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Wash
You know how it goes by now: ask 'em anything, or tell me something I don't know about 'em.

Wash (flybywash)
Cindy "Mac" Mackenzie (q_in_training)
Mercer (mercurialist)
Sam the Shoulder Angel (its_a_robe)
 
 
Wash
19 December 2006 @ 01:18 am
The thing is, Wash isn't sleepy.

He's tired, sure, but that's just from the shock of going from there to here. Sleepiness? Not so much yet. It kind of makes sense, though, in a bizarre way. He wouldn't feel sleepy, not after that long...well. After.

His full strength may still be a ways off, but he's recuperated enough to stand on his own and navigate a ladder. So Wash presses a kiss to Zoe's hair, whispers that he needs some tea and he'll be right back, and slips out of bed.

A few minutes later, the kitchen smells faintly of chamomile.
 
 
Wash
18 December 2006 @ 04:37 am
Inasmuch as it can be, it is quantified as dark and silent and empty. The edges between things blur. They don't seem to be there most times -- nor is anything else. Imagine the blank forgetfulness of deep sleep, and stretch it endlessly in either direction.

Dreams may interrupt it, but not very frequently.

What is there most consistently is a knotted length of cord woven through with wires. Sometimes, more often than the dreams but not with any regularity, the rough rope catches him, and he surfaces, becoming definable again. He can feel the boundaries, touch his fingers to the smooth plastic sheaths covering the wire (green and yellow, though he can't see it), realize who he is and how he got there.

Wash sees the sky -- if only in his mind -- and remembers.

It lasts until the breath he exhales carries him back down, and he slips away, drifting to fill the nothing with more nothing.







Until one breath he draws hurts. He remembers, and it's...

The definition to his arms and legs and self has never been this clear, and when he opens his eyes this time --

There is light.

Light, a solid deafening rumble, and something cold beneath his palms. Wash claps his hands over his ears to block out the noise (this doesn't hurt, but he feels every ridge, every hair, a sharp prickle of heat) and gasps again. There's too much: he has to shut his eyes.

On the kitchen floor of Serenity, back pressed to the wall and legs curled awkwardly to his chest, Wash continues to drag in ragged breaths as he whimpers subaudibly.
 
 
Wash
19 September 2006 @ 07:06 am
Wash doesn't know what wakes him up nearly an hour and a half before his alarm's set to go off. He'd like to think it's something other than the quiet, sinking knowledge of what day it is.

He knows it probably isn't.

Zoe's still asleep; he props himself on an elbow to watch her in silence. After a while, he smiles faintly -- it hurts a little -- and shifts his weight, enough to let him rest a hand on her hair and gently run his fingers through it. The knotted bracelet of ship's rope and wires is still fast around his wrist.

It's been six years of marriage and he still can't get over how beautiful she is; or how lucky he's been, to be able to do this almost every single day.
 
 
Wash
15 September 2006 @ 10:01 pm
They call it the ghost months.

It used to keep time with the moon of Earth-That-Was, and it used to happen every year. They'd tell stories of the dead walking the earth: ancestors returned to visit their families, ghosts sent to snatch the living back through the gates of Hell. They'd burn offerings, perform plays; they'd avoid weddings, water, and open spaces after dark.

They still tell the stories, but only once every seven years now, and for two months straight instead of the ancient tradition of one.

On Sihnon, fires burn bright on the streetcorners, kept in tightly tamped containers with narrow grates along the top. The only paper money this side of the system will ever see (available in packets from the vendor across the street, ten fake bills for one credit) gets tossed inside by passerby, a tourist novelty, a casual afterthought.

Beaumonde's known for its giant theater festival that spans the entire two months, one new play every day. Traditionally, only the best new drama debuts here. A work based on Sing Hua's three-act novels is slated to take center stage at the exact midpoint of this decade's festival, a time slot accompanied by an elaborate all-day buffet and one that's fiercely contested over for years leading up to it. Tickets have been sold out for well over a year and a half.

Nobody living in the Bellerophon Estates will claim to believe the myths, but travel over the vast ocean slows come nightfall anyway. Some even walk to the edge of their property, lean over to look down at the waters, and silently drop paper boats over the side before retreating indoors.

On Serenity, they hold a moment of silence, and nobody finishes their entire meal or cleans up the dishes after dinner.

In Wash and Zoe's bunk, Wash falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
 
 
 
Wash
30 July 2006 @ 09:30 pm
It's quiet here.

He's used to quiet, and he's used to finding ways to break it when he's left alone on the ship. It's harder this time; nothing seems to mask it entirely. Places echo where they shouldn't echo. It's like Serenity herself's gone silent in respect after their visit to her namesake.

He makes sure Inara can get Mal settled in, checks on Naomi -- still fast asleep, exhausted from her busy day of hanging out with her dad -- and slides into bed next to Zoe.

And then Wash just lays there, staring at the ceiling with an arm around her waist.

She's okay, in spite of the set to her shoulders when she came back on board. Mal's...not, exactly, but maybe he will be in time, after this. There's catharsis to be found in returning to a place that scarred you deeply and facing it down without flinching: in proving you can do it.

(There were no fragments of glass or wood or metal when he went back onto the bridge for the first time. He still remembers that the clearest out of every other moment in that morning.)

He sighs and turns his face into Zoe's shoulder, shifting slightly.

If I had the nerve to go back to Jethro, I think I would.

What he told Mal at Southdown Abbey all those months ago hasn't changed, and it never faded. It's just gotten a little louder in tonight's silence.

I want to.

It'll be coming up on a year now, he realizes, given a few more months. Are the grave markers they left behind still there? Is his?

Wash closes his eyes and listens intently to his wife's breathing; and after a while, it lulls him into an uneasy sleep.
 
 
Wash
23 July 2006 @ 12:00 pm
Iiiiiit's inventory time!

If only that were half as exciting as the narration implies.

Datapad in hand and stylus behind his ear, Wash sticks his head into the infirmary and asks, "Simon, you got your check sheet done yet?"
 
 
Wash
20 July 2006 @ 12:28 am
It's late. Naomi's having a fitful night, but it seems like she's finally settled down for good.

Her parents? Not so much yet.

Wash falls back onto the bed with all due melodrama, seizes a pillow, and claps it down over his eyes. "Nnnnngh."
 
 
Wash
06 July 2006 @ 11:03 am
You know, with the way the bad goes in constant cycles around here, Wash is mildly surprised it hasn't overlapped before now.

It's as good a reason as any why it's taken this long to visit.

Naomi's nestled in her sling; a box under one arm and his cane in the other hand, Wash scrambles and juggles for a couple of seconds before he knocks on the door of the Tonks-Wrangle flat.

"Anybody home?" he calls.
 
 
Wash
26 June 2006 @ 05:54 pm
He's hardly left the bridge since they lifted off from Beaumonde. Too many variables to track has made it way too much of a risk to stick Serenity on autopilot and leave her be, not for more than the time it takes to get some food or steal an hour's nap.

It ain't fair to leave all the baby care to Zoe, though. Not for this long.

(And it's unfounded, this far out in the black, but he doesn't like sitting in the pilot's chair with his daughter resting against his chest, her tiny hands bunched in a patch of shirt just over the thick scar that hasn't faded or smoothed out one bit.)

So he's on a couch in the kitchen lounge, buzzing with a hollow, detached energy that marks the weariness of a thirty-six hour adrenaline rush, with Naomi fast asleep in his arms.

Lucky kid.

Wash really wishes he could do the same right about now.