goneawaycomms | AGENT WASHINGTON

[Dead serious face, dead serious tone.]

Yes.

[And then it relaxes to something a little more impish, a little more like young Wash - and not that he remembers it - current Wash.]

Kidding.

[And he opens his arms hesitantly, super awkwardly, like a zombie trying to remember the warm embrace of other humans that it just barely remembers from times long before.]

[He doesn't look for the glint of a knife.]

[ York is about to take that at face value when Wash's expression changes and he realizes (before his friend says it) that the other man is screwing with him. He smiles, because it does remind him of young Wash, the rookie that he didn't realize just how much he missed. ]

That was far too convincing.

[ He reaches up and draws Wash into a hug, warm and strong. Like last time it'll only last as long as Wash allows, but the fact that he's hugging back is endlessly encouraging.

There are no knives involved. ]

[There are no knives involved.]

[Not a single knife.]

[Wash's eyes get glassy where York can't see.]

[His right hand, the one that has the tremors, the one that grabbed a notebook and wrote a frantic message to Tucker, the one that seems to have a mind of it its own - it grabs on tight, hand wending into the fabric of York's shirt, making it harder for Wash to ditch on the hug early.]

[This time he doesn't end it quickly, like he did in Hell Disney. This time he holds on tight, and he trembles a little.]

[No, a lot. He's shaking a lot, like a bombed out wall about to crumble. There's spillover from the man he became - is. That man holds on tight to his brief re-connection to the world. He holds onto his friend. One he thought he'd never see again, who's alive and warm in his arms. He wants to just hold on for a while, to try to make sure it's real.]

[But that Wash, the warm Wash, the wise Wash - the drowning Wash, pushed into the dark and only clinging to the outside world by a thread...]

[Well, he's not the one at the wheel.]

[The other one is a little colder. He separates and pulls the other way, and lets go of the hug. But at least it lasted longer this time. At least he wasn't ready to squirm out of it.]

[When he draws back there are tears on his face. He doesn't remember crying, because they are - and aren't - his own. They belong to present Wash, who's warm enough to thaw out the icy facade, but who's now subsumed again.]

[Wash wipes at his face, embarrassed.]

[Coughs.]

Dusty up here.

[His voice is hoarse.]

Very dry air.

[ York can feel Wash gripping his shirt and trembling but doesn't draw attention to it. Just holds on comfortingly until the other man pulls away, then politely pretends he doesn't notice that Wash was crying. It's okay -- he's emotional right now, too, that Wash accepted the hug so much more so than the last time he tried. He hugged back. It lasted.

Wash coughs and York just smiles fondly, agreeing with him for appearances' sake. ]

Yeah, the storm's blowing up the dust. We should go in and grab a drink.

AGENT WASHINGTON

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