"I can see why people would enjoy it," Wash replies. His eyebrows raise though as Maine leans over the drink. Okay, he can definitely see why that is popular. His face feels a little warm, but he's sure that it's just the booze.

"You look like you've tried that before."

Although he notes the redness in Wash's cheeks, Maine doesn't think that it's due to anything but the alcohol. His own face is starting to feel a little warm, too. There's a sort of heavy relaxation moving through his limbs. A gentle tingling spreading from his center.

The alcohol is finally doing its job. Maine hurries it along by scooping up his glass (using a hand, of course) and drinking down the whiskey. Shivers again and hums happily as it goes down.

Anyone else would likely be at risk of making themselves sick, drinking so much in such quick succession. Maine is just chasing the possibility of actually feeling intoxicated.

"Few times," he answers Wash, still smiling. "Can get messy." What with the whipped cream and all.

Edited (whoops repetition) 2019-04-27 07:44 (UTC)

Wash draws one knee up onto the chair, and downs the next shot. He's definitely feeling it now. It makes everything feel soft and a little hazy, like the edges of the world have been blunted. He should probably slow down for a while, and give Maine the chance to get at least a little buzzed. It takes a lot longer for him after all.

He smirks when Maine talks about it getting messy. "Well, is it really that good an orgasm if things don't get messy?"

Watching Wash curl up in the chair stirs a warmth in Maine's chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol. It's nice, seeing his friend like this. Nice seeing Wash looking comfortable. Looking relaxed. Maine's gaze softens as he watches, fondness creeping into his smile.

Then Wash says that, and Maine is so startled that he laughs outright. Not a snort, a huff, or a quiet chuckle, but full-blown laughter. It's just as deep and rough as his voice is, so it's not exactly a pleasant sound in Maine's opinion. But it's genuine.

Bringing a hand up to try to stifle his grin (unsuccessfully), Maine shrugs and nods. "Good point," he manages to say.

He flashes a grin when Maine laughs. There's something pleasing about being the cause of it. It isn't that common, not a proper laugh like that so he savours it this time. If it's rough, then Wash doesn't seem to notice or care.

"I do occasionally make them," he agrees, smile softening but sticking around on his lips. It feels like it could be sometime in the past, before things went wrong. Some shore leave before the leaderboard was introduced when the Freelancers might have been something close to friends, when they had nearly trusted each other.

Much of Maine's mind is still in that early time. He's not untouched by the leaderboard; he knows exactly where he ranks on it, and it was his attack on Agent Texas that landed him there. But Maine is still the man who will throw himself in front of bullets for his teammates. Still the man who believes that his actions serve the greater good, even if they may be morally gray at best. He's still Maine, and considers several of his teammates to be his friends.

Looking at Wash smiling, Maine doesn't think of past shore leaves. He doesn't think of the self-conscious rookie that he'd quickly come to consider his best friend. He looks at Wash — older; wearied; safe and sound — and he smiles right back. Watches his best friend looking happy, and that warmth in his chest turns into a desire to reach out and touch.

Maine knows that he shouldn't act on it. Knows, too, that he needs to quit staring. So he drags his eyes away and picks up his glass of water. Takes a long sip as he feels his head begin to buzz.

That high proof whiskey sure as hell did the trick.

After he finishes his glass, Maine takes a breath and nods to the alcohol. "Big one next?" he asks, indicating with his hands a larger volume of liquid. Something to savor rather than shoot.

Everything feels warmer than it had done. The aches of the last few days have definitely faded although he's sure that they'll come back full force tomorrow when he's stiffened up. It's nice just to be here, with Maine, in their own kitchen. He didn't think he'd ever get to see Maine again, let alone have drinks with him and make stupid jokes.

He lets out a soft sigh, but it's closer to contentment than anything else right now.

"Yeah, a big one would be good," he replies, amusement slipping into the words considering what their previous conversational topic had been.

Hearing that amusement, Maine's lips quirk up again and he snorts a little laugh. Then he hums and meets Wash's eyes, tone teasing as he answers, "Can do that."

