Posts tagged red vs blue.
RvB: Advanced Zoology
"This seems very familiar," York stammered, leaning against the lamppost.
"You got a case of the deejars," North called over, slipping his loose grip on the flashlight and dropping it on Wash’s head.
"Fucking hold on to it, you jerk!" The flashlight was thrust back into North’s chest. "You have one job, North."
"Obviously it wasn’t DD," York said, finishing off his bottle. "What the hell are deejars?"
"It’s French, you uncultured swine,” North leaned forward, redirecting the light again to Wash’s grumblings. “And no, our DD was totally…erm. Was it Maine?”
"I think he went…went…" York looked around, suddenly losing his buzz. "I think he’s talking to the elephants. Wash. Are you trying to steal a tiger?"
"Liberate," Wash corrected, as North muttered something about a thesaurus and Christmas.
"It’s a goddamn tiger, Wash!”
"That’s the point!" Wash said.
"And/or DUH," North added.
"What would you do with a tiger?"
"What wouldn’t you do with a tiger?” Wash answered.
"I remember this being a bad idea…"
"Look who called the sober police," North added, and then stuck out his tongue. "Have a heart for adventure, York. Tigers, they’re…predators…and…"
"And?" York encouraged.
"And don’t…can’t live on spaceships and Wash, what the hell are you doing?"
Wash looked at his companions, his face full of patient disbelief. “Space tigers are better than any other kind of tigers, and how do you think they’re made, anyway? By taking boring normal tigers into space. I’m furthering evolution.”
North and York exchanged a meaningful glance, after two unsuccessful tries at keeping eye contact, and North swiftly knocked Wash unconscious. “I think he’s had too much,” North said, before giggling.
"Let’s go find Maine," York muttered, walking over and taking one of Wash’s arms while North grabbed the other. "I hate being the grown-up."
RvB: Too Many Letters, Too Many Cards (Pt 2 of prompts based on Starring Role by Marina and the Diamonds)
I never sent for love, I never had a heart to mend
Because before the start began, I always saw the end
"Agent Connecticut," she had said, introducing herself, and he remembered how rigidly she had shaken his hand while York had come up to both of them, his hands had clapped their shoulders and he had said with a big, stupid grin, "Wash, meet Connie. None of the "Washington" and "Connecticut" crap, that’s way too many letters."
Now when he was curled up, breathing in her hair, caressing her skin but careful not to show too much affection, too much care, he wondered if she knew how hard and fast he had fallen. He wondered because she’d always say something, some little words she didn’t think twice of, and he’d be so surprised at how well she knew him, how clearly she saw through him. Of course she knew. She must.
Not that it changed anything. She was still holding all the right cards. Even (especially) the ones Wash didn’t even know existed. He was playing with his hand on the table since the start.
RvB: Until You Make It (Pt 1 of prompts based on Starring Role by Marina and the Diamonds)
Sometimes I ignore you so I feel in control
Cause really, I adore you, and I can’t leave you alone
Fed up with the fantasies, they cover what is wrong
Come on, baby, let’s just, get drunk, forget we don’t get on
Sometimes she said things that made Wash remember what they were doing. Things like “I’m not that tired, I think I’ll just go to my room,” or “this broom closet is perfect - no one will hear us.” Sometimes it was what she didn’t say that really did it. The silence when he said he liked her hair down. The way she always wore it half-up from then on. The soft sigh in the bed and his arms encircled her.
He tried to do it, too. He’d try, “someone might hear us,” like he really cared what anyone heard. And she’d leave, and he’d continue to act like it was his idea. He’d say, “I have a mission tomorrow,” and she’d say, “you’re right, we should just go to sleep. See you in the morning,” and he hated that she proved him right. But he still said it, so she wasn’t the only one. Because if he made believe that the relationship is balanced, that she didn’t only show him affection when they’d both been drinking all night, that she didn’t trace circles in his skin only those times when he could smell her night on her breath, then maybe it’d become balanced by some wishful thinking. Fake it ‘till you make it. She said that, once.
completelysane asked: For Wash/CT during season nine: "So if you're lonely, you know I'm here waiting for you I'm just a cross-hair, I'm just a shot away from you"
"Ah, yes, the killers," York announced with a grin as Wyoming, Wash, and CT piled in from their mission. He welcomed them with a mock bow and a grand gesture to the prime seating on the couch.
"Not killers," CT said reflexively, but it was Wash who finished it. "The Avengers."
Wyoming shrugged. “I have no problem with being described by our skills. Sharp shooting, Wash. You should carry the sniper rifle more often.”
"Yeah," CT said, and Wash could swear he heard her blushing. "Thanks."
completelysane asked: Prompt, except it doesn't really have to be a prompt, just a thing I thought might also give you Sandtrap feels: "May you never steal, lie, or cheat, but if you must steal, then steal my sorrow, and if you must lie, lie with me, and if you must cheat, then cheat only death."
