Prompt from @addleton: I’d love to see more of the AU where Wash gets Eta. maybe a mission gone wrong. and how Eta’s reactions are NOT HELPING.
All Wash and Eta have to do is prove they’re ready for the field with a little series of test fights. Easy, right? What could possibly go wrong?
***
Are we ready for this?
“We’ll be fine.” Of course Eta is nervous. Eta is always nervous. But Wash is so glad to finally be out of the fucking box that for once he barely even feels it. It’s been weeks–of solo training, of medical exams, of therapy–and they’ve finally gotten the nod for their performance test. The Director is up on the observation level, along with the Counselor and half the team. The guys he might feasibly fight are lined up against the far wall, waiting to be called. He doesn’t get to know who he’ll actually be up against till they’re called up to the plate. But Florida waves cheerfully in between flips of his knife, and Eta relaxes a little in Wash’s head. They might be his opponents, but they’re still teammates.
“Bout one,” FILSS’ sweet voice rings out. “Agent North Dakota.”
A bloom of fireworks erupts over North’s shoulder as he stuffs his helmet on and steps forward. Theta has just enough time to wave before North says, “Theta,” in such a disapproving-dad voice that Wash snorts.
Eta quivers in his head. I don’t want to hurt him. Theta is his favorite. He and North helped a lot while Wash and Eta were settling in. Dealing with the little guy’s anxiety gave them a lot of insight on coping strategies.
“We won’t hurt him. It’s just a training bout.” Wash says it out loud just to be an ass. But since North can’t get the benefit of his smirk through their helmets, he adds, “Might hurt North, though. Just a little bit.”
North cocks his head slowly. Oops. Wash might be in trouble.
“Begin!” FILSS calls, and they move.
Eta is already on a roll in his head, a living scroll of numbers and vectors and memories of North fighting, shooting, vaulting a table to slap him on the back for some dumb, hilarious stunt. But Wash doesn’t need Eta to tell him that the worst thing you can do with North is give him time to get situated. He charges.
Straight into a palm on his face.
Theta giggles. York, leaning against the far wall, guffaws. Wash takes a few futile swings, tries to dance sideways and utterly fails to close in. North muffles a snort of laughter. “You lanky son of a bitch!” Wash snarls. “Are you stiff-arming me?”
“I might be,” North says, almost managing not to sound like he’s wearing a shit-eating grin. His fucking hand is big enough to grasp the front of Wash’s visor like a basketball.
Wash tries a couple of kicks. They turn in stupid little circles as North blocks them with his knee, but it’s satisfying just to be able to make contact with the asshole. North’s shoulders are shaking with repressed snickers that vibrate right down his arm into Wash’s helmet. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see York and South leaning on each other to keep from falling over while they hoot like a pair of drunk owls. Carolina looks like she can’t decide who she’s more ashamed of.
Yeah, okay, it’s a little bit hilarious, even if the last thing he needed was yet another memory to live down. But they do have a job to do. He pokes Eta, whose numbers are still wheeling. Come on, we trained for this!
I’m sorry! Eta’s indecision rushes back along their link. For every scenario he calculates, he also predicts how Theta can thwart it. He’s frozen.
The Director shifts his feet and settles into the glower that’s one step away from the end of his patience.
The threat of the Director’s disapproval jolts from Eta into Wash, and in its wake the world seems crystal clear and slower than he is. Eta is in his head. Eta is his head, they’re one and the calculating is over; they’re leaping up to wrap Wash’s entire body around North’s outstretched arm and torso, using the momentum to yank him off balance to the floor. “Doesn’t matter how tall a dude is when he’s on his back,” a gloating South says in their memories. North is fast and strong and he has Theta, but he’s not primarily a CQC fighter and Wash has his pistol jammed up under his chin before North can finish breaking his hold.
“Bang,” Wash says, and makes sure North can hear the grin.
“Bout one to Agent Washington,” FILSS announces to the room.
Theta appears in a little shower of sparks and applauds while the fighters get to their feet. “That only worked because you lulled us into a false sense of security.”
“That was the point,” Wash tells him. It’s a lie, but it sounds cool.
That was anti-climactic, Eta mutters in his head. He feels almost sulky, wrong-footed with the abrupt letdown. Wash soaks it up for him, an old hand at managing adrenaline surges.
Besides, it isn’t over yet, because “Bout two, Agent York,” FILSS calls, and York straightens himself up and moves up to the starting pad.
Yeah, there’s the surge. We can’t fight Delta! He’s too good. He’ll crush us!
