hfm_logs | I don't believe it; I had to see it [Closed]

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I don't believe it; I had to see it [Closed]

Warnings: Profanity, talk of death, probably some other terrible stuff because guess who just died!
Summary: After getting himself murdered by the Nox, Wash tries to put himself back together. He's gonna need help with this one.
Characters: Wash, Greg
Location: Wash's apartment, the high rises
Time: A day or two after the Nox enter the carnival

It wasn't the first time Wash had woken up exhausted and with no idea how he'd gotten where he was. This time was a little different; usually, whenever this happened, he'd wake up in medical or wherever he was staying, usually because someone had the compassion to drag him out of the line of fire back to someplace where he could recover. This time, he'd woken up in a garden - the garden atop the spire, his memories told him, as the haze slowly started to clear from his mind. But how had he gotten all the way up here? The last thing he remembered-

The shadow infested carnival-

Turning down a deal-

Nox mobbing him from all sides-

Agony and darkness-

He sat up sharply and clutched at his stomach, swallowing down the sudden bout of nausea that had rolled over him.

He'd died.

He'd died.

Then how was he alive? He was back in Freesia - he recognized the garden; he couldn't be anywhere else - but there was no explanation as to how he'd gotten here, how someone - Lux? He didn't know - had put him back together after the Nox had gotten through with him. Would he find a whole host of new scars the next time he took his armor off?

He shivered and swallowed hard as another bout of nausea hit him at the thought. No. Not here. He had to- he had to keep moving. Find someplace safe. Figure out how long he'd been out. He had to go.

It took him two tries to get to his feet, and half an hour to get down the stairs. The nausea had subsided - small favors - but whatever had happened to get him back here had left him exhausted and weak. By the time he reached the bottom, he was shaking almost too hard to stand. Luckily, the high rises were close, even if those would involve more stairs.

As it turned out, those stairs were hell.

He had just enough energy to close the door of his apartment behind him and remove his armor before he collapsed on the couch. Bone-deep exhaustion had taken over him, the product of a lack of sleep and an awful fight and coming back to life-

No. Nope. Not going down that path. He closed his eyes, struggling to refocus. He needed to...he needed food. He needed rest. He needed to not be alone with his thoughts...

He needed help, he realized. He couldn't do this alone. Not now.

The communicator folded down over his eye with a thought. He took a moment to find the privacy settings and fiddle with them. He only wanted to talk to one person; no need to announce to the rest of the city just how beaten down he was right now. "Greg," he tried, wincing at just how weak his voice sounded. "Greg, are you there?"

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The aftermath of a Nox battle didn't go well for anyone. After surviving an encounter by the skin of his teeth, Greg himself had a difficult time remembering how exactly he got home. The last day was spent in a blur of trying to sleep off the bone-wearying exhaustion of magic overuse, combating with the incessant, searing pain shooting out of his side whenever he moved too much or too quickly. Something was definitely broken, in there.

It had made for fitful rest at best, and though the supernatural exhaustion had worn off by this morning, the regular sort still clung to him. In the end, all Greg could do what he usually did, after his life went bananas: act like everything was still normal. Eat some food, play some music, wait for things to blow over. It had served him well, over the years.

When a tiny voice mumbled into his ear, Greg's first instinct was to sputter and look wildly around his apartment for an intruder, then to think he was hearing things, then that there was some magic craziness happening again. And then he remembered the communicator.

"Uh--is that--Wash?" He had to fiddle a moment before getting the thing to unfold right. "Boy, you sound like I feel. What happened?" Wait. No. He probably knew what happened. "I mean... are you okay?"

Something unwound in Wash when he heard Greg's voice over the line. Someone else was there. He wasn't alone with his memories and Epsilon. Good.

"That bad, huh." He tried to bolster his voice, tried not to sound as beaten as he felt. "I..." No dice. He still sounded exhausted.

And he couldn't avoid that question, could he.

"No." He took a breath, let it out slowly, took another. He could do this. "Look, I'm in the high rises. Can...can you..."

Or maybe he couldn't.

"Nevermind."

Well. There was that. There was nothing that spoke quite like a half-finished request followed by a "nevermind." Greg chewed at his cheek, considering.

"Hey--you eaten today? I found a great sandwich place, I can grab a couple and swing by. What do you say?"

He was already looking around for his sandals and keys.

Wash scrubbed his face with his hand. He'd lost his nerve - couldn't spit the words out - and Greg still knew what he needed.

"Sounds good," he finally replied, somehow managing to keep his voice even. "I'm in B-801."

"Sure, pal. Be there in a flash."

It was, perhaps, a little longer than a flash--those stairs really were killer--but Greg got there as quickly as he could manage, bag of sandwiches in one hand and a pocket full of mix CDs, knocking at Wash's door. Food and music might not fix everything, but they sure eased it.

Wash may have spent most of his time waiting drifting in and out of consciousness. He was too damn tired to be fully awake, and trying to keep the balance between wakefulness and full sleep kept enough of his concentration to keep his mind off other thoughts, away from memories of carousel elephants drenched in darkness and but the Ag-ent looks so tired and shadows tearing through his armor into his body-

He startled awake at the knock on the door, gasping audibly. So much for keeping the balance; he'd fallen completely asleep.

And now Greg was here, and Wash was just coming off the edges of panic. Great. He took a moment to steady his breathing before replying to that knock. "Door's open." It was the lazy option, sure, but right now he wasn't sure whether his legs would support him.

Greg sidled in, wearing his best grin. "Hey, Wash! You..." It took little more than a glance to see the soldier was in less than passing condition. Greg's smile stretched a little thinner. "You, ah, look like you could use one of these. I got a ham and a turkey--get this, they have avocado here, no extra charge! This place is seriously ritzy."

He set the bag down on the table by the couch as he sat, trying to keep his ginger movements from getting too obvious. "You, uh. You wanna talk?"

Wash always looked bad, and he knew that. He didn't usually look bad enough to stop people cold, though; evidently death warmed over really did have a distinct look. He suppressed a shudder at the thought, tried to focus. Greg was talking about the sandwiches. Right. Food. "Avocado, huh." The smile died before it ever made it to his face, but at least he was trying.

On a normal day, Wash would've seen the change in Greg's movements - he'd seen enough people trying to hide injuries and done enough itself to be able to recognize the signs. Today, however, was anything but normal, and Wash was too preoccupied with sorting himself out to notice.

He wanted to talk, and he didn't. It was an uncomfortable, tense line to walk, and he- he didn't want to think about it, he decided. Not right now. "Not yet," he replied, slowly pushing himself up in a sitting position and leaning heavily against the couch cushions. "Sandwiches first."

Wash never looked great, but he did at least always look like he was holding it together. The helmet probably helped. Either way, the cracks were showing a little too clearly, this time.

The best Greg could offer was lunch, and a grin to replace the one Wash couldn't manage. "Gotcha. Can't do much on an empty stomach, huh? Oh, I brought some CDs too, if you want to listen." He rummaged them out of his pocket, flipping through the cases. "Got some classic rock, some space synth... I don't think the alternative funk tracks are scratched up too bad." He gave one disc a squint. "Really need to stop mixing in the death metal with these guys. Well, we got variety, so whatever you want!" With the exception of quiet.

It was pretty easy to hide behind a helmet around people who weren't used to full armor; they didn't know all the giveaways.

Wash leaned forward, bracing an elbow on his knee and grabbing a sandwich with his other hand. He flopped back against the cushions, half listening to Greg's list as he unwrapped the sandwich and tore into it. Turkey, cheese, lettuce, some fancy mayo, and yeah, the avocado was a nice touch. Perfect.

He was a good ways into the sandwich when an item on Greg's list gave him pause. He swallowed hard and looked at Greg. "You have death metal? You have death metal?" It was the most awake he'd been all day. Amazing what a good sandwich could do.

"What, you don't think I'm hardcore?" Greg's grin turned mischievous. "I didn't get this mane from a fear of barbers, y'know. I grew up in the golden age of hair and screaming! Played around with it a bit in my third album." He'd say that one didn't sell well, but that would imply any of them did.

"Haven't listened in a while, but boy, what a nostalgia trip." He chuckled at the memory of Rose, lighting up as she listened. Yeah, that's probably why he kept it around still... after a second he shook off the wistfulness. "Why, you think it'll do for a pick-me-up?" He underestimated you, Washington.

