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He confiscated the flask from Palomo. Technically, there wasn’t a rule against the Chorus teams under the Reds and Blues having booze. But Tucker wasn’t really in the mood to deal with their bullshit, and Palomo had been extra annoying in the training room earlier. So one silver flask now dangled between Tucker’s fingers and he absconded to the only place he knew was semi-private: an outcropping of rocks on the far end of the base.
God, god, he needed this drink.
He pulled his helmet off, shaking his locs out. Unfortunately, Armonia was hot as fuck, and going out helmet-less was asking for heat exhaustion after an hour or two. Unscrewing the cap on the flask, Tucker took a swig, fully expecting some kind of bottom shelf vodka or other bullshit that would give a wicked hangover.
He was not expecting the liquor to taste like goddamn candy, with barely any burn or weird aftertaste at all.
“What the fuck is this?!” Well, whatever it was, Tucker goddamn hoped it was strong enough to get him fucked up, after the day he had.
“Something you shouldn’t be drinking.” A familiar voice replied, and Tucker sighed, taking another gulp.
“Shouldn’t you be bossing around the little shits, instead of riding my ass, Wash?”
“And shouldn’t you be setting a better example for—“
“They are little shits. Affectionate. Except Palomo. Don’t tell them I said the affectionate part.” Tucker held out the flask to Wash. “Here. Loosen your corset. Have a drink.”
“Shut up.” There was no venom in Wash’s reply, and he took the flask from Tucker’s outstretched hand, popping off his own helmet.
“Don’t worry.” Tucker grinned. “I won’t tell them what a bad example you are. They may never take you seriously again.”
Wash studied the flask then tipped it back. “I was expecting garbage tequila from—“
“Palomo.”
“Yeah. I could see that for him. But this is brandy cordial.”
“It’s what?”
“Cordial. Where you take the strongest proof brandy and add sugar syrup and usually some kind of fruit extract—“
“So you’re saying this will get me fucked up while tasting like a popsicle or something?”
“Pretty much.”
Tucker plucked the flask out from Wash’s grip. “Excellent.”
“….you want to talk about it, Tucker?”
“Fuck no. I want to get fucked up.”
“Fair enough.”
“Are you above getting wasted with me?”
Tucker tapped his fingers against the flask. Wash wasn’t lying about the strong liquor part. It had been hours since he had eaten, and the booze left him feeling a pleasant sort of warmth that was spreading from his torso out to the tips of his fingers and toes.
Wash took the flask back and had a generous swallow. “No. I’m not above getting drunk.”
“Stop the presses! Wash breaking the rules for once. Goddamn. You’re just slumming it with me, though.”
“Who says I’m slumming?”
Oh. Oh, Tucker wasn’t drunk enough for that comment. For even beginning to acknowledge the way it made the stupid goddamn butterflies in his stomach come back to life, the way they always did if Wash’s grey eyes lingered on his for too long, was too overwhelming. Or if he saw Wash right after showering, in those fatigues he wore to bed, his bottle-blonde hair kind of sticking up in that stupid way—
He needed to stop this train of thought, quick.
“Gimme that.” Tucker took the drink back. “What are you supposed to be doing right now?”
“I told Simmons to supervise the training. So, technically nothing.”
“Now you’re just being weird. When have you ever done nothing?”
“You’re not the only one who wants a break sometimes, Tucker.”
“Mhm.”
He had to admit, sometimes it was hard to picture Wash or Carolina ever….fully letting their guard down enough for a break. Wash had certainly come a long way from when he had first met everyone, and there was a certain level of affection that neither the Reds, Blues, nor Wash would ever cop to. But actually kicking it like they were right now? It was like knowing what Sarge’s full name was. Some sort of vague idea never meant to become reality. And now here they were, leaning up against this rock, passing the flask back and forth until Tucker’s head swam.
“I have a feeling this is very dangerous,” Tucker mumbled after a time. He shook the flask. “Damn. Almost gone. We didn’t drink that much? I didn’t drink that much?”
“Hate to break it to you, Tucker, but you definitely drank that much.” Wash hiccuped and Tucker laughed, leaning back against the rock, head lolling.
Why was his head so heavy? Why were heads attached to necks anyway? Oh god, he really was fucking gone, his thoughts were running together in a hazy smoke, words half formed before slipping through his fist into the ether.
“I’m gonna hate myself tomorrow,” Tucker mumbled.
“We can tell Kimball we got the flu.”
“Oh, like she hasn’t heard that one before.”
Wash’s eyes suddenly widened, and his hand grasped Tucker’s wrist. “Tucker! I can’t go back to the base like this!”
“No the fuck you can’t.” This struck Tucker as incredibly funny. “We have to sneak back in.”
“Tucker, I’m not sneaking back into our own base like a sixteen-year-old girl who missed her curfew.”
“Then I guess you’re stuck out here with me until you sober up.”
“And you sober up.”
“Me? I’m fiiiiiine, Wash.”
“Yes. You’re extremely fine.”
“Dude, don’t say it like that. Or maybe do say it like that.” Fuck, had he said that last part out loud. Tucker prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that Wash wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow.
“Maybe I mean what I said.”
Oh god, there were those butterflies. Tucker knew he had to deflect, and fast. “Maybe you’re drunk as hell, Wash.”
Wash took the flask back from Tucker and drained it. “No, you’re drunk as hell.”
“Wow. What a comeback. And you drank the last of it, you prick.”
“Sharing is caring,” Wash mumbled. His face was flushed, likely from the booze, Tucker told himself. No other reason.
“Sharing involves having some to share, genius.”
Wash pitched himself forward, and Tucker automatically reached to steady him. It would have been funnier to watch him fall on his ass, but Tucker wasn’t that petty. Much to Tucker’s surprise, Wash caught himself, and instead reached to cup Tucker’s cheek. At that moment Tucker forgot how to breathe. Forgot how to think. Forgot everything except for the closeness of the man in front of him.
Later, he would blame the booze. It made him bold. And more importantly, it made him stupid. So when Wash had his hand on Tucker’s cheek, Tucker did the only thing he could think of, pressing his lips against Wash’s in a kiss that tasted of chocolate-raspberry brandy. There was an (admittedly large) part of Tucker that fully expected Wash to be repulsed; that would push Tucker away and want no part in this. However, Wash did no such thing. Instead, Wash was kissing him back, kissing him until Tucker had to pull away to breathe.
“Wash—“
Wash shook his head, and kissed Tucker again, needy and wanting and making a small stolen noise of want in the back of his throat that was driving Tucker fucking insane.
Tucker tried to address him once more, with little success. “Wash, seriously—“
Wash’s fingers traced along the side of Tucker’s face, down to his jaw, and his breath was warm and thick with alcohol fumes as he whispered in Tucker’s ear.
“Tucker. Please don’t make me be this brave sober.”