Wash stared at the old armor in the sand and it seemed like it was sinking, sinking deeper into that memory of her on the edge of his pillow, smiling stubbornly until he followed, sleeping in his arms. Sinking into the ground along with the helmet she so hated, sinking with every memory of her except the memory of the moment they told him she was dead, and then the moment he found out she wasn’t.
"Wash, your turn," CT said, her armor new and regulation blue, and he considered, for a moment, how much he always hated the yellow stripes of his suit since that night, first night in the cold sand dunes, when she called him a coward.
RvB: Survey Says
"I’m taking a survey," he said, and then he tapped the object in his hand ceremoniously. "I’ve got a clipboard, and I’m taking a survey because Donut said I have to before he tells me anything about the radio." He thought about this a little more, and added, "well, Donut said that Agent Washington had to, but then Agent Washington delegated it to me. That’s when he gave me the clipboard."
Grif had already started to fall back asleep in the doorway. “Caboose, it’s two in the morning.”
"I do my best thinking after after-dinner nap time."
Grif thought about challenging this statement, but decided that “thinking” was an activity Caboose could use more of, regardless of the conditions. “Alright, what’s the question, then?”
Carefully, Caboose read off and circled the appropriate bubbles that Donut had dictated he write down on the paper. Only people of the male gender. Red/Blue? Name. Favourite food. And the last one.
"That’s your big survey? There’s only one question worth answering that Donut doesn’t know about."
"I have to write everything down. On my clipboard," he added dutifully. Grif sighed.
"Oreos. Waiting to eat," he answered. "Can I go back to sleep?"
Caboose nodded, and walked sideways to the next door, knocking until a slightly sleepy, whirring Simmons answered. “Survey!” Caboose announced.
"I heard you when you asked Grif. The entire canyon heard you. Use your inside voice.”
Caboose gave this more thought. “Survey!” he yelled, and Simmons stopped trying.
"Donut already knows my favourite food anyway, and it’s when I stop always correcting them when they’re wrong."
Caboose wrote the answers down as the door closed again, and Sarge’s door opened a little further down the hall. “By winning for them, son. Now get the hell out of my base. Also, pineapples. The warrior fruit!”
RvB: The Weatherman
Zuzanna prompted me with: "You’re a storm/ So emotional/ Moody and Controlled/ Sly and Involved/ You’re alright/ You come to me in times/ You make me realize/ I’m not the kindest guy/ But I give give give give/ I give what I can give/ So just give give give give/ Give me what you have, dear" - The Black Angels, "Black Grease"
Wyoming liked to call it his daily forecast. One night he stayed up past lights out with a knife, markers, and some paper, carefully cutting out rays of sunshine and stormy clouds. He taped a small strip reading “Today, the weather in Connecticut is:” to the back of his door, and left the crafted symbols on the floor next to it. He’d come back after breakfast each morning and stick on the appropriate graphic. After a few weeks, he had to replace the worn out storm cloud.
At first it was “Connie”, and Connie was sunny and bright and eager. She would volunteer, which saved him the trouble of ever having to do it. He was perfectly alright with that. Connie had a ray of sunshine for every letter of the name. Clouds would brew in the sky when she got quiet, or started talking about the war and who are we fighting, really, but she never pushed it when the others laughed her off. She made sure she was first in line, behind Carolina, for everything they were required to do. She made sure she always finished in the top ten at the end of every exercise. She smiled at him when it was Connie.
The board went up, and it became C.T., Cloudy Thunderstorms. Wyoming stopped changing the forecast, every morning it was the same. She pulled half of her hair back and cut it short for good measure, and she was at the end of the table stabbing her food as York made jokes and Wash missed the punchline every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wyoming liked this new storm even more than the usual sunshine he used to have. He liked the way she did things now, not to be the best, but to be right. How she snapped at people, and kept the argument going. How she became unapologetic. He’d always liked the rain.
"What’s this?" she said, two days before she deserted. No one knew she was packing her life up. She had come into his room to get something from his toolkit, and the door had closed behind her.
"Nothing, what does it concern you?" Wyoming said easily. He was pulling out boxes trying to find what she had asked for.
"Because it has my name on it," she said, examining the faded paper and the cartoonish thunderstorm cloud underneath.
"It has a state name on it," he pointed out, handing her the wrench she’d asked for. "Or have you forgotten that we’re people, not geography?"
She looked ready to say something, ready to start biting at his words, but seemed to think better of it. “I think it’s supposed to be sunny this time of year,” she said.
"In my experience, Connecticut has always been unpredictable like that." He hid the smirk well beneath his groomed mustache. She stood in a such a way that the cloud’s lightning strike was igniting her small ponytail. "Anything else?"
