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]

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 )

That pause, that silence, stretches for just a fraction of a second longer than it should, just enough for it to stop being a casual pause in conversation and turn into a real tension-filled lack of sound, and then he sighs, audibly.

"If you insist."

Logic wins the day, regardless, and he turns as requested, because the more he can convince the SPARTAN that he isn't an enemy, the better -- and the more time he has to think, really.

[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, flatly authoritative and just loud enough for Wash to hear:

"Name, rank, and your affiliation with UNSC." SQUUUUUEEZES HIS SHOULDER A LITTLE MORE. "Now."

[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.

He turns his head just slightly, and this time there's absolutely no hesitation to his reply. That almost annoying casualness is gone from his voice, replaced by something monotone and almost mechanical, hard-edged and matter-of-fact, matching Four's voice in volume, just loud enough for the two of them to hear.

"Washington."

Wash considers clarifying that it's a callsign, not a name, just to push it a little bit more, but it's kind of a moot point. His actual name sounds so foreign to him, now, even from the little echoes of voices in his mind, and he shifts himself slightly, still holding the rifle in one hand, the other pressed lightly against the cell wall.

"I am not authorized to provide you with any further information regarding my position within the UNSC. Sir."

Now fuck off, damnit.

[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. )

He ignores Wash's subtle little smartass comments, falling back a step, allowing him a little more room to move.

"We'll talk later."

And that's all he says, all he needs to say, still politely amiable, and he turns with a courteous nod and without another word, maneuvering his way back over to where he'd been standing earlier. So, hey, remember when you signed up for the army, and you agreed to hand over your ass and your dirty traitor soul to the United Nations Space Command and its commanding officers? Yeah, that shit still applies here.

Stamped and signed, buddy. SEE YOU SOON.