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I'll see you in the future when we're older
And we are full of stories to be told
Cross my heart and hope to die
I'll see you with your laughter lines.
-Laughter Lines, Bastille
“You want to go do what?”
It is with supreme difficulty that Tucker restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the look of horror on Wash’s face. He’s standing there, frozen at the stove with a spatula clutched in his hand, looking as if Tucker has just told him he has two weeks to live. He also looks so goddamn domestic that Tucker wants to put him on his knees right in the middle of their kitchen, but—priorities. Convincing Wash that the plan is a good idea first. Fucking him in the kitchen second.
“I wanna go dancing,” Tucker explains patiently. Wash tightens his grip on the spatula. “And I want you to come with me. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”
“Dancing,” Wash says, in the flattest voice Tucker’s ever heard. “Dancing.”
“Yes, Wash, dancing.”
Tucker watches in amusement as Wash does some obvious quick thinking. “Well,” he finally says, prodding at the stir fry with the spatula, “as…fun…as that sounds, there’s nowhere on Chorus to go dancing. I would go with you, I really would, but there isn’t a place for that sort of thing—”
“Yes there is,” Tucker says, and Wash freezes. “Sabine’s opening a club downtown.”
Wash narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Sabine works at the consulate.”
“Sabine quit working there three weeks ago because she fucking hated that job.”
“She did?” Wash frowns. “I haven’t heard that.”
“I heard it from Simmons who heard it from Grif who heard it from that one red-head who works with Ali who heard it from Sabine. She’s been planning this club for months. Dude, try to keep up.”
Wash is silent for a moment as he methodically stirs their dinner. “What kind of club?”
“A club with music and dancing and drinks and probably some dark corners to fool around in—”
“That sounds dangerous,” Wash says quickly. “Drinking and dark corners. Someone could get hurt.”
“She’s going to have security, Wash. No weapons allowed in—”
Tucker regrets those words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. “No weapons?” Wash asks, aghast. “I can’t even bring a knife?”
“You won’t need a knife! We’re going in there to dance, not assassinate someone!”
Wash shakes his head fervently. “No. It sounds too dangerous—”
“Waaaaaaash….” Tucker slides off his stool, coming over to wrap his arms around Wash. “Pleeeeeeeease? The war has been over for like a million years—”
“Five. It’s been over for five—”
“—and she’s gonna have security and we don’t even have to drink or anything! I wanna have some fun.”
“You go!” Wash protests. “You go and have a good time, really—”
“But I wanna go with you. I wanna dance with you.”
“I can’t dance.”
“That’s not what Carolina says.”
Wash drops the spatula in the stir fry. He hastily recovers it and turns in Tucker’s arms, frowning. “She—what exactly did she tell you?”
Tucker grins. “She just said you have some moves, and I wanna see them.” He pokes at Wash’s chest. “This was her idea, you know.”
“I don’t have moves—wait, it was?”
“Mmmhmm. She and Nessa are gonna go and she said we should come.”
Wash stares at him. “Wait, it was Carolina’s idea to take Kimball dancing? At a club where we can’t bring in weapons?”
“Okay, first of all, Carolina doesn’t need a weapon if shit goes down—neither do you, for that matter—and second of all…” Tucker drops his arms from where he’s locked them around Wash’s neck, smoothing them up and down his arms instead. “Vanessa’s not the president anymore, Wash.”
“She’s still a prominent public figure.”
Tucker pulls back fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “You are seriously overthinking this.”
“Of course I am,” Wash says, and Tucker’s heart sinks at the way his voice has sharpened. “That’s my job, Tucker—”
“No, it’s not. Not anymore.”
“Still. I have to—if something happens to you, any of you, I—”
“Okay.” Tucker reaches over to remove the spatula from Wash’s hand from where he’s starting stabbing viciously at the stir fry. “Out with it. What’s going on? Why are you so wound up about this?”
There’s a moment where Tucker can see it on his face, still, the way his knee jerk reaction is to say it’s nothing, I’m fine, forget it. He watches Wash war with himself, fidgeting in Tucker’s peripheral as Tucker reaches around him to add some seasoning to the stir fry, before he wilts a little. “I’ve been having nightmares again.”
