Archive of Our Own ^beta

It hadn't been hard to fix the piano, really. Well, mostly. Some keys wouldn't play, and some were horribly out of tune, but that didn't stop Tucker. He'd found an old recording somewhere in his armor of some Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It was comforting, reminded him of home and his mother who'd made him take the stupid lessons before he'd joined this stupid fucking army.

Earlier that day, when he discovered the dilapidated piano in the corner of some abandoned room, he'd messaged Kimball to see if he could fuck with it. She had said yes but couldn't really give him any supplies, and they only had the piano because she thought they could cannibalize some of the little parts in it. It had been largely unsuccessful. But Tucker had sat in here all day working. He ignored Caboose when he told him it was lunch, when Simmons came in with a few wrapped items that he'd managed to coerce out of Grif a few hours later. They still sat on top of the piano with a bottle of water Palomo had walked in with. The little shit hadn't even said anything. He'd just looked at Tucker's face, at the scar from the rocks that had collapsed on his head because of stupid fucking--

The water shook as Tucker’s hands slammed down on the keys, sending a discordant tinkling through the room. The next victim was the water. When it sailed through the air, some spilled out, but the plastic shattered against the stone wall, leaving darkness dripping down that reminded Tucker too much of the blood he'd inadvertently caused to be spilled here. Who the hell did he think he was?

"Fuck," he breathed. The echo of his outburst hit him, and he sat back down heavily. His head hit the keys. He thought he heard something, and turned toward the door, but saw nothing. He sighed and took off his helmet, the sounds of the classical filling the room as it automatically switched to outward speakers. He slid his gloves off, really felt the keys beneath his fingers. Plastic of course, but he was sure he'd played on worse at school so long ago.

He let his fingers roam the keys. The out of tune ones made him wince, and he was sure if he tried to play something it would come out more like something from a horror movie than what he wanted; but fuck it.

He reached inside the helmet and tracked back to the start and then turned up the volume. The soft notes started to spill out, and Tucker's own hands flew to the keys to try and keep up. One foot went to the pedals below out of habit, and he started to bob as he played. He'd been right, it sounded chilling, terrifyingly haunting: it was perfect. He kept playing when he felt wetness on his face, when his chest hitched slightly, and when his vision blurred too much to see the keys correctly. He'd really only made it three quarters of the way through the first movement, but he couldn't keep going.

Just the thought of Wash somewhere, being tortured while he played the goddamned piano was making him sick. He let out a hoarse yell and threw his helmet at the wall behind the piano. It barely scratched the paint, but he felt a little better as the music stuttered a little. He slid off of his tall bucket that had been serving as his piano bench and put his head in his hands. He felt his shoulders hitch distantly as the lighter sounds of the second movement's major key played through his helmet, mocking his pain.

----

Palomo stood outside the room, dinner in his shaking hands as the little red recording dot in his helmet flashed. He'd been hoping to find the Captain asleep or something to show the other Lieutenants for a laugh. Not this. This was just fucked up. And he'd recorded the whole damn thing. He had just set the dinner on the floor outside the door when he heard Captain Tucker's voice.

"Fuck, I miss you Wash. You'd know what the fuck to do."

It may have broke Palomo's heart just a little. He quietly turned away and turned off the recording when he heard a quiet sob, and as quietly as possible, went to have Jensen quickly and discreetly remove this recording to a drive. Once the Captains found their friends, he had a feeling Agent Washington would want to know what his friend had went through for him. He refused to think they wouldn't get them back.

----

Palomo was freaking out a little. Captain Tucker was lying in the Pelican, blood everywhere while some Fed doctor worked on him, and Wash was barely conscious, but trying to get to Captain Tucker.

"Tucker!" The Agent's voice was gravelly, but thick with concern, and Palomo felt tears streaming down his face as he put more pressure on the wound.

"Just hang on Captain Tucker, it'll be okay." He was not bawling like a baby, thank you very much.

Tucker's eyes were open, and green stared at him, his skin ashen with blood loss. He muttered something, and Palomo had to lean in to even hear just the whistle of air past his lips. "Captain? Y-You shouldn't talk..." He sniffed and put more pressure on Tucker's abdomen, his gloves slippery with blood now. The Captain coughed, and his teeth were bloody when he opened his mouth again. "Stop... stop crying..." He coughed again, and there was a little blood on Palomo's visor. "And shut the fuck up."

Palomo felt himself pushed away at that, the other Freelancer, the redhead, putting the pressure on the wound with one hand, the other digging at her own armor. "Epsilon, I'm giving him my healing unit. I need you to help power it, okay?" There was a blue glow, right over Captain Tucker's heart, flickering. "I'll see what I can do, Carolina. He's in a lot of pain, I've been prioritizing that, but if I give him much more anything, it'll do more harm than good. Light it up."

Palomo sat next to Agent Washington, and stared at the blood on his hands after he took his own helmet off.

"It's going to be okay. Tucker is stubborn. He won't go down without a fight. And those two won't let him." Agent Washington put a hand on Palomo's shoulder.

Palomo remembered the drive in his armor. "Thank you, sir," he said, and he would have wiped away his tears if not for the blood on his hands. "Sir?" Agent Washington looked at him, eyes barely flicking away from Tucker for a second. "I think if Tucker knew I had this, he wouldn't really want you to see it, but... I think you really should." He held the drive out in a bloodied hand.

Washington turned his whole head this time, and looked down at the drive. "What is it?"

"You should really see for yourself."

----

The next time Tucker found himself awake, there was a lot of white around him, someone snoring, and a lot of annoying fucking beeping. But there was something softer, and it niggled at his brain insistently. It was barely audible, and Tucker strained his ears and furrowed his brow.

"Tucker?"

He exhaled through his nose and squinted his eyes further shut. He didn't want to be fully awake yet. Just let him sit on that cusp a little longer, just let him figure out that noise.

"Come on, you cock bite. I know you're awake. I can see your vitals, and they're totally betraying you right now."

When Tucker opened his mouth, the word he said barely disturbed the air. "Church?"

"Hey, shithole," he said, and Tucker could almost feel the warmth in his freezing toes. "Wanna try opening your eyes? The lights are pretty dim, because Agent Fucktard over there is sleeping like a fucking rock."

Tucker wanted to nod, but it seemed like too much work. So instead he put that energy to trying to open his eyes. They felt like someone had put fucking weights on them. He'd blame Church, but: fucking hologram. Once he had them cracked, Church even dimmed himself, and watched expectantly. Tucker blinked a few times, and turned his head with a cough.

"You should probably drink something," Church muttered, and automatically turned to the water. "Your dumb is contagious. I almost forgot I can't get you any." He sighed and turned back. "Before I get Wash up, there's something you should-"

"Tucker?" The startled snort made Church turn and finally really look at Wash. There were bruises all over his face, and he looked really fucking uncomfortable. "You're awake."

Tucker blinked for a minute at the headphone falling out of Wash's ear and just grinned. "Can't..." He coughed again, and Wash was up as fast as he could.

"Shh, don't talk yet. Get a drink first, okay?" Wash carefully started to maneuver the bed upward and got the cup with a silly straw on the bedside table. Tucker made a face. "It's one of mine. It's teal, like your armor, I thought you'd like it."

Church was behind Wash, and mimed hanging himself with some holographic rope and Tucker laughed silently before drinking from the straw. "Hope you washed it first, Wash," Tucker said first.

"No shit, Tucker," Wash deadpanned, before his headphones were yanked from whatever device he'd been listening to, and Tucker recognized that horrible piano tune.

"Wait, where.... who fucking taped me?" He tried very hard to be more agitated, but there must be some really good fucking drugs in his system, because he could really not give much more of a fuck than that.

"I'm not going to tell you that right now, Tucker."

"I bet it was fucking Palomo, the little fucker. I fucking hate him." His words were harsh, and there was a sharp pain in his abdomen, and then a rush of warmth in his veins. "Fucking... hate him."

"Get some sleep, Tucker. You can kill him after you stop pulling at your stitches, okay?" Church sounded unrepentant, standing beside the device that dispensed pain medication.

"We'll talk later, okay?" Tucker's eyes had already slid shut to Wash's face over him, concerned and... fond? Tucker was fucking high, he knew it. It felt even more like a dream when he felt warmth on his forehead, like a promise. "You're really good on a shitty piano, Lavernius."

Wash's voice, with Mozart, carried him back into the darkness.