Wash twists the balls of his feet on the floor like a batter rooting his stance. We can take Delta. He has a plan. Eta reviews it, lightning-quick, and approves with a little flicker of surprise that Wash tries not to feel annoyed about. He can plan. York’s the one I’m worried about. He knows how to cheat. Keep an eye on him.
The loudspeakers crackle to life. Wash doesn’t wait to hear FILSS’s voice. He draws his pistol and fires a foam charge at York’s head. Eta nudges his aim, but Wash doesn’t wait to see which AI wins that battle of vectors. He throws himself across the room as fast as his armor-enhanced legs can go to collide with York in a messy tangle. York is so fast, though, so good, and with Delta in his head he’s already twisting, gathering himself. Wash doesn’t think. He and Eta are fused together in a knot of survival-powered instinct, and at Eta’s spike of warning, he’s rolling them over, getting York in a headlock—
“Bout two end,” FILSS calls. “Advantage Agent Washington.”
Advantage? Kneeling behind York, in position to snap his neck, Wash freezes and looks down toward the pressure against his inner thigh. York’s got his combat knife poised to go right back into Wash’s groin.
“Cheating assholes might win, but they’re gonna pay for it,” York says cheerfully before he puts the thing away.
“You’re just jealous that you didn’t jump first.” Wash takes his hand and they stagger upright together.
“Damn straight. I’m going to remember that for next time.”
He will, too, he warns Eta. Their next spar with York is going to suck.
“Bout three. Agent Maine.”
Speaking of sucking. “Aw, shit,” Wash mutters as Maine walks up to the pad. Eta’s not even really talking to him anymore; they’re so wound together that his agreement is an unpleasant electric jolt of anticipation for the pain that’s about to follow–win or lose. Frankly, beating Maine hurts more than being defeated by him, unless you’re Carolina.
“Begin!” FILSS says.
Maine moves. Light glints off his helmet or something, because for a second Wash would swear that flame licks around his head…
Eta screams. It’s not the cold dread of the Director’s anger, or the simple wary apprehension of an ass-kicking from York and Delta. Wash is choking on survive. Glass shining as it shatters around a bully’s head. An asshole in too many stripes sneering. The blue glow and cut-grass smell of Sangheili plasma weapons.
His head hurts. His shoulder hurts. His hands hurt. His chest hurts. He can’t breathe. He sags to his knees, scrabbling at his chest plate. Heart attack!
Panic attack. Breathe. Count. In. Out. They both know this ritual by now. It won’t stop the panic attack, but the ruthless imposition of order on their body lets them operate through it.
It’s loud, around them. Talking. Shouting. Bustling. After a moment, he manages to focus outside his head enough to look into why.
Maine is on his side, snarling with pain-tinged anger, curled around his arm. His vambrace looks wrecked. There’s blood, smoke, the stink of singed electronics and singed human. A couple of the medics who are always on standby for test bouts go running across the training floor to him.
Another medic kneels beside Wash and reaches for his hands. Oh. Apparently that’s where the blood came from. His gauntlets are ripped to shit and dripping red.
What did we do? Eta’s horror is a ball of nausea in Wash’s gut. Or maybe that’s Wash’s horror. But Wash knows what they did: adrenaline blackout. They panicked and fucked Maine up. He’s done it before, but never to a teammate. Why is a good question.
When he asks, Eta trembles in his head. I thought I saw something…? I don’t know. I don’t know.
He wards the medic off and pushes himself to his feet. Maine apparently fucked him up in return because his ribs creak like floorboards when he stands, and his chestplate is dented on one side. His throat still feels like it’s being squeezed, everything’s a bit sparkly and thin around the edges, and he can’t keep his hands steady, but he looks around for the Director. Eta’s terror makes him want to vomit, but it’s better to get this settled now than to wait around feeling sick till the Director drops a ton of bricks on him.
The Director’s standing off to the side with the Counselor and Carolina, who’s saying something heated. He meets Wash’s eyes immediately, and waves them to silence.
“Well done, Agent Washington. As of now, you are approved for duty. Report to the Counselor for a performance review once you’re released from Recovery.”
Apparently that’s all he has to say, because he turns and sails right out of the training room like two of his agents hospitalizing each other was exactly how he’d hoped his evening would wrap up.
Carolina slides an arm around Wash’s waist to keep him from swaying as they watch him go. Eta whimpers, disturbed beyond his ability to articulate. Wash knows how he feels.
from Tumblr http://ift.tt/29sBykA