Tucker looks up quickly at that, almost dropping the pepper in the pan. “You have? I haven’t—why haven’t I…?”
He doesn’t have to mention how Wash always wakes thrashing and howling from his nightmares. They’ve spent enough nights unable to sleep one of their nightmares, both during the war and after.
“I don’t know,” Wash says slowly. “They’re—different, lately. Deeper. Harder to wake up. I know I’m dreaming, but it’s hard to climb out. By the time I do, I know I’m awake.”
“That sounds super shitty.”
Wash smiles bitterly and Tucker hates it. “It is.”
Tucker pauses, uncertain if he should be subtle about his next point, before giving it up. “Could be the meds. Maybe you should talk to Grey about a different kind of—”
He’s unsurprised when Wash groans, flinging open the cupboard where their dishes live as if it’s personally wronged him. “I’m so sick of trying different kinds of medications and doses! It works for a few weeks, or months, then it doesn’t. It’s such a waste of her time—what’s the point if it’s not going to work?”
Tucker turns off the stove heat at once, grabbing Wash’s arm and turning him to face him. “It does work,” he says sharply. “It does. That’s the fucking point. It makes you feel better. And you’re not bothering Grey. She’d flip if she heard you say that.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Tucker snaps. “It’s not a waste of your time, and it’s not a waste of Grey’s, and it’s not waste of mine for you to like, wake me the fuck up if you need to. Wash, seriously. I thought we were past that shit.”
For a moment, Wash looks as if he’s going to argue further, but then something much worse happens: he deflates, sinking into the stool Tucker vacated and putting his head in his hands. “I—I know. I’m sorry, I’m just….I’m so sick of this. I’m sick of the nightmares and I’m sick of the medicine and I’m just…sometimes it feels like…like…”
“Like it’ll never be over?”
Wash looks up at him, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Like that.”
“Wanna know how we make it be over?”
“How?”
“By going dancing with our friends.”
Wash sighs. “Tucker—”
“No, I’m serious. Look, if you really don’t wanna go because you don’t want to, then that’s cool. But if you’re not going because you’re afraid, or think we’re not allowed to have normal things, then…” Tucker shrugs. “I just think you should try. It could be really fun.”
Wash opens his mouth to reply before he pauses, doing that thing where he looks at Tucker, really looks at him like he’s seeing straight into his soul. “You really need this.”
There’s no point in denying it. “I really fucking need this.”
And just like that, Wash nods, slapping his palms on the counter. “Okay, then. Let’s go dancing.”
“You—” it will never fail to fluster him, ever, when Wash does that, flips a switch instantly, for him, “—I don’t want—we don’t have—”
“I know. I want to,” Wash says earnestly. “I want to do something that…that you want. When are we going?”
“Well—Carolina and I thought tomorrow, maybe—”
Wash masks his alarm fairly well, but not before Tucker sees it. “I mean Friday,” he corrects hastily, after doing some quick math. Friday is five days away, which is usually a safe amount of time for Wash to prepare himself for social situations. “That sound good?”
Wash relaxes instantly. “That sounds fine. Friday it is.” He gestures towards the stir fry that Tucker has abandoned. “Dinner?”
“Welllllll....” Tucker inches around the counter until he’s draped all over Wash, beaming. “I was thinking that first you could show me some of these sweet dance moves Carolina was talking about.”
Wash does not, in fact, show him his sweet dance moves, but he does have a few other moves that Tucker is quite fond of, and they end up fooling around on the kitchen floor for so long that their dinner is stone cold by the time they get around to it. It’s the best, eating reheated stir fry half-naked with Wash, watching him carefully pencil their dancing date into the calendar, sex hair sticking up in every direction, soft and sated and all his.