She shook her head and left. Wyoming slowly closed the door and tugged at the cloud until it came off the metal, replacing it with a small ray of sunshine peeking through some poofy clouds. Sunny this time of year.
RvB: Little Darling
Her dad was never a good singer. He’d try, when she didn’t want to go to sleep, or when she got scared from going to the lab and meeting all the new, tall people. He’d try singing, because he saw her mom do it all the time. But he was never very good, and somewhere between the frightened tears and small laughter at his efforts it would turn into missing her mother’s voice, and he could never get her to stop crying for that.
There was just one song that he could ever sing that would make her smile. It was really old, and she’d never heard the original version of it. Probably so she could never hear how off her father was.
“Here comes the sun,” he would hum, and she’d sway in the rhythm. “And I say, it’s alright.”
It was the song he’d sing while her mom was walking up to the front door of their house. She’d wait patiently until he got done with it and then run to the front door and open it to see her mom, kneeling on the steps so the toddler could run up and hug her as tightly as she could.
That’s why Carolina always thought it was so cruel that there were no clouds in the sky as they buried an empty casket in silence. She spent weeks pleading with her father for him to sing the song, as if it would magically summon her mother to the front door again and it would have just been a mistake, or a cruel joke.
Every time she’d ask, her father would suddenly say he had to get to work. After two months, he didn’t have to say it anymore, he was just always at his office. He came home after she pretended to be asleep, and left the moment she woke up. The babysitter didn’t know the song. It didn’t matter, Carolina knew it had to be her father who sang it.
She’d tried to herself, every night since she was told her mom would never come back. It didn’t work.
Long after she was a child who would sing herself to sleep at night, after she became a soldier because that was the family business, soon after she proved herself good enough for a shot in her father’s program, just after she had been shipped to the Mother of Invention, one of the new agents stopped in front of her at the gym while she was running on a treadmill.
"The Beatles?" he said. She looked at him, a little confused as to why he was talking to her, let alone what he was talking about.
"Excuse me?" she said, not slowing down.
“Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting,” he sang quietly, and she nearly fell off the treadmill.
"Whoa," the man said, putting his hands up as if in defense. "I just recognized the song. You have good taste."
"Where did you hear it?" she demanded. "Who are you?"
"Agent New York. You were humming it." he took a step back as she powered down the machine she was still running on. "Didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry."
Carolina stared him down a second too long, before shaking her head. “Don’t worry about it, it was nothing. I was just confused.” She turned the speed back up and resumed running, staring straight ahead and focusing on her breathing.
"Yeah, alright," the new agent said, unconvincingly, and resumed walking past her to the weight machines.
She didn’t know it, because her parents never talked about such things, but she met York in the same chair that Allison met Leonard.
York leaned himself across the counter, flagging down the bartender with all of the concentration and enthusiasm of someone who is still too sober to be at a bar at this time of night. Carolina glanced at him as his waving hand almost grazed her arm, and scooted her chair away.
Allison pushed the drunk man passed out on the bar counter off of his stool quietly. No one could have possibly seen it, though everyone heard it. The man ambled away towards the street, car keys being confiscated by the bouncer. She put both hands around her glass with a small, relieved smirk, which was immediately wiped off of her face when a man complete with glasses, a tie, and a pocket protector, sat down next to her.
"Maybe if you yell," Carolina suggested, mostly to discourage the dangerous levels of flailing that the man next to her was engaging in. "Obviously the hand motions aren’t doing anything." He didn’t turn to look at her, just muttered, "I think he’s almost going to look my way, any moment now."
"What kind of wine do you have?" the scientist asked the bartender in a low Southern accent, while Allison tried not to stare at this caricature of a man. The bartender laughed, and then pointed to the two bottled behind the counter. "One white, one red," the guy said, "which one would you like?" Allison could swear she could hear the eye roll in the over-exaggerated sigh as the scientist said "The white one, then."
Carolina finally placed both hands on the bar and lifted herself up high, yelling over York’s head at the bartender on the other side of the room, “hey! This man needs to order, for the past five minutes, and I’m worried he might flail himself into my drink if you keep ignoring him.” As she sat down, York turned to her with a frown. “I didn’t want to bother the man - oh, hey.” His voice dropped from reproachful annoyance to a slow, low whistle. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t really… My friends call my York.”
"Aren’t you supposed to ask to be my derivative, or something," Allison finally said, sipping her beer straight from the bottle. Leonard looked at her, sipping at his wine. "Right. And then you’ll pretend you know what it means, and laugh. Or own up that you don’t, and laugh. I think I’ll just sip on this, thank you." Allison laughed, her head tilting to get a good look at the man next to her. "What if I just told you where I lived, and that I’d be heading there in about ten minutes?" Leonard raised an eyebrow at her, put his glass down, and leaned his elbows on the bar, pulling himself up towards her. "I wouldn’t believe you."
