Later
Summary: Maine/Wash, after the war. This is it.
In the years that followed...
Neither of them couldn't imagine what life would have been like without the support of the family they had built. Children, something Wash and Maine could never have, and yet had been blessed with over and over again. Samantha and Jason's three had filled so much of their lives with warmth and light and love.
Grandchildren spent summers at the cabin where Maine and Wash were lovingly called Papa D and Papa M by little mouths who couldn't get all the way around names yet. And they watched year after year as they grew. Some nights they'd lay awake and talk about how they never could have imagined these days would ever come, back when they were in the Project, when first one was going crazy then the other; when they had damn near killed one another. Never could they have envisioned a day when they would be watching their grand-babies play in the snow in winter or count the stars on warm summer nights.
Wash had taught Carolina and the elder boy, Terry, hunting and cooking. Maine was impressed how well little Carrie took to it. Maine spent far too much time himself teaching James how to hot-wire decrepit old trucks, and other sneaky pranks, knowing that there wasn't anything the boy could do with it these days that would get him in trouble - except with Grandpa David. And Maine found that hilarious.
Fall was always hard, when they had to give the kids back to mom and dad for school, but they still saw them on holidays and special occasions throughout the year. They all grew up so fast, though.
Carolina became strong and beautiful and far too quickly, it seemed, had a little ones of her own on the way. Holidays soon saw four generations sit at the same table - which had grown considerably from the small square that used to occupy a corner of the cabin's great room. All gathered under the same old roof, still holding up against age and weather after all these years, bones as strong as those that occupied its walls.
Thirty-one years later:
"Come on, let me help you up."
"Don't wanna sit up," he insisted. "Don't need help."
"My god, you're being juvenile."
"I am not. Just stop... gah, stop babying me!"
"Then David, why don't you just lay there and die, since you're so intent on it anyway," Maine said, setting the bowl of soup down on the nightstand with a plunk, some of the broth sloshing over the side.
Wash caught hold of his hand as he went to leave, and Maine stopped and turned back to curl his other hand around Wash's as well. With a sigh, he sunk into the nearby chair, still holding on. "Baby, you have to eat something," he pleaded. "The doctor said-"
"Doctors," Wash grumbled. "What do they know. Damn doctors."
"And I'm not going to let you starve yourself out of your damned irritating pride!"
Wash sighed.
"Now, sit up, and let me feed you some soup."
With a reluctant nod, Wash let Maine help him into a sitting position, and Maine plumped the pillows he tucked behind him. Then he picked up the bowl and carefully lifted the spoon up to Wash's lips.
"So, how is it?"
He sipped it carefully. "Good," he admitted, though it clearly pained him to do so.
"Carolina made it just for you," Maine hummed softly.
Wash's face immediately brightened. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"Oh, I see. I bring you soup, it's piss off; Carolina makes it and suddenly it's gold."
Wash caught his hand again and brought it to his lips, kissing gently before Maine leaned over to kiss him properly.
"I love you, too, you stubborn old bastard," Maine said softly. He stroked his cheek and rested their heads against one another's for a while. It always made him worry when Wash fell ill, especially at this age. Neither of them were weak, certainly, but age has a way of forcing limitations on you, whether you accept them or no.
"What's all that?" Wash said, turning his head to try to catch the sound better.
"The grandkids are here," Maine hummed. "They heard we could use a little help around the house."
"They shouldn't have to do all that," Wash protested, but there was little force behind his words. Their visits always brought joy.
"They don't have to," Maine pointed out. "They do it anyway. You go run them off if you don't like it - no one listens to me."
Wash smiled and kissed him again. It might have seemed to anyone who did not know them that they argued a great deal, but in reality they could not have been telling one another more certainly just how much they were in love, more with each day.
Maine sat back after a while and continued to feed Wash, blowing on each spoonful to ensure it did not burn his mouth. When the bowl was emptied, they talked for a little while longer before Maine helped Wash out of bed and down the hall so he could sit with his family by the warmth of the fire.