Tucker has to admit that he’s rather surprised when Wash acts completely normal over the next several days. He watches closely for signs that Wash is regretting his decision to go dancing, but Wash isn’t acting any different than normal. When Friday rolls around, Wash kisses Tucker before heading out to work, and still appears relaxed when he comes home to get ready. He’s calm. He’s collected. He’s—
—seriously going to make them late. Tucker fires off a quick text to Carolina—be there soon—before setting his datapad down with a sigh. “Wash! Let’s goooooooo, come on!”
“I’m coming….”
It’s still another five minutes before Wash inches out of their bedroom. “Finally,” Tucker teases, not looking up from his datapad. “Okay, you won’t believe this, but I think I might have convinced Sarge to go, so—holy fucking shit.”
Tucker drops the datapad on the counter as he gets a good look at Wash, who’s fidgeting in front of him. He’s done something to his hair, spiked it up a bit in the front, and is wearing a blue v-neck t-shirt to that clings to his shoulders in a way Tucker highly approves of. That’s not even counting the fucking jeans he’s wearing— stone-washed and skinny and fitted so perfectly that Tucker thinks they must be tailored.
“Donut took me shopping,” Wash mutters by way of explanation, and Tucker makes a fervent mental note to thank Donut later. “If they’re too tight I can change—”
“Oh my god, don’t you dare.” Tucker fastens a hand around his wrist and starts tugging him towards the door before Wash can talk anymore nonsense. “Oh man, we look so hot. Everyone’s gonna be like, super jealous.”
Wash rolls his eyes, but he does allow Tucker to pull him out of the house. They meet Carolina and Vanessa at the bottom of the hill where they’ve agreed to meet. Vanessa waves at them, looking a bit nervous but excited too. Carolina is standing at her side with a mouth full of bobby pins, eyes narrowed as she reinforces the elegant bun Vanessa’s hair has been swept up into.
“I’m glad I brought extra,” she says when her mouth is free. “Your hair is so thick.”
Carolina turns to Tucker and Wash, smiling brightly. She looks just as at home in a dress and heels as she does in power armor or fatigues that it takes Tucker a moment to realize that it’s the first time he’s ever seen her this done up. “You guys look hot,” Tucker tells her. “Man, the four of us are gonna kill it.”
“We are, aren’t we?” Vanessa says. She’s positively glowing, a radiant smile stretched across her face as she pats at the bun in her hair, looking more beautiful than Tucker has ever seen her. It has nothing to do with her hair or make-up and everything to do with the relaxed set of her shoulders, and the way she giggles when Carolina swats her hands away from her bun. “Shall we?”
She links her arm through Carolina’s, and they lead the way. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to Sabine’s club, long enough for Tucker to see just how much Chorus has changed in the years they’ve been gone. The buildings are closer together the further they get into town, creating a patchwork of mismatched houses and yards. There’s not a single person in armor, not a single weapon drawn. He knows those suits of armor are still tucked away in the picturesque houses they pass, knows that the weapons are there although he can’t see them, knows that the people sitting out on their front porches are keeping a sharp eye out for trouble even as they laugh with their friends. Knows that the citizens of Chorus have a long memory, and they are ready to fight at a moment’s notice.
Tonight, though, they are also ready to dance.
They meet up with many familiar faces as they walk, on their way to the club, and soon Vanessa is surrounded by friends and co-workers a little ways a head of them. Tucker feels Wash’s hand tighten in his own, and when he glances at him, it’s to see Wash’s face drawn and worried. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know,” Wash mutters. He glances around, his gaze finally landing on Vanessa a few steps ahead of them. “Carolina, should she really be here?”
“I told you, it’s fine,” Carolina says, an almost undetectable edge creeping into her voice. She’s fallen into step on Wash’s other side. “Don’t start again.”
Tucker barely has time to wonder what she means by again when Wash speaks up, quicker this time. “She should at least have a bodyguard to protect her—”
Carolina whirls around so fast that Wash walks right into her. “I can protect her,” she says, her voice low and fierce. “I can. Me. I know where the exits are, I’m armed, and I personally vetted that security staff. She’s fine. I will make sure she’s fine.”
Tucker eyes her up and down. “Uh, where exactly are you hiding a weapon?”