Wash very pointedly looked Greg up and down. "You don't really...look hardcore." Literally nothing Greg had said or done upon his arrival in Freesia screamed hardcore either.

He'd gone back to his sandwich and had just about finished it when Greg made that suggestion. He paused again, nearly choking on the bite in his mouth, and managed to choke it down. "God no. We used to tell South to turn that stuff off." Carolina did, at least, because South used to listen to Carolina. Problem was, 479 liked it too, and they'd all gotten the 'pilot chooses the music, passengers shut up' lecture more than once.

It wasn't until that train of thought played itself out in his head that Wash realized he'd brought up South. Willingly. Positively. Not to warn someone about her.

He was tired.

"You said you had classic rock, right?" he asked, like he hadn't just drifted sideways into his memories for a few seconds. Perfectly fucking normal. Right.

Greg feigned offense with a scoff, further emphasized by his mouthful of sandwich. "It may be a few years since I last did any thrashing, but the spirit lives on within. Somewhere, under... all this." He waved a hand over his gut. "It's just, ah, hibernating." This is the land of dad humor, Wash. No escape.

If Greg caught the momentary drift, he didn't feel the need to comment. There was a lot of reminiscing going around, it seemed, and little purpose in prying.

"Oh yeah, loads. Heck, this isn't even all of it. I think. Need to label these better. Think we got Doors, Stones, Roses..."

Normally Wash would at least try to come up with a rebuttal, but that required higher brain function and he was noticeably short on that today. Instead, he just raised one eyebrow, letting the expression really sink in before lowering it again. Good enough.

"Stones, I guess." Whatever that wound up being - Wash wasn't entirely sure. He balled up his sandwich wrapper, set it on the table, and leaned back, sinking into the couch cushions. Lying down was tempting. Sleep was tempting.

The nightmares that would accompany it were anything but.

Sitting up it was.

"Thanks for the food, by the way."

"Excellent!" Greg started off enthusiastic as he got up off the couch, faltered as a stab pierced through his side, then got up much more carefully. Still, he didn't miss a beat popping the disc into the nice player the room came with (man these places are nice). It takes more than pain to dampen enthusiasm for a good album.

Easing himself back down as Beast of Burden started out of the speakers, Greg gave an easy shrug to the thanks.

"Ahh, don't mention it, it's the least I can do. I always say, what food can't fix, it can help."

These days, sharing food and company was all Greg considered himself good for.

Okay, that was just about impossible to miss. Wash kept an eye on Greg as he headed for the CD player (and wow, was that ever retro) and came back. He wasn't limping, and he didn't seem to be favoring either arm, which it meant it was chest or stomach.

He met Greg's shrug with a very flat stare. Wash could handle being injured (or so he told himself, though injured was different than dead- no nope not right now priorities), but Greg was a different story. "How did you get hurt?"

"Uh... oh." Greg shifted awkwardly on the couch, scratching at his neck. He hadn't really been making any big effort to hide it, but with Wash already a mess it didn't seem right to make a fuss about himself.

"Yeah, that, I... had a run in with one of those shadowy guys, the other day. Was sort of hoping it'd wear off by now, like the rest, but it could be a lot worse." He wasn't the type to head for the hospital in the first place, and there wasn't much good a cast could do for whatever was off in there.

The Nox had gotten to Greg too - just not nearly as badly. Wash wondered, briefly, if they'd tried to talk to Greg too, tried to make that same sort of deal - but then how would he have survived the aftermath? Unless he hadn't-

He had to stop with that train of thought. He just had to.

Plus, Greg had just said the dumbest thing Wash had heard this week. "You thought an injury just wear off." He gave a moment's pause to let that sink in. "Is that normal?"

With Wash's disbelief, the absurdity of the idea properly settled on Greg, and he went red as he looked away.

"I mean, I wasn't sure, you know? The whole thing wiped me out too much to think much, i sort of overdid it with the, uh. The magic stuff. I was too out of it to figure how bad it was, or what was fatigue, and i was more worried about the kid, I just wasn't thinking much."

This kept getting better and better, for certain fucked up definitions of better. "Greg. Start from the beginning."