For a moment, she considered giving him a fake name. Carol, or Lina, or, as she sometimes said, Allison. “Carolina,” she finally said, mostly because she noticed the metal tags hanging from his neck. York took out a lighter and a cigarette from his pocket, and she instinctively reached for her pack as well. “Seems we share a vice,” he remarked with a grin. She sized him up, and made the connection. York. New York. Everyone assigned to the new project had just been given a month of leave before shipping out. Of course they sent them all to the same city. “You have no idea,” she said, bringing the cigarette to her lips.
Allison smiled at the answer. “Having a bad day?” Leonard looked at her, at the way she was smiling, and leaned back, saying, “that depends.” “On?” she asked, taking another drink. “On what you write on this paper,” Leonard said, taking out a neat square of white paper and a pen. Allison looked at him with that grin, the one he’d have no choice but to love, the one he’d watch on an old film recording for years to come.
York struck the lighter, cupping it with his fingers as he offered it to Carolina. She leaned her face close to the warmth and took a long drag from his flame. “Thanks,” she said as he lit his. “I don’t have much of these left,” he said conversationally after finally having placed his order. “Shipping out soon.” “Yeah,” she muttered. He put the lighter down and picked up the two beers he’d been waiting on, turning away. “Aren’t you forgetting-” she said. He turned around. “Bring it to me tomorrow night,” he yelled out, disappearing in a sea of people carrying drinks and drunk friends. She turned back to her drink, smiled, and waited another minute before picking up the lighter and flicking it open and closed.
Allison folded the piece of paper, finished off her drink, and passed it to the stranger. “Open it after I leave,” she directed, leaving a tip on the bar under the empty bottle, and walking out of the bar. Leonard watched her go, and opened the paper. “Come back tomorrow night, and wear that pocket protector - Allison.”
RvB: Graduation (Happy Birthday, Nem!)
He held her hand softly, fingers interlaced. “What’s your favourite graduation?” he whispered, keeping this tradition of small, harmless, personal questions in the dark. She was always herself when no one could see her.
"What do you mean?" she said, genuine.
"Mine was fifth grade." He turned and gestured out into the room, even if it was so dark he knew she couldn’t see. "We all got tiny caps and gowns like we were graduating high school, but it only took ten minutes because you can’t make nine year olds sit still for much longer. We got a giant piece of paper and then threw our hats at each other. My parents bought me ice cream." He squeezed her hand a little before adding, explaining, "my mother had passed away by my high school graduation. It was so much longer, too. More stuffy."
She raised their hands and kissed the back of his. Compassion. Another thing she was so good at, in the dark. “Last time my parents were together was in Kindergarten.” She gave it more thought, and Wash heard her lick her lips. “I think my favourite is college. It was long. Neither of my parents came. I didn’t get ice cream,” she added, with a smile. “But I did it. Without any help, I did it.”
They lay there in silence for a while, her thumb making circles over his. “Did you join right after?” he said.
"Yep," Connie nodded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I’d just graduated college. I thought I could do anything."
"You can," he said, without thought. Without hesitation. She squeezed his hand.
"Sometimes, I think so too." She rolled over, closer to him, and he smiled as she fell asleep, slowly, into his arms.
"You seem like you’d be the type to fall in love often," she said, and he wasn’t sure why he took offense to it.
"Is that wrong?" Wash stammered, half defensive, half apologetic. "How many times have you been in love, then?"
"Twice." The number hung in the air, filling the space between them with intimidation. "Once in high school. It was probably more puppy love than anything. And then again, just after college."
"We grew up," she said with a shrug. "We didn’t grow up together, so when I left for training, there wasn’t anything to sustain." Connie said all of this looking at the ceiling. His sheets covered her bare hips, just a corner. She had declared it too hot and lacked the modesty to care that the rest of her lay exposed in the dark. The number two floating between them. Or maybe just over him. "I bet you tell girls you love them after a month."
He crossed his arms, laying down on his back next to her and pouting slightly. “What of it?”
"Doesn’t it, I don’t know, cheapen it? If you say it so often."
"How can it cheapen what you feel? I say it because it’s true." She turned to him, looking at him with that intense curiosity that always made him want to share secrets.
"How do you have so much? I mean. You’d run out eventually. You’d get hurt and you’d stop saying it so often because it lets people hurt you."
"It lets people love you," he corrected, holding to his point. All defense now.
"Love hurts," she concluded, rolling back again.
"People hurt," he corrected again. "Love-"
"I’m tired," she said, with a certain finality. I’m tired of this conversation. I’m tired of love.
It took him three months longer to say it to her. And three weeks shorter to feel it.