She ignores him, gaze still locked onto Wash’s. “She hasn’t been a target in a long time, Wash, and she has just as much of a chance of being shot at on the street. More, in fact. That club is going to be filled with people just trying to dance.” Her voice softens somewhat. “Including us. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun.”
“Yes. Now will you stop worrying and just—”
Vanessa’s voice cuts through their conversation from where she’s paused half a block ahead. “Are you guys coming or what?”
“We’re coming!” Carolina tucks her hand into Wash’s, tugging him along insistently. “Let’s go, Wash.”
Wash sighs, but Tucker can see something in him relax as he walks with Carolina, his voice dropping to a murmur. “What exactly did you tell him about my dancing, anyway? That was one time…”
Tucker grins as he bounds to catch up with Vanessa “Soooo? You ready to tear up the dance floor?”
“Am I,” she says enthusiastically. “I always wanted to learn to dance, you know.”
“Yeah?” Tucker asked, surprised. “Why didn’t you?”
She gives him a look. “I couldn’t exactly sign up for classes, Tucker.”
“Psht, you don’t need classes,” Tucker says, waving a hand. “Just move! Do what feels good! I’ll show you some stuff.”
“And just when did you learn to dance?”
“When didn’t I? Look, I had to find something to do back in Blood Gulch,” he says, then comes to an abrupt halt as they round the corner and Sabine’s club comes into view. “Holy shit, is the entire planet here?”
It sure looks that way, as they join the back of the line. Wash is craning his head above the crowd—trying to watch the check-in process, Tucker assumes—and to his surprise, Wash soon lowers himself back down with a grin.
“Sabine just confiscated three lighters and is giving everyone a thorough pat down,” he tells Tucker. “It looks like they’re taking safety pretty seriously after all.”
A thorough pat down is a bit of an understatement, Tucker thinks, as the burly security guard Sabine’s hired gets more than a little handsy. He rolls his eyes when Carolina exchanges a nod with Sabine and slips ahead without so much as a pretend pat down, stepping clear around the metal detectors. Tucker hurries in after her when the bodyguard has finished with him. “What the fuck did you have to do to avoid that?”
“I helped vet the security team, remember? I’ll be keeping an eye on things, too.” He watches her eyes flick around the room, mapping the exits, before she turns her attention to the DJ table. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
The club is impressively large and clean, with a huge dance floor, bar, DJ table, and even a stage with two poles. Tucker has no idea where the fuck Sabine found people who knew how to pole dance on this planet, but the dancers are impressively good. Tucker is halfway out on the dance floor before he turns, searching for Wash, who is edging his way towards the bar. “No no, go ahead,” Wash says quickly, when Tucker makes his way back over. “I just…need a drink first.”
“What happened to no drinking?”
“I never said we couldn’t drink,” Wash says defensively. “You said that. I want to try one of these…these….”
His eyes flick to the bar menu as Tucker folds his arms across his chest. “One of these what?”
“One of these Berry Kiwi Lime Sour Slushies,” Wash says triumphantly, banishing the drink menu at him. “Would you like one?”
Tucker makes a face as the bartender begins yanking a variety of syrups out from underneath the bar. “Think I’m good.”
“If you’re sure,” Wash says, eyeing the drink the bartender is making with interest. “Can I have extra cherries in that?”
“Are you sure…” Tucker glances back towards the floor, where Carolina is already putting most of the dancers to shame. Unacceptable.
“Go,” Wash says, nudging him. “I’ll….be right behind you.”
Tucker hesitates, but when a tune he recognizes comes on next, he can’t resist the pull of the music. He kisses Wash on the cheek as the bartender presses some acid green drink into his hands, then weaves his way through the crowd to where Carolina is dancing.
Three songs and a dance off later, which Tucker is at least seventy-five percent sure he won no matter what Palomo says, Wash is still not on the floor. Tucker peers over the crowd to find Wash clutching what appears to be his second drink, standing at the very edge of the dance floor and looking lost.
Tucker inches past where Carolina is teaching Vanessa some complicated looking hip circle thing, past where Katie Jensen and Falguni are trying to learn some dance off the internet, past Donut trying to line half the dancers up into a conga line, to nudge Wash’s shoulder. “Wash.”
