so about them yankees ( complete )

[blackfour]

Characters: Black-Four (blackfour), Washington (freelancerpower).
Setting/Location: Cell A, Dungeon, PLANET MAGICAL.
Date & Time: Day 5 . . . sometime.
Warnings: Some colorful vocabulary, but otherwise -- none.
Summary: Girl, don't act like you don't see me. Semi-open just in case things get heated, and someone wants to step in before Four plants Wash's face into a wall

Comments

[freelancerpower]

It took a lot of self-control not to do anything when Wash woke up in a fucking prison cell.

He had stayed still, very, very still, not moved an inch since regaining consciousness, sitting in his corner and doing his best to process this admittedly screwed up situation. It's -- not the chairman, at least, not the same kind of cell he's been in before, and most notably, he's not alone. Being stuck in this tiny little space with what, to his eyes, was a whole bunch of civilians was bewildering, frustrating, and most of all incredibly unnecessary. He'd have gotten up and taken control, gotten some answers about their whereabouts, tried to find a way out, if not for the one non-civilian sharing the space with him.

SPARTAN. No question about it, it's not like those guys were exactly hard to pick out, what with being two heads taller than everyone else. The guy's very presence makes him nervous, the SPARTAN reputation being something you come across very often in the UNSC, and then there's the vague recognition that whoever captured him,

[blackfour]

Don't you get sassy with him, little missy.

From under his helmet, Four's mouth twitches up at the corner, shoulders lax, arm stiff as the other man drags himself to his feet. He doesn't return that little hand squeeze of his, mostly because he doesn't trust himself not to accidentally break those itty bitty fragile toothpicks that Wash likes to call his fingers. There's difficult situations, and then there's difficult people, and Four can already tell that Wash falls right into the middle of that last category

[freelancerpower]

Wash can be one of the most difficult people around, or he can be perfectly helpful -- it tends to depend on who you are, on what he needs, where he is. He still needs to figure out something, an angle, an approach, how he's going to handle a goddamn SPARTAN without risking himself risking everything and giving too much away.

So, really, he shouldn't be trying to test his limits. He should be playing along like a good little soldier, like someone who has everything to lose from this and really ought to be more careful, like someone who wouldn't be able to do anything if Four decides to reach over and snap his neck, and staring up at the man fucking towering above him really hammers that last point home

[blackfour]

Well, excuuuuuse him, princess. He's not exactly thrilled about randomly being chucked here with your sorry, strange ass, either. It's definitely not the idea of a break he'd had in mind after coming off that entire mess of a mission that'd landed him with Iona in the first place.

And when Wash leans back, his weight supported by the wall behind him, Four doesn't move forward to match him. But he does reach out, his fingers closing around his shoulder, palm relaxed against the cool plating of his armor. Because he gets what Wash is doing, really, he does, and he even understands why he might be doing it, but there's a clear gap in power balance here.

Four's not leaving him room for negotiation.

"It looks pretty bad." Four tips his head to the side, gesturing for Wash to turn so that he can see. "Let me take a look." Pats him once on the shoulder, good-naturedly. "It'll just take a second."

[freelancerpower]

Wash doesn't respond, not at first. His eyes flick instinctively to the hand at his shoulder, before looking back up at Four, like he's studying the little notches and grooves on his armor, his own reflection in the gold of his faceplate.

He knows what Four wants, and it makes him tense, makes him wonder if this really is at random as it seems, how much Four knows about him, if anything at all, and the instinct is to refuse. It's to stay where he is and calmly inform him that if Four wants anything he's going to have to fucking beat it out of him, because Wash sure isn't going to be of any voluntary help, and a little voice at the back of his head is maybe egging him on for that.

( he doesn't know he can't know

[blackfour]

Four keeps his hand on his shoulder, his grip still loose and relaxed, only lifting it a bare fraction of an inch to allow Wash to turn, his boots scraping across the ground. And, as expected, he does have that telltale slot at the back of his helmet, the one fitted for a Smart AI. Wash's is empty; either he never had an AI, doesn't have one anymore, or it'd been taken from him upon arrival much like Iona had been removed from him.

Most importantly, he doesn't have her. But this also begs the question of why the hell his suit is fitted for one in the first place, who he is, where he comes from, and who he answers to.

Those fingers settled over his shoulder do tighten, then, not visibly, not enough for anyone to see, but the threat there is clear, Wash's armor creaking quietly in protest under the added pressure. Four keep his eyes glued on the back of his helmet, his other hand moving to work at a latch on the back of the freelancer's neck, as if he's repairing some broken piece of equipment.

And then -- quietly, but firmly,

[freelancerpower]

As stupid as it is, Wash actually relaxes a tiny bit in response to that voice in his ear, that grip tightening against his shoulder. it's one thing to deal with an uncertain threat, it's another when the threat becomes concrete, and dealing with fucking bossy UNSC officials is something that he doesn't particularly enjoy, but is definitely used to

[blackfour]

That's a little better. He'd even call it progress.

Kind of.

( He does, admittedly, blink once at what Wash says last; I am not authorized to provide you with any further information, I am not authorized to provide you with any further information, I am not authorized -- well, fine. A giant fuck you right in whatever direction UNSC sent him one first. )

Four snaps the latch back into place, pressing the pads of his fingers against it to secure it firmly, before he's clapping Wash on the shoulder once more. His other hand slips away as he lets him go completely, speaking at a normal volume, "All set."

[freelancerpower]

Wash just turns right back around the moment he can, leaning back against the wall and lifting the rifle back into his arms like the smooth, well-practiced movement it was. He doesn't bother trying to look around for a way out, just levels his gaze back on Four, because as much as he would like to leave, they were still stuck in a goddamn tiny little prison cell.

"Great." His voice slides right back into casual again, normal and actually expressive and everything that Wash really isn't. "Is that all for my checkup, then, or do you have anything else you want to worry about?"

Yeah, buddy, he really doesn't like you.

[blackfour]

Four's going to go back to his corner and cry about it now.

As far as he can tell, Wash is not a direct or immediate threat. He's antsy and anxious, passively hostile, and while all of that shit is suspicious in its own right, it's not enough to have to Four reaching for his pistol and embedding a bullet right into his skull. That's called overreacting, and Four prefers to leave the dramatic overreactions in the trusty hands of Black-Three.

No. He's a prisoner here, just like Four, clearly not at all expecting to run into a SPARTAN, or -- maybe anyone attached to the UNSC. That helps his case, just a little, but Four's not done with him. Like hell he's done with him.

Now just isn't the right time to pursue this.

( Not a threat, but a level one priority subject, and when they get out of here, if they get out of here, he'll be lucky if Four so much as lets him turn his head to cough without him being right there to breathe up all his air