Now that the laundry was folded, the floors swept, and wood chopped and stacked, and other various little tasks around the house were accomplished, the newest family additions, little baby David and his twin Michael, were brought in to meet their great-grandpas who had lent them their names.
Three years later:
Tears streamed down his face, unchecked. He was too old to worry about such things when his entire life lay dying on the bed before him. Wrinkled hands held tight to wrinkled hands. Hands that had seen too much blood.
How odd at the end of life to remember things done in the arrogance of youth. Oh, he had not thought he was young then, nor had he thought he would grow old. Those were the days he at once felt as though he would live forever, or else die before the sun had set that day. Either had seemed just as likely to him then.
Now his silly pride was all but smoothed away and he did not care if he cried. He should cry at a time like this.
"Don't cry."
He almost laughed. "Don't tell me what to do," he retorted, but there was only love in his words. "If I haven't earned my right to cry by now, then by god I'll cry anyway just to spite the world."
"I know you would." Maine's voice was labored, weak. The tubes in his nose made him sound strange.
It was wrong. So wrong. 'I should be the one lying on the bed, he thought. I should be the one slipping away.' But at the same time, he could not wish the loss on his love, and so he would bear the loss himself, he vainly decided, as if he had some choice in the matter. But it would not be fair. Not fair at all.
"I always thought..." he began, only to be interrupted by a short spurt of coughing. He waved off Wash's help and continued. "Always thought this would be the other way around. That I'd be sitting by your bedside at the end."
"Don't talk like that." It wasn't fair. Why couldn't old couples die as they had lived: together. Side by side. Neither having to leave the other behind.
"Oh, you know it as well as I do, David," he wheezed. "I cheated death enough in this life. About time the Reaper claimed his due."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he said.
Maine smiled, only to turn to coughs again. "You always were such a stubborn ass," he said. "But I suppose that's why you put up with me all these years."
Wash looked worried and reached out to caress Maine's cheek, not to be denied this time. "And I still put up with you, you crazy bastard," he said.
Maine brushed at the tears on his lover's face and felt his own tugging from behind his eyes. Soon, though, his strength failed him and his hand slipped down. Wash tucked it back to his side. Then Maine closed his eyes, feeling so very tired suddenly.
"I still miss them, you know," Maine breathed, and Wash wrinkled his brow.
"Who?"
Maine cracked his eyes open and looked up at Wash. "Maybe I've just finally gone senile, but I still... still hear them in my head sometimes.
Wash didn't need to ask again. He sighed and nodded and gently stroked Maine's white hair. "Yeah. Yeah me, too."
Maine's voice was heavy with memories, sounding as if he spoke from far away. He was tired, and yet he felt as if he had so much he needed to say still. "You tell Jason not to... not to let them give him one," he said, trying to stress it as important. "Never... never quite right afterwards."
Wash nodded again and promised he would, even thought Jason had long since retired as well. Now was not the time to focus on such petty details. Instead he just sat holding Maine's hand, acutely aware of how little time remained to them.
After a while Maine opened his eyes again and looked over to Wash. "Read to me?" he asked, and Wash nodded, a bitter-sweet smile on his lips.
"Of course," he said, kissing Maine's hand before resting it across his chest. He opened Maine's favorite book, but he didn't have to really read it, he knew the passages by heart now. He couldn't have read it anyway, his eyes were too filled with tears, dripping onto the pages, and his glasses stubbornly refused to be found, hiding atop his head. But he recited the words, and Maine smiled and fell asleep.
It was the last time Wash read to him. Maine passed away at the age of eighty-four from a rare type of cancer, as he refused to be put through chemotherapy for it. He said he was tired of fighting and was ready to go, he had already fought the wars in this life that mattered most to him.
When Wash had got wind that Maine was going to be denied a proper military service and burial in light of their 'indiscretionary relationship', he had dressed in his old uniform and gone down to the local office and ripped the clerk there a hole so wide that he could have sat on the pyramids and not felt it. He had to be escorted from the premises by four MPs. But not before he reminded the uppity little shit what every single member of the military had been subjected to during those wars, and if he thought that Maine's contributions and sacrifices could so easily be brushed aside and forgotten, flagrantly ignored because of who he chose to spend his life with, then Wash would make damn sure that this arrogant little prick clerk had best start planning his own funeral!