"I--ahh jeez. Okay. Uhm." He didn't really want to recount the whole experience, having just started getting past the short-term trauma, but sure, this is fine, he can do this.

"You know that kid, Casey, right? Kid's, uh. A bit reckless. I saw him head into the carnival, and... well, I'm not the best choice, but I knew he shouldn't be in there on his own, so I went after. We got cornered by one of those things before I could find the way back out, though. You can probably guess at the rest, it wasn't exactly pretty."

Wash closed his eyes and kept them shut throughout the story. If that wince was anything to go by, then yes, he did know Casey. "It would be Casey." He sighed, opening his eyes. "At least you made it out mostly intact. Did he?" Does he need to hunt Casey down and drag him to the hospital, is what he's asking.

"I think he may have broken on his leg." Greg was still avoiding eye contact; the fall was his fault, he'd gone in with the intent of looking after Casey, and look how well he'd managed at that. "I was gonna check on him in the hospital later."

That got an incredulous look. "Wait. Are you telling me you got Casey to go to a hospital? And stay there?" Wash raised an eyebrow; somehow, that was the least believable thing I'd heard all day. "I had no idea you were a miracle worker."

That, at least, got a small laugh out of him. "Not without some complaining, but we were both too out of it to do a lot of arguing. Wasn't like he could do much running away like that." He paused, frowning. "At least, I hope he's still there."

"Well, once they found out he's a problem patient, either they sedated him or they kicked him out." Wash gave a halfhearted shrug. "Probably the former. Either way, I'm in no position to check, and you should go check yourself in as it is." Cue the pointed look. Torso injuries could get pretty ugly, and that was the last thing Greg needed to be dealing with.

Rather than taking the hint, Greg have a pointed look back. Or, perhaps, less pointed, more like... feathery. "You sure you shouldn't get yourself looked over, man? You're not looking too hot." Someone who was "in no position" to go see someone in the hospital sounded a lot like someone who needed to go to the hospital.

Wash's pointed look went flat. There was some serious pot and kettle going on here; not that that would stop him from sailing right on by his own hypocrisy. "I'm not injured, if that's what you mean." Just exhausted and staving off a potential existential crisis. Tuesday, right?

(No, of course it wasn't, but maybe Wash would be able to handle it if he convinced himself it was normal. Maybe.)

It didn't take a genius to figure out that was code for "but something else is wrong." Greg chewed at his cheek. He generally avoided prying, as it rarely was well accepted, but it wasn't like Wash had called him hoping for room service.

"You know, I think my chest won't mind waiting a little, if you have something you wanna get off yours."

He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't. Wash hadn't had a chance to sort through what had happened to him; how was he supposed to put words to it? Could he even do that without going to pieces?

But he had asked Greg to come. (Kind of. Halfway. It still counted, because he was here.)

And he'd known he couldn't handle being alone right now.

And Greg was the kind of guy to play songs in a bar for the asshole who'd yelled at him the day before without even knowing him. Of course he'd be concerned. Of course he'd care.

He opened his mouth, and closed it. He couldn't lead with what had happened. Those were words that still wouldn't come. "When you fought the Nox -it didn't talk to you, did it?"

Greg blinked. "I didn't even know they could." The thought hadn't occurred to him at all; none of the monsters back home ever did. All he'd heard from the Nox the other night were a bunch of nasty screeching and poor imitations of horse noises.

Great. Now he could worry about whether he'd hallucinated the entire conversation. (Wash was fairly certain he hadn't - there was no reason the Nox would have waited so long to attack him otherwise - but at this point he wasn't sure of a damned thing.)

"Well, they talked to me. I went into the carnival-" Last night? A few days ago? How long had it been since he-

He shook his head roughly, trying to dislodge the oncoming panic. No. He could handle this. He was not going to lose it.

"I don't know if anything they said was true," he continued, trying to pick up the pieces of the conversation, "but at the end of it they offered me a deal. They wanted to take whatever magic I have and replace it with theirs - shadow magic." The fact that he was still mentally tripping over the idea of having magic at all probably factored into his continued inability to use it.