Innocent enough were it not for the previous topic. And maybe Maine should stay silent or steer away from it, given the warm feeling in his chest. But his usually tight hold on his tongue is fading, and the words are already out there.

The big Freelancer breaks eye contact and pushes himself to his feet. The buzzing in his head instantly doubles; he lets out a low whistle and gestures to the whiskey.

"Strong," he repeats, still sounding quite happy about it. Then he starts towards the fridge, intending to pull out some of the chilled bottles for their next drinks. Over his shoulder, he asks, "Requests?"

For the types of alcohol, he means.

"Promise?" Wash asks. He keeps it light and teasing but it feels like there's something else going on just underneath. He isn't sure. Can't quite push himself to think harder about the warmth he's feeling, and how good Maine looks like this. How good it feels just to be here with him after everything that has happened.

"Yeah, it seems that way big guy," he answers, smile widening. It's rare to see Maine get anything close to drunk so it must really have packed a punch!

He watches Maine move over to the fridge, eyes fixed on the broad planes of his back. After a moment, he stands up, hardly conscious of what he's doing, and goes over to him. Stands behind him and then just... leans against him, forehead pressed between Maine's shoulderblades.

Were it anyone else, Maine might think that the teasing is slipping into outright flirting. But this is Wash. Maine would know if his best friend were interested in him. They've lived together for months in this place; Maine would've noticed something before now. He's sure of it.

But Maine didn't notice. And he continues to dismiss the possibility right up until he feels Wash press against his back.

The big Freelancer pulls in a breath that catches oddly in his throat. His eyes widen as he stands still — not tense, but perfectly immobile. He feels the tickle of Wash's hair between his shoulder blades. Feels the heat of Wash's skin against his own, warm and real and here. With him. Against him. Safe and sound.

Maine thinks of the cold tendrils that wrapped around his throat when he realized Wash was missing. Thinks of the relief that nearly made him stagger when he heard his friend's voice call out from the dark.

When he exhales, Maine's breath is shaky with some emotion he can't name. He looks over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of Wash, but the other man is all but hidden by Maine's own bulk. Blindly, the big Freelancer reaches back with both hands. Mindful of the injuries on Wash's wrists, he tries to find his friend's hands. Tries to take them in his own and just … hold them.

Maybe he should pull away, almost does when he feels rather than hears the way that Maine's breath seizes inside him, the way he goes so still that Wash might think he had stopped breathing altogether. There is a dull sort of fear in his chest at the thought that he might drive Maine away, make things break in this second chance they've been given. The chance without the Meta, without Sigma and Epsilon and the Project.

But he can't imagine being anywhere else right now. Doesn't want to miss the chance.

Maine's skin is very warm, flushed from alcohol and exertion. He keeps breathing slowly, in and out. Will stay there until Maine shoves him away or extricates himself.

He feels movement, and feels large hands reach for his. He takes a breath and reaches back, fingers curling against Maine's, giving a soft squeeze.

As Wash finds his hands and gently squeezes, something in Maine's chest feels like its expanding. The warmth spreads through him, mixing with the alcohol and making his whole body feel like it's tingling. He doesn't know what the warmth is. Doesn't know what emotion has caught in his throat, making words an impossibility — if he could even find any to say. Whatever it is, it's good. It feels right.

Wash is touching him. Pressed against him. Hands in his, and it feels right.

Part of Maine wants to turn around. He wants to be able to see Wash as they touch, as though visual confirmation will make this moment feel less fragile. But a larger part feels like breaking contact — even to turn around — will cause some spell to shatter.

So Maine doesn't turn. Instead, he moves his thumbs back and forth, brushing gently against the back of Wash's hands — a mimicry of another time he held Wash's hand, though the circumstances were much different. Then, moving slowly, he begins to raise their joined hands. Starts to draw Wash's arms forward, aiming to encircle his bare waist in a hug.

It might be a move even more likely to shatter this moment than breaking contact. But as warmth surges through Maine's body, all he wants is to hold his friend in any way he can.