As it turns out, there are few things in life more terrifying than a ninety-one year old veteran descending upon you in a fit of indignation and fury in defense of a loved one. And, of course, some very determined string-pulling at the highest levels of the army - thanks to a certain retired General Jason Daniels, son-in-law - helped ensure that in the end, all was as it should be.
Not a week later, Wash dressed in his suit and sat in the front row as the chaplain gave the eulogy. Maine was afforded all the rights of a deceased veteran in death. Full Military Honours. And for the first time in history, his flag was offered to his partner.
After it was all done, Wash sat beside the grave, tracing the epitaph, talking quietly to his lost love, but there was no bitterness to this. Wash had very little that he had not already said in life, no unspoken regrets to fill him. Instead, he just wanted to talk, as much for his own comfort as anything. He didn't want Maine to be gone, and talking helped that.
It wasn't long before Samantha had come up beside him, slipping her hand into his as she read the words etched into the headstone.
Loving Father
Devoted Husband
Raving Lunatic
"Papa!" Sam scolded.
"Well, he was," Wash shrugged.
A few years later:
Samantha sat beside the two graves, weeping quietly as she said goodbye to her dads.
Wash had never quite recovered after Maine's passing. Even the love of his family was not quite enough to ease the ache of losing the man he had loved for over fifty years. Samantha had sat beside him day after day, stroking his hands and telling him stories of the past. His eyes would brighten for a while, but always he returned to little more than staring out of the windows and looking so very lost.
"Now you're together again, at last," she whispered and laid the flowers between their headstones. Around her were gathered her husband, her three children, a son- and daughter-in-law and four grandchildren. All were there to remember and honour the two men that had built their family, made it strong, filled it with love and were loved in return.
She traced the words of her Dad's headstone, just as her Papa had done so many times, then she brushed her fingers across his matching stone.
Loving Father
Devoted Husband
Totally and Completely Sane
In the years that followed...
Neither of them couldn't imagine what life would have been like without the support of the family they had built. Children, something Wash and Maine could never have, and yet had been blessed with over and over again. Samantha and Jason's three had filled so much of their lives with warmth and light and love.
Grandchildren spent summers at the cabin where Maine and Wash were lovingly called Papa D and Papa M by little mouths who couldn't get all the way around names yet. And they watched year after year as they grew. Some nights they'd lay awake and talk about how they never could have imagined these days would ever come, back when they were in the Project, when first one was going crazy then the other; when they had damn near killed one another. Never could they have envisioned a day when they would be watching their grand-babies play in the snow in winter or count the stars on warm summer nights.
Wash had taught Carolina and the elder boy, Terry, hunting and cooking. Maine was impressed how well little Carrie took to it. Maine spent far too much time himself teaching James how to hot-wire decrepit old trucks, and other sneaky pranks, knowing that there wasn't anything the boy could do with it these days that would get him in trouble - except with Grandpa David. And Maine found that hilarious.
Fall was always hard, when they had to give the kids back to mom and dad for school, but they still saw them on holidays and special occasions throughout the year. They all grew up so fast, though.
Carolina became strong and beautiful and far too quickly, it seemed, had a little ones of her own on the way. Holidays soon saw four generations sit at the same table - which had grown considerably from the small square that used to occupy a corner of the cabin's great room. All gathered under the same old roof, still holding up against age and weather after all these years, bones as strong as those that occupied its walls.
Thirty-one years later:
"Come on, let me help you up."
"Don't wanna sit up," he insisted. "Don't need help."
"My god, you're being juvenile."
"I am not. Just stop... gah, stop babying me!"
"Then David, why don't you just lay there and die, since you're so intent on it anyway," Maine said, setting the bowl of soup down on the nightstand with a plunk, some of the broth sloshing over the side.
