broken bones no regrets
TITLE: Error.
FANDOM: Red vs. Blue.
PAIRINGS: NONE, REALLY. Uh. Wash/Church, Wash/Epsilon, if you squint?
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY/WARNING: Spoilers through Chapter 6 of Revelation. Warning for batshit!!! You know how I do.
THIS WORLD IS A STAGE
The Alpha isn't human, but it likes to pretend that it is.
At first, Wash finds it troubling. He doesn't know how to deal with it, how to deal with Church, this mouthy little bitch that doesn't seem to fully comprehend what it means to shut the fuck up. He's irritating and frustrating, and while he's sometimes capable of forming an intelligent, coherent sentence, the majority of the time, he's beyond all mental help.
Then it starts to piss him off.
He's almost glad that Church is without a physical body. Wash doesn't want to hurt him, not really, it's not his fault. It's never been his fault, and he's the entire reason why Wash wants so badly to drag the Director down onto his knees. The Alpha is this fucked up, empty core, the spine of a person that used to be whole but isn't anymore. He's broken.
And Wash has every defining moment that broke him down, that tore him apart, that fragmented him into pieces, stuck in a box chained down in the back of his head. He remembers everything, every single second the Alpha screamed and cried, he cried, every single time it thought, I need to let go, I need to let go, ERROR ERROR ERROR.
But.
But maybe it's that pit in his gut, that black hole in his chest, that wants to understand, that wants to pry him apart and sink his fingers into the folds of his brain, return everything the Alpha gave to him. He wants to strip him of his wires and his functions, fragment whatever else is left to fragment until he's just liquid metal, until everything that he is seeps down over Wash's hands, down to the veins in his wrists.
It's only fair. He doesn't get why he still has all of this shit in his head, when the Alpha is standing right there, Church is standing right there, he's so fucking close, Wash just needs to turn around and grab him, drive him into a wall and force it back, put it back, take it back, take it back, take it back, I don't fucking want it anymore.
( I don't want to hurt you but )
Church clears his throat from behind him, shifting the strap of the sniper rifle over his shoulder.
"Dude. Come on. Are we going?"
Wash doesn't look up or turn around. His fingers are tucked in against his palm, hand balled into a fist, pressed tight against the cool concrete of the wall in front of him.
" -- Yeah."
( sometimes I want to kill you )
➤➤➤
Church is gone now.
He's been gone for awhile, and Wash doesn't worry about him anymore. He doesn't. Not at all. Not even a tiny, little bit, and why would he, why would he matter now, why would he matter when he doesn't matter. He doesn't matter because he's never mattered, and Wash has never been worried about him, never been worried about what would happen when the EMP went off while Church was stuck inside the Meta's head.
But who the fuck is going to believe him these days. Who's going to believe him when he swears up and down, scout's honor, that he's still a pretty decent person, a pretty okay guy. What does that even mean? And maybe he's a little sick of trying to give a shit, maybe he just doesn't really care about what happens to who, and who goes where, when it doesn't at all change anything in the end.
So he's not sorry, he's never been sorry, he's sick of pretending to be sorry for something that has never been his goddamn fault, and Donut's corpse can just sit there rotting at his feet until someone strolls along and tries to blow him the hell up again, for the third time, because that always works out well for him. They never learn, and he never starts caring.
He's not fucking sorry.
( He doesn't matter because he's never mattered He doesn't matter because he's never mattered He doesn't matter because he's never mattered He doesn't matter because he's never never never never nevuev enr nevuev erjvnenvklgflf )
Someone is talking, loudly, and Wash blinks, the muscles in his arm jerking as he forcibly drags himself away from his thoughts. It takes him a second to realize that he's the one who is speaking, the Meta at his side, Doc trapped in the stone of the wall in front of him.
" -- or I can have the Meta beat it out of you. Or I could beat it out of you. I think I've earned it."
The Meta is staring at him. He can feel his eyes on the side of his head, focused on a single point on his helmet, and he doesn't look away from Doc. His eyes remain trained ahead, narrowed in on Doc's armor, where the light reflects the brightest, his chin up, shoulders back, spine straight.
He hears Maine's whisper; from where he's standing, it almost sounds like a laugh, inhuman and forced. And he turns, just a little, moves until he can glance at Maine from the corner of his eye, and Maine looks right back.
LOOK WHAT YOU'VE WE'VE BECOME WHAT YOU WE LET THEM DO.
Wash curls his fingers around the slide of his pistol as he slowly looks back at Doc, his smile hidden beneath his faceplate. He cocks the gun.
➤➤➤
When he finds it, the only fragment left that he even remotely cares about (destroying), he peels it apart until it comes undone, and the cycle repeats again.