“I’m coming!” Wash says earnestly. “No, really, I’m…” he downs his drinks, setting it back down behind him on the bar. “I’m coming right now.”
He stands up and squares his shoulders in a way so reminiscent of the way he used to walk into a fight that Tucker feels immediately guilty. “Dude, forget it—”
“But I want to!” Wash protests. “I do, really. I’m just….it’s just been a while since I danced. I don’t remember how. And you’re, uh. Well. You’re really good.”
“Fuck yeah I am!” Tucker grins, wrapping his fingers around Wash’s wrist and giving him a tug. “Sounds like you need a teacher.”
That gets Wash to relax a little. “I suppose times do change.”
Wash follows him out onto the dance floor, back to where Vanessa and Carolina are dancing. His movements are stiff and awkward, but whenever his eyes find Tucker’s, his smile is genuine, if a little forced. Every so often, he tries to sidle back to the bar, but Tucker pulls him in, laughing, and Wash stays. He stays for every song, and humors Tucker when he wants to teach him a new dance move, twirls Tucker around and pulls him close.
After some time, Tucker notices a small crowd beginning to form between the DJ table and the stage. He squints at the neon sign, then grins. “Hey, so….” Tucker nudges Wash’s shoulder, jerking his head over towards what seems to be a holographic bulletin board. “Amateur pole dancing competition tonight. Winner gets 500 credits. You gonna bring us home the goods, baby?”
Wash stops the awkward swaying of his hips and stares at Tucker. “A….a pole dancing competition? Wait, really?”
“That’s right.” Tucker eyes him up and down appreciatively. “I’d love to see you working that pole with those sexy thighs, all sweaty and shit—”
“There’s a pole dancing competition here?”
Tucker blinks. “Uh…yes?”
“Here? In this club? That anyone can join?”
“…I think so?” Tucker stares as Wash stands on his tiptoes, craning his neck around. “What are you—”
But Wash is gone, zipping through the crowd so fast that Tucker is still staring at the spot where he was last standing. Tucker gives himself a shake, casting his gaze around the crowd. He finally spots Wash across the room, except that can’t be Wash, because Wash is in the line for the amateur pole dancing competition.
“What the fuck,” he says to no one in particular, then begins to make his way over to where Carolina is at the bar, order drinks for her and Vanessa. “I think something’s wrong with Wash.”
She frowns at him. “What? Why?”
“He’s….” Tucker has to do a double take to make sure he isn’t dreaming. “He’s entering the pole dancing competition.”
Carolina relaxes at once, taking her drinks from the bartender. “Well, now I feel sorry for anyone else entering.”
Tucker gapes at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
She winks at him, handing Vanessa her drink and slipping her arm around her waist. The two of them wander off, Carolina giving Vanessa’s ass an appreciative squeeze, and Tucker throws up his hands and turns to order his own drinks.
He carries them over to where Wash is waiting in line, in deep conversation with one of the other girls there. “Need a drink?”
“Maybe just a sip,” Wash says, reaching over to take a swig of the berry daiquiri Tucker had brought him. “How’d you know I liked daiquiris?”
“Please. It was the fruitiest fucking drink they had….”
He trails off, staring at Wash. His entire demeanor has changed so quickly that Tucker is having trouble keeping up. The tension has melted away from his bones, and his eyes are bright as he keeps glancing towards the stage. “Are you…” Tucker clears his throat. “Are you…okay?”
“Just a little nervous,” Wash says brightly. “It’s been a while since I danced.”
“It’s been a while since you pole danced? When the fuck did—”
“Oh, shoot,” Wash interrupts, craning his neck to look at the stage. He thrusts his drink back into Tucker’s hand. “Kay. I’m up next. Hold this for me?”
