and stop calling him david. he'd call york by his full name here but that seems petty and childish and though wash is not beyond the occasional childish comment he is so tired of this pointless back-and-forth banter. not today, york. not today. ]
York does, however, keep to his word. When Wash follows the location ping, it'll be to a rooftop of one of the many abandoned buildings around the city outskirts, in better condition than many of the surrounding buildings, clearly not in use but also not quite ruined. The lights are still working, maybe occasionally flickering, and when Wash comes out onto the rooftop the first thing he'll see is York's armor and his weapons, his shotgun and his pistol both. Neatly gathered up and tucked against wall, clearly very purposefully placed there so Wash could see it.
It won't take him too long to find York, either. He's just on the other side of the completely empty rooftop, his arms propped up over the railing, leaning out to peer out at the lights of the restored parts of the city, at the streets stretching out below. He has something tucked under his arm, metal gleaming in the flickering lights -- Wash's helmet. Just as promised.
Even without seeing his face, even from that far away, it'd be plain enough to see that York in person apparently isn't nearly as calm or relaxed as he'd seemed over text on the network. His shoulders are shaking ever so slightly, his fingers curved over the helmet far too tightly, knuckles bleached white. God, how long has it been since they -- since they last saw each other? A week, maybe less, maybe more. One or the other. He can't remember, they all blur together, he's barely slept two hours a night, since.
At the sound of footsteps, York might shift slightly against the railing, his grip tightening even further against the helmet, but he doesn't move or turn around. He'll wait. It's fine. This is -- everything's going to be fine. ]
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and stop calling him david. he'd call york by his full name here but that seems petty and childish and though wash is not beyond the occasional childish comment he is so tired of this pointless back-and-forth banter. not today, york. not today. ]
I'll be there.
text > action;
[ He doesn't actually make tea.
York does, however, keep to his word. When Wash follows the location ping, it'll be to a rooftop of one of the many abandoned buildings around the city outskirts, in better condition than many of the surrounding buildings, clearly not in use but also not quite ruined. The lights are still working, maybe occasionally flickering, and when Wash comes out onto the rooftop the first thing he'll see is York's armor and his weapons, his shotgun and his pistol both. Neatly gathered up and tucked against wall, clearly very purposefully placed there so Wash could see it.
It won't take him too long to find York, either. He's just on the other side of the completely empty rooftop, his arms propped up over the railing, leaning out to peer out at the lights of the restored parts of the city, at the streets stretching out below. He has something tucked under his arm, metal gleaming in the flickering lights -- Wash's helmet. Just as promised.
Even without seeing his face, even from that far away, it'd be plain enough to see that York in person apparently isn't nearly as calm or relaxed as he'd seemed over text on the network. His shoulders are shaking ever so slightly, his fingers curved over the helmet far too tightly, knuckles bleached white. God, how long has it been since they -- since they last saw each other? A week, maybe less, maybe more. One or the other. He can't remember, they all blur together, he's barely slept two hours a night, since.
At the sound of footsteps, York might shift slightly against the railing, his grip tightening even further against the helmet, but he doesn't move or turn around. He'll wait. It's fine. This is -- everything's going to be fine. ]