Greg listened quietly, a unease growing as Wash spoke. Now that he'd gotten a close-up look at the Nox, he had a lot of difficulty imagining a conversation with them as something anyone could enjoy. It did make him wonder why they hadn't tried speaking with him, though.

The whole scenario sounded an awful lot like a set-up. Shadows, deals, trades... Greg watched Wash very carefully. This story didn't have a happy ending, but the question at this moment was which bad turn it took.

"That... doesn't sound like a great idea."

"No kidding." Wash had to wonder if other people wouldn't think differently - if someone who wasn't as utterly exhausted with the situation as he was had been approached, had actually taken the Nox up on their offer...

One problem at a time.

"I turned them down. They-" He stopped as the words seized up in his throat. Saying it brought up memories, memories he hadn't dealt with yet, memories that would stay vivid and ugly no matter how much time passed - memories of his-

He'd closed his eyes at some point, tightened his grip on the couch cushion so much that his arms were shaking. He couldn't-

He had to. He couldn't run from this forever, and he couldn't handle it alone. He needed to get through this.

And if he broke-

Well, it wouldn't be the first time, now would it.

"They tore me apart," he managed, voice barely above a whisper. "I- I died."

"You d...?!" The bottom dropped out of Greg's stomach, and he turned to face Wash as fully as possible on the couch.

The man before him was the same one he'd seen before, at a glance--whole, alive. Yet Greg had no reason to doubt him. A hand closed over his stomach, as though searching. They were all magic now.

He swallowed through a throat suddenly gone tight. "Wash..." He didn't know what to say. There wasn't some easy fatherly wisdom to dole out about getting ripped apart by monsters. This wasn't the sort of thing he was supposed to deal with, he was never meant to get in this deep.

Now, he was in this deep, and he did have to deal with it. If Greg was mortified at the mere idea of it, it had nothing on the one who had gone through it. Wash needed someone, and he'd picked him. One hand rested on Wash's, gripping at the couch. He couldn't find words, but hopefully that would say something to him.

Wash was caught in his own memories, and caught badly. It was worse than he'd expected, somehow - memories of shadows rushing at him, sinking claws and teeth where they shouldn't have been able to go, where his armor should have protected him, until his vision whited out from pain and his body came apart-

And he'd never forget it. He didn't even have the luxury, the broken coping mechanism of taking the worst of his memories and filing them away as Not His, as the product of a tortured, fractured AI that had burned its death throes into the back of his brain. This one wasn't Epsilon's fault; it was his. He'd died, and he wasn't sure he could live with that.

He'd tensed, head bowed, until his whole body was shaking and his face was twisted into a grimace. His eyes snapped open when Greg laid his hand on top of his, and he let out one strangled gasp, and then another - the sounds of someone trying desperately to put their broken psyche back together and failing miserably.

Sometimes, it was better to let a person work it out. A good cry was important, a moment to work it out. Greg knew those, didn't mind them. It was enough to be there, and let them work through it, waiting for when they were ready for him. This wasn't one of those moments.

"Wash... Wash, c'mon, look at me." Greg shifted again to better be in front of Wash, more firmly gripping his hand. "I'm right here. Okay? You're out of there. Stick with me, pal."

Wash needed to deal with this, but he couldn't get lost in it, either. Gems shrugged off regeneration like it was no big deal, a puff of smoke and light and their day goes on. It was a fact of reality, something that simply happened every now and then. He and Wash weren't Gems, but by Greg's count, they weren't quite human anymore, either.

Edited 2015-07-22 04:45 (UTC)

He wasn't out. He was never out. His memory wouldn't let him go; never out of Epsilon's influence, never free of his own memories, and now he was stuck here-

And now he was stuck here.

He choked and doubled over as the realization turned his stomach. It didn't matter what he did - he couldn't get out. Even dying was just a revolving door that spat him back into this place. "I died for this war," he managed, "and that still doesn't get me out of fighting this goddamn war!"

Greg's breath caught behind his teeth as Wash yelled, nearly shrinking away from him on instinct. He had to tell himself, quickly, that it wasn't him who was getting yelled at. Probably. Just anger, frustration, at all that was happening.

The worst part of it was, Wash was right. They were trapped in a world far from their own, outnumbered and out of their depth, fighting for people who didn't care about them or want them there. They had no guidance, no incentive to keep going, not even a solid promise they'd get home if they won this foreign war. There wasn't a bright side, or silver lining. There was no comfort to give.

Greg was shaking, too. He was scared. Of Wash, for Wash. For himself, for everyone here. What were they supposed to do? Why were people counting on them to do this? What happened if they couldn't?

He didn't have answers. He didn't have any words at all, not for either of them. He just set his jaw, and held Wash's hand still. He needed it too, at this moment.

Wash didn't have any words anymore - not after that explosion. He sat, tense, head nearly on his knees, silently shaking himself apart.

He didn't have enough energy to keep this going. Whatever had brought him back and reassembled him had left him with nothing left to give. Slowly, the tension eased out of his arms and his back, leaving him in a heap on the couch, with the Stones still playing quietly in the background.

You can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes
you might find
you get what you need

Well. That was fucking opportune, wasn't it.

He couldn't quite manage a laugh, bitter as it would have been; he just huffed a few times, before even that collapsed into erratic breathing.

For a long while, the only sound in the room was the music. Greg certainly was glad he'd popped it in before everything started breaking. It gave him something to focus on. Wash puffed out something like a laugh, while Greg mused on. They weren't getting anything they wanted. So what was it they needed?

"I have a son, back home." The words came suddenly, and he wasn't sure why. His eyes fixed on the far corner, his free hand tugging at the bottom of the shirt. "I need... I need to see him again.

"If I... if I die, in this..." It felt, suddenly, like less of an "if" and more of a "when." He was the last person to be of any use in a war. "If that happens, and I come back... I might still be able to get back to him." Greg tried to smile, at that barest thread of a silver lining. He didn't succeed. "We'll still have chances."

Wash's breathing had settled by the time Greg spoke up, so his quiet, sharp intake of breath was noticeable. Greg had a kid. That sure explained some things.

It took Wash a few moments to find words and a few more to summon the wherewithal to get them out. "You'll see him," he said quietly. "At the last place I was, if anyone left, they woke up right where they'd left off - no time had passed back home. I don't see why this place would be any different." That was about all the contribution to the silver lining that he had.

"Yeah... you mentioned that, before." Wash had been through all this, already. He kept getting pulled into these things, fighting in someone else's magic war, and letting them eat away at him.

Greg wondered if Wash had anyone he needed to see, wherever his home was.

After a long stretch of silence, Greg sighed, and straightened up, just a little. "Wash... I gotta ask you something."

He shrugged weakly. "Worth repeating."

Wash let himself sink into the silence, exhaustion graying out the edges of his thoughts. So Greg had a son. Probably a good kid, if his dad was anything to go by. He toyed with the idea of maybe meeting Greg's kid and discarded it almost immediately. Nope. The last thing a war zone needed was kids. He'd seen enough of that already-

He winced, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Evidently he couldn't go ten seconds without digging up some form of trauma. Great.

He opened his eyes when Greg spoke and pushed himself upright. "Yeah?"

For another moment, Greg didn't speak, chewing his cheek as he second guessed himself. He couldn't imagine the sort of things Wash had evidently gone through. He didn't want to. Who was he to advise?

He considered playing it off, trying to turn things light again, back to comfortable territory. With Steven, distracting him with food usually cleared things right up.

Wash wasn't Steven, though. He was an adult, and had to get talked to like one.

"Just... try not to take too much on alone, all right? Out there, or, yknow..." He tapped at his head. "In here. You don't have to come to me, but... it's always better to have a buddy system."

That was actually pretty solid advice, of the type that Wash usually shrugged off in favor of his own coping mechanisms or sheer stubbornness. The thing was, neither of those were working for him today - or very much at all anymore, really.

"I used to do that," he said after a few seconds of silence and several attempts to assemble his thoughts that ended in utter failure. "Handle everything alone. I didn't have a choice." Because he'd had nobody left that he could trust; those who hadn't been lying to him all along had died before he'd gotten to see them again. "But...I don't think I can do that anymore." He'd gotten too accustomed to having a team - to having friends - to go back to handling everything alone. Not if he could help it. "That's why I called you."

"So...thanks. For coming."

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I don't believe it; I had to see it [Closed]

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