Tucker’s jaw drops as Wash shrugs out of his shirt, folding it neatly and passing it to Tucker. Everyone in the vicinity eyes him appreciatively. “Uh, what are you—”
And then he’s really speechless, because Wash whips off his jeans and everyone who wasn’t staring before sure as fuck is now. Tucker holds out his arms for Wash to pile his clothes into, a grin spreading across his features, because that’s his hot ass boyfriend stripping and about to go work the pole. He leans in to give Wash a kiss, because come on, and Wash obliges him before stepping onto the stage.
There are several wolf whistles as Wash saunters—actually saunters, there’s really no other word for it—up to the pole. Tucker barely has the presence of mind to start the video camera on his phone and aim it at the stage before the music begins, and Wash starts to dance.
He’s not sure how long Wash is up there—three minutes or three days or three long, glorious years—but he doesn’t move a muscle the entire time. Gone is the awkward, uncomfortable Wash from earlier, insisting that he didn’t know how to dance. This Wash—this Wash is confident and graceful and somehow managing to make the ridiculous classical music he chose sound sexy as all hell. Tucker has always known Wash was strong, but this—he’s pretty sure Wash is defying gravity with every single move. Carolina lets out an approving whistle of her own next to Tucker, and Tucker feels a pang of jealousy. He has been with Wash for five years ago, has known him for even longer, and he had never, not once, had any idea that this part of him existed.
Tucker drinks in every second until Wash leaves the stage, breathless and grinning at the applause that echoes through the club. Carolina high-fives him, and Wash takes a little bow, reaching out to grab the drink that Tucker is holding out to him dumbly.
“What….” Tucker clears his throat. “How…when….?”
But Tucker finds himself shoved aside as Vanessa shoulders him out of the way. Her eyes are wide and bright as she looks between Wash and the pole. “You have to teach me that.”
Wash looks surprised for a moment before grinning. “What, the pole stuff? I could teach you that.”
“It looks like so much fun,” she breathes. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Basic,” Wash says somewhat sheepishly. “One of my friends used to compete professionally. It was a nice way to blow off steam. I did an amateur competition myself once on a whim.”
“Well, Wash can teach you at our house,” Tucker says absently. He’s already got his datapad out, scrolling through several sports good supplies that ship to Chorus. “Because we’re about to have a pole in the living room.”
“Oh, we are not,” Wash says, swiping at the datapad.
Tucker jerks it away. “Dude, we so are. That was the most insane shit I’ve ever seen.”
“It was,” Vanessa says fervently. “You’ll show me?”
“Sure, Vanessa,” Wash says, voice still breathless and a little giddy from his dance. “I’ll show you.”
Vanessa grins, patting him on the shoulder before she snags Carolina’s wrist. “Come on. Let’s go dance.”
Carolina follows her, leaving Tucker alone with Wash. He sets down the datapad for a minute, eyeing Wash critically. “That was fucking amazing.”
Wash blushes—Tucker will never get tired of that, ever—and ducks his head a little. “Yeah?”
“Uh, yes. Wash, what the fuck, I didn’t know you could dance like that.”
“I…” Wash shrugs a little. “I think I kind of forgot myself. I haven’t even thought about it in so long.”
“It was fucking gorgeous,” Tucker says firmly, before they can stray too far down that path, that path that always makes Wash’s eyes darken and shoulders drop. “I mean, damn.”
“Thanks,” Wash says, with a soft smile. “Glad you liked it.”
Tucker eyes him. “You have not done a pole competition before, though.”
“I have!”
“Mmm hmm.”
Wash grins, nudging at Tucker’s datapad. “I swear! It should still be online. Go on, search David Fletcher pole dancing competition,” he says casually, and Tucker has half of that keyed into his search bar before he freezes, head snapping back up to look at Wash.
Wash is looking at him too, the barest hint of self-consciousness showing behind his relaxed exterior. “You…” Tucker begins, then swallows hard. “Huh. Okay. Yeah, I’ll—let me pull it up.”
“Might have used my middle name,” Wash says, still in that same casual tone, peering over his shoulder. “Can’t, uh. Can’t quite remember. If you can’t find it, try David Tobias.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in, and when it does, Tucker drops the datapad entirely. “Wait wait wait. David Tobias Fletcher? That’s your name?”