FANDOM: Red vs. Blue.
PAIRINGS: NONE, REALLY. Uh. Wash/Church, Wash/Epsilon, if you squint?
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY/WARNING: Spoilers through Chapter 6 of Revelation. Warning for batshit!!! You know how I do.
THIS WORLD IS A STAGE
The Alpha isn't human, but it likes to pretend that it is.
At first, Wash finds it troubling. He doesn't know how to deal with it, how to deal with Church, this mouthy little bitch that doesn't seem to fully comprehend what it means to shut the fuck up. He's irritating and frustrating, and while he's sometimes capable of forming an intelligent, coherent sentence, the majority of the time, he's beyond all mental help.
Then it starts to piss him off.
He's almost glad that Church is without a physical body. Wash doesn't want to hurt him, not really, it's not his fault. It's never been his fault, and he's the entire reason why Wash wants so badly to drag the Director down onto his knees. The Alpha is this fucked up, empty core, the spine of a person that used to be whole but isn't anymore. He's broken.
And Wash has every defining moment that broke him down, that tore him apart, that fragmented him into pieces, stuck in a box chained down in the back of his head. He remembers everything, every single second the Alpha screamed and cried, he cried, every single time it thought, I need to let go, I need to let go, ERROR ERROR ERROR.
But.
But maybe it's that pit in his gut, that black hole in his chest, that wants to understand, that wants to pry him apart and sink his fingers into the folds of his brain, return everything the Alpha gave to him. He wants to strip him of his wires and his functions, fragment whatever else is left to fragment until he's just liquid metal, until everything that he is seeps down over Wash's hands, down to the veins in his wrists.
It's only fair. He doesn't get why he still has all of this shit in his head, when the Alpha is standing right there, Church is standing right there, he's so fucking close, Wash just needs to turn around and grab him, drive him into a wall and force it back, put it back, take it back, take it back, take it back, I don't fucking want it anymore.
( I don't want to hurt you but )
Church clears his throat from behind him, shifting the strap of the sniper rifle over his shoulder.
"Dude. Come on. Are we going?"
Wash doesn't look up or turn around. His fingers are tucked in against his palm, hand balled into a fist, pressed tight against the cool concrete of the wall in front of him.
" -- Yeah."
( sometimes I want to kill you )
➤➤➤
Church is gone now.
He's been gone for awhile, and Wash doesn't worry about him anymore. He doesn't. Not at all. Not even a tiny, little bit, and why would he, why would he matter now, why would he matter when he doesn't matter. He doesn't matter because he's never mattered, and Wash has never been worried about him, never been worried about what would happen when the EMP went off while Church was stuck inside the Meta's head.
But who the fuck is going to believe him these days. Who's going to believe him when he swears up and down, scout's honor, that he's still a pretty decent person, a pretty okay guy. What does that even mean? And maybe he's a little sick of trying to give a shit, maybe he just doesn't really care about what happens to who, and who goes where, when it doesn't at all change anything in the end.
So he's not sorry, he's never been sorry, he's sick of pretending to be sorry for something that has never been his goddamn fault, and Donut's corpse can just sit there rotting at his feet until someone strolls along and tries to blow him the hell up again, for the third time, because that always works out well for him. They never learn, and he never starts caring.
He's not fucking sorry.
( He doesn't matter because he's never mattered He doesn't matter because he's never mattered He doesn't matter because he's never mattered He doesn't matter because he's never never never never nevuev enr nevuev erjvnenvklgflf )
Someone is talking, loudly, and Wash blinks, the muscles in his arm jerking as he forcibly drags himself away from his thoughts. It takes him a second to realize that he's the one who is speaking, the Meta at his side, Doc trapped in the stone of the wall in front of him.
" -- or I can have the Meta beat it out of you. Or I could beat it out of you. I think I've earned it."
The Meta is staring at him. He can feel his eyes on the side of his head, focused on a single point on his helmet, and he doesn't look away from Doc. His eyes remain trained ahead, narrowed in on Doc's armor, where the light reflects the brightest, his chin up, shoulders back, spine straight.
He hears Maine's whisper; from where he's standing, it almost sounds like a laugh, inhuman and forced. And he turns, just a little, moves until he can glance at Maine from the corner of his eye, and Maine looks right back.
LOOK WHAT YOU'VE WE'VE BECOME WHAT YOU WE LET THEM DO.
Wash curls his fingers around the slide of his pistol as he slowly looks back at Doc, his smile hidden beneath his faceplate. He cocks the gun.
➤➤➤
When he finds it, the only fragment left that he even remotely cares about (destroying), he peels it apart until it comes undone, and the cycle repeats again.