Wash caught hold of his hand as he went to leave, and Maine stopped and turned back to curl his other hand around Wash's as well. With a sigh, he sunk into the nearby chair, still holding on. "Baby, you have to eat something," he pleaded. "The doctor said-"
"Doctors," Wash grumbled. "What do they know. Damn doctors."
"And I'm not going to let you starve yourself out of your damned irritating pride!"
Wash sighed.
"Now, sit up, and let me feed you some soup."
With a reluctant nod, Wash let Maine help him into a sitting position, and Maine plumped the pillows he tucked behind him. Then he picked up the bowl and carefully lifted the spoon up to Wash's lips.
"So, how is it?"
He sipped it carefully. "Good," he admitted, though it clearly pained him to do so.
"Carolina made it just for you," Maine hummed softly.
Wash's face immediately brightened. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"Oh, I see. I bring you soup, it's piss off; Carolina makes it and suddenly it's gold."
Wash caught his hand again and brought it to his lips, kissing gently before Maine leaned over to kiss him properly.
"I love you, too, you stubborn old bastard," Maine said softly. He stroked his cheek and rested their heads against one another's for a while. It always made him worry when Wash fell ill, especially at this age. Neither of them were weak, certainly, but age has a way of forcing limitations on you, whether you accept them or no.
"What's all that?" Wash said, turning his head to try to catch the sound better.
"The grandkids are here," Maine hummed. "They heard we could use a little help around the house."
"They shouldn't have to do all that," Wash protested, but there was little force behind his words. Their visits always brought joy.
"They don't have to," Maine pointed out. "They do it anyway. You go run them off if you don't like it - no one listens to me."
Wash smiled and kissed him again. It might have seemed to anyone who did not know them that they argued a great deal, but in reality they could not have been telling one another more certainly just how much they were in love, more with each day.
Maine sat back after a while and continued to feed Wash, blowing on each spoonful to ensure it did not burn his mouth. When the bowl was emptied, they talked for a little while longer before Maine helped Wash out of bed and down the hall so he could sit with his family by the warmth of the fire.
Now that the laundry was folded, the floors swept, and wood chopped and stacked, and other various little tasks around the house were accomplished, the newest family additions, little baby David and his twin Michael, were brought in to meet their great-grandpas who had lent them their names.
Three years later:
Tears streamed down his face, unchecked. He was too old to worry about such things when his entire life lay dying on the bed before him. Wrinkled hands held tight to wrinkled hands. Hands that had seen too much blood.
How odd at the end of life to remember things done in the arrogance of youth. Oh, he had not thought he was young then, nor had he thought he would grow old. Those were the days he at once felt as though he would live forever, or else die before the sun had set that day. Either had seemed just as likely to him then.
Now his silly pride was all but smoothed away and he did not care if he cried. He should cry at a time like this.
"Don't cry."
He almost laughed. "Don't tell me what to do," he retorted, but there was only love in his words. "If I haven't earned my right to cry by now, then by god I'll cry anyway just to spite the world."
"I know you would." Maine's voice was labored, weak. The tubes in his nose made him sound strange.
It was wrong. So wrong. 'I should be the one lying on the bed, he thought. I should be the one slipping away.' But at the same time, he could not wish the loss on his love, and so he would bear the loss himself, he vainly decided, as if he had some choice in the matter. But it would not be fair. Not fair at all.
"I always thought..." he began, only to be interrupted by a short spurt of coughing. He waved off Wash's help and continued. "Always thought this would be the other way around. That I'd be sitting by your bedside at the end."
"Don't talk like that." It wasn't fair. Why couldn't old couples die as they had lived: together. Side by side. Neither having to leave the other behind.
"Oh, you know it as well as I do, David," he wheezed. "I cheated death enough in this life. About time the Reaper claimed his due."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he said.
Maine smiled, only to turn to coughs again. "You always were such a stubborn ass," he said. "But I suppose that's why you put up with me all these years."
Wash looked worried and reached out to caress Maine's cheek, not to be denied this time. "And I still put up with you, you crazy bastard," he said.
Maine brushed at the tears on his lover's face and felt his own tugging from behind his eyes. Soon, though, his strength failed him and his hand slipped down. Wash tucked it back to his side. Then Maine closed his eyes, feeling so very tired suddenly.