Edited 2019-05-01 00:01 (UTC)

Wash closes his eyes, breathing in and out slowly and soaking up Maine's warmth. He hardly dares to move more than that in case it shatters something. In case Maine realises what's happening, who Wash is, and pulls away. Treating it like a joke would be the best outcome and even that would crush something in him, Wash thinks. He's not good at opening up.

Maine's fingers feel so warm against his, reassuringly solid, and the stroking of his thumbs against Wash's hands is soothing. Reassuring. He thinks he needs something- someone- to cling to right now. Ad he'd rather it be Maine than anyone else. He wants it to be Maine.

The movement makes him startle, but only for a second before he realises what Maine is doing. He lets his arms be pulled forward to wrap around Maine's waist. Wash presses closer up against his back, fully flush chest to spine. His grip tightens around him.

This time, Maine's breath doesn't catch in his throat when Wash moves. He feels his friend press closer, all heat and muscle curling around him, and Maine exhales a sigh.

Nothing is broken. Nothing is wrong. Wash is still here, and he isn't pulling away. Maine doesn't even realize how relieved the sigh is until it hits his ears — and maybe he should be embarrassed, but when has he ever felt that?

The big Freelancer bows his shaved head. Looks down at their hands, still entwined, and smiles. Swallowing past that emotion in his throat, he murmurs, "Feels good."

It's an understatement. It feels much more than "good"; it feels right. But Maine doesn't know how to put it into words. Has no idea how to even begin to address the warmth in his chest, let alone anything else. So for now, he sticks with "good." Figures that Wash will know he means a hell of a lot more than the physical sensation.

It feels like he fits here. Alright, physically it's a little awkward when Maine is so large, and eventually they're going to have to move, but for now it's like something has slid into place inside him and he feels content for the first time in who knows how long? They're not under fire. It isn't some crazy frenzied fuck on a battlefield because you need to feel alive before people start shooting at you. It's calm and slow like syrup, and just as sweet.

He feels Maine's rumble when he speaks and curves a smile against Maine's back. His fingers squeeze against Maine's for a moment before relaxing. "Yeah. It does."

He closes his eyes again, nuzzles against Maine. "Feels right too."

Edited 2019-05-03 21:57 (UTC)

Calm, slow, and sweet. All things that Maine typically shunned before they arrived here, turning instead to things that would make him a better combatant. Or, at the very least, things that got his adrenaline going. There was no place for sweetness in war. No time to take things slow when his purpose drove him ever forward. And the only calm that existed in Agent Maine's life was that which came before the storm.

But that was before Maine was ripped from his life and brought here. That was before he saw what their world did to his best friend. That was before he learned that the Project he'd given his life to was full of shit.

Here and now, with the most important person in his life holding him, Maine sinks into that sweetness and stillness. He answers that squeeze with a soft one of his own. Savors the way that Wash's fingers feel against his — so much smaller, but just as capable. Finds himself fascinated by the contrast in their hands…

That is, until Wash nuzzles his back and says the very thing Maine's been thinking.

Maine closes his eyes and lets out another breath. Feels something unwind in his shoulders that causes his entire body to relax. He hums a long, low note of agreement before adding a single word, "Right."

It's both an agreement with what Wash said and reaffirming how it feels.

Edited 2019-05-07 05:56 (UTC)

He has been running for so long. It feels good to finally get to rest. And it's good to have Maine here, with him. He can feel the way that Maine relaxes against him, muscles unknotting. The flex of Maine's fingers against his. He's fascinated by it. They'd been friends in the Project, best friends, but it hadn't exactly given them much time to see each other out of armour.

Certainly physical contact had not been encouraged.

Maine's noise of agreement reverberates through his chest and he smiles against Maine's back and gives a soft laugh, relief huffing out of him with it.]

Oh good. I was worried you- I don't know what I'm doing.

It's new ground for both of them, Maine realizes. Not that he'd thought otherwise — but he hadn't really thought of it at all. He knows what becomes of him in the future, more or less. Knows that he doesn't desert with so many others. Knows that he ends up maimed. And he knows what happens to Wash. When would there have ever been time for this?

There's time now. There's no war here. No Project. Just them.