The nervousness is more apparent now, as Wash fiddles with the straw in his cocktail. “Well, I mean, it was, I’m not trying to—it’s not—”
“Your initials are DTF?!”
“Yeah, they…” Wash rolls his eyes, then throws his shirt at Tucker’s head. “Oh, Tucker.”
“Oh my god,” Tucker crows, dodging the shirt. “Oh-hoooo mygod. Your initials are DTF. This is the literal greatest day of my life.”
“Oh, it is not—”
“Agent Washington,” Tucker says seriously, “is always DTF.”
Wash stares at him, unimpressed.
“See, it’s funny, because that also means down to fuck—”
“I know what it means, Tucker!”
But Wash is grinning so hugely he can barely speak, and it takes Tucker nearly five minutes to stop laughing enough so that he can pull up the search bar again. “Okay, okay. Let’s see this video….”
Tucker’s breath catches in his throat a little when he finally pulls up the video. For a moment, he thinks they found the wrong one: Wash looks so young, his hair cut regulation style, face and bare chest very nearly unscarred. Still has the crooked nose, though. He’s laughing, waiting for the music to start, but when it does, he moves the same, and those are Wash’s blue eyes alright. Tucker drinks in every minute of the video, of this rare piece of history that Wash has trusted him with. David Tobias Fletcher.
Five years since Wash kissed him in a supply closet, and he’d never, not once, mentioned that name.
But he’s mentioned it here, the name safe, somehow, inside the heavy drumbeat of the music and the insistent pulsing of the lights. Another piece of himself, of his history, another glimpse into the unfathomable depths of trust that Wash has placed in him.
David Tobias Fletcher.
Tucker reaches out to grab Wash’s wrist, grinning. “C’mon, Wash. Let’s go dance.”
The tension falls from Wash’s shoulders at the sound of his name, the one that means Blue Base and pancakes in the morning and nights spent shaking apart in their bed, from nightmares, from pleasure, from laughter. The name that Tucker’s reminded him of, that Wash has whispered to himself so many times.
Wash lets himself be pulled out onto the floor, tugging on his shirt as they go. It’s a slower song now, so Tucker pulls him in close and they rock together. It’s pretty sappy, the way he hooks his chin over Wash’s shoulder and slides his hands up and down his back, but Tucker doesn’t care, not when it makes Wash sigh a little and positively melt into him. He watches the rest of the club from over Wash’s shoulder: Sabine, telling Sarge and Emily off for getting too handsy on the dance floor; Caboose, who’s managed to find his way into the D.J. booth and is blasting old show tunes; Carolina, who is leadingVanessa away to the bathrooms in what Tucker distinctly recognizes as a classic I’m about to get laid stalk. At this roomful of people sans armor, who are slowly, slowly, learning to dance again.
He presses a kiss to Wash’s neck as the music speeds up again, and pulls away from him. “Gonna show me how to work that pole now?”
Wash does not show him how to work the pole, but he doesn’t leave the dance floor either. He stays there all night, until Tucker is collapsed onto a bar stool, rubbing at his own feet because he can’t possibly dance anymore. Wash stayed for him, Tucker knows, stayed and danced because he knew it’s what Tucker needed, gave Tucker more pieces of himself, and when they leave the club and Wash collects his credits from winning the pole competition and says, “well, that was fun,” Tucker turns to kiss him full on the mouth.
They’re too exhausted to do anything more than collapse into bed when they get home, but Tucker immediately rolls over to drape himself across Wash’s back. They stay like that all night, limbs tangled together, breathing into each other’s space, and just as Wash is about to fall asleep, Tucker buries his head in that messy hair and sighs. “Love you, Wash.”
Wash’s voice comes back, several seconds later, drowsy and thick with sleep. “Lo’you, too.”
Tucker lets that be the last thing Wash hears from him, Wash’s name, Wash’s real name, in his mouth, and they drift off, exhausted, in their house on a hilltop, and it’s domestic as fuck and sappy as shit and everything Tucker has secretly wanted, ever, lying here in his arms: someone to love, who loves him back.