"I still miss them, you know," Maine breathed, and Wash wrinkled his brow.
"Who?"
Maine cracked his eyes open and looked up at Wash. "Maybe I've just finally gone senile, but I still... still hear them in my head sometimes.
Wash didn't need to ask again. He sighed and nodded and gently stroked Maine's white hair. "Yeah. Yeah me, too."
Maine's voice was heavy with memories, sounding as if he spoke from far away. He was tired, and yet he felt as if he had so much he needed to say still. "You tell Jason not to... not to let them give him one," he said, trying to stress it as important. "Never... never quite right afterwards."
Wash nodded again and promised he would, even thought Jason had long since retired as well. Now was not the time to focus on such petty details. Instead he just sat holding Maine's hand, acutely aware of how little time remained to them.
After a while Maine opened his eyes again and looked over to Wash. "Read to me?" he asked, and Wash nodded, a bitter-sweet smile on his lips.
"Of course," he said, kissing Maine's hand before resting it across his chest. He opened Maine's favorite book, but he didn't have to really read it, he knew the passages by heart now. He couldn't have read it anyway, his eyes were too filled with tears, dripping onto the pages, and his glasses stubbornly refused to be found, hiding atop his head. But he recited the words, and Maine smiled and fell asleep.
It was the last time Wash read to him. Maine passed away at the age of eighty-four from a rare type of cancer, as he refused to be put through chemotherapy for it. He said he was tired of fighting and was ready to go, he had already fought the wars in this life that mattered most to him.
When Wash had got wind that Maine was going to be denied a proper military service and burial in light of their 'indiscretionary relationship', he had dressed in his old uniform and gone down to the local office and ripped the clerk there a hole so wide that he could have sat on the pyramids and not felt it. He had to be escorted from the premises by four MPs. But not before he reminded the uppity little shit what every single member of the military had been subjected to during those wars, and if he thought that Maine's contributions and sacrifices could so easily be brushed aside and forgotten, flagrantly ignored because of who he chose to spend his life with, then Wash would make damn sure that this arrogant little prick clerk had best start planning his own funeral!
As it turns out, there are few things in life more terrifying than a ninety-one year old veteran descending upon you in a fit of indignation and fury in defense of a loved one. And, of course, some very determined string-pulling at the highest levels of the army - thanks to a certain retired General Jason Daniels, son-in-law - helped ensure that in the end, all was as it should be.
Not a week later, Wash dressed in his suit and sat in the front row as the chaplain gave the eulogy. Maine was afforded all the rights of a deceased veteran in death. Full Military Honours. And for the first time in history, his flag was offered to his partner.
After it was all done, Wash sat beside the grave, tracing the epitaph, talking quietly to his lost love, but there was no bitterness to this. Wash had very little that he had not already said in life, no unspoken regrets to fill him. Instead, he just wanted to talk, as much for his own comfort as anything. He didn't want Maine to be gone, and talking helped that.
It wasn't long before Samantha had come up beside him, slipping her hand into his as she read the words etched into the headstone.
Loving Father
Devoted Husband
Raving Lunatic
"Papa!" Sam scolded.
"Well, he was," Wash shrugged.
A few years later:
Samantha sat beside the two graves, weeping quietly as she said goodbye to her dads.
Wash had never quite recovered after Maine's passing. Even the love of his family was not quite enough to ease the ache of losing the man he had loved for over fifty years. Samantha had sat beside him day after day, stroking his hands and telling him stories of the past. His eyes would brighten for a while, but always he returned to little more than staring out of the windows and looking so very lost.
"Now you're together again, at last," she whispered and laid the flowers between their headstones. Around her were gathered her husband, her three children, a son- and daughter-in-law and four grandchildren. All were there to remember and honour the two men that had built their family, made it strong, filled it with love and were loved in return.
She traced the words of her Dad's headstone, just as her Papa had done so many times, then she brushed her fingers across his matching stone.
Loving Father
Devoted Husband
Totally and Completely Sane