Wash laughs against his back, soft and relieved, and a rush of … of happiness surges through Maine. He almost feels dizzy with it. Or maybe that's the alcohol. And when Wash admits he doesn't know what he's doing, it spurs Maine into action.

After squeezing Wash's hands one more time, Maine loosens his grip. However, he doesn't break contact. He starts to turn around, running one hand up Wash's arm as he does so. Trying to keep his friend's arms where right where they are: embracing him.

It's a little awkward, honestly. Maine's too damn broad to make turning around in someone's arms an easy thing. But dammit, he's trying. And when he gets there, the first thing he'll do is slowly — carefully; deliberately — raises a hand to brush Wash's cheek.

Might be a stupid thing to do. But right now, it feels right. And the smile on Maine's face makes it clear: he's happy.

Edited 2019-05-12 00:33 (UTC)

Very new ground. It's not a quick hook-up on shore leave with someone you'll never see again and who will probably be dead next week. This is Maine. This is his partner and his best friend and all of this, it feels like a natural progression of what they had, now that they're not at war, now that the project isn't hanging over them. Learning how to touch each other without violence.

He makes a soft noise of protest when Maine starts to move, but he isn't pulling away, isn't stopping touching him. He loosens his grip just a little, enough for Maine to shift around in his arms, exchanging his lovely back for an equally lovely broad chest and then... the touch to his cheek makes his breath hitch. It's something he hadn't really ever thought about, and is intimate in a way that's a bit terrifying.

He loves it anyway, and turns his face into Maine's large and, presses a kiss against his palm.

If there's anything more intimate than Wash kissing his palm, Maine can't imagine what it could possibly be. His lips part as he watches, fascinated by the sight. Enraptured by the sensation. Such a small thing that strikes him at his very core.

They both know what Maine's hands are capable of. What they've already done — and, in Wash's case, what they will do. They are hands better versed in causing pain and death than in writing Maine's own name. They're rough and scarred and soaked in blood. And Wash is kissing Maine's palm like it's the most natural thing in the world.

It's acceptance on a level that Maine didn't expect. That he's not sure how to handle.

Something vulnerable passes over his face, then. His expression is open; his eyes are soft; his lips curve up in another smile. And, acting on instinct alone, he leans down to kiss Wash.

He has seen the violence that Maine can do, and he doesn't care. Wash's hands are hardly clean. He has killed, and done so with less reason than Maine had ever had when they believed they were working for the salvation of humanity. Maine's violence is part of him, but it isn't all of him.

That expression though... It makes heat bloom in Wash's cheeks to see it. he's never seen Maine look like that before and he wants to see it over and over again.

The anticipation curls between them until Maine leans in and kisses him. His lips are surprisingly soft and he's careful with it. It's kind of nice. Wash isn't used to being treated like he is someone who is due care. He kisses back, lips parting in open invitation.

Like their embrace, this is something slow and soft. The antithesis of so much of their lives, and all the better for it. Their lips touch — easily; naturally — and Maine can't imagine doing anything differently.

Wash is his ally. His teammate. His best friend. His partner. Wash is safe and warm and alive, and Maine knows that he'll do anything to keep it that way. Anything.

Maine feels Wash's lips part, and any thoughts that he might be doing something stupid vanish in an instant. He doesn't hesitate; he parts his lips in turn. Brushes his tongue over Wash's lower lip, noting the taste of sweet alcohol before deepening their kiss.

With any doubts effectively banished, the only thing Maine distantly wonders is why the fuck he waited so long to do this.

It feels like catharsis, something he'd been waiting for for so long, but hadn't realised until this minute. Maine knows him, probably better than anyone now; the old him, and the new bitter, angry one. Their time here, together, outside of the machinations of Project Freelancer and the Chairman, has forged them into something new. Something stronger possibly. He hopes so.

He makes a soft, pleased noise when Main's tongue darts against his lip and presses inside. He tastes of booze and a little of sweat and of Maine in general. Feels like something he's been missing for a long time.

He curls his hands against Maine's skin, holding onto him like he is the last solid thing in the world.

chasin' down the shots they bought for me

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