[ He doesn't know, honestly. He wasn't exactly thinking straight, after realizing what he'd done, after that strange focused anger started to fade away into horror and anguish. All he remembers is still having Wash's blood on his hands, scrabbling at his armor, pulling off his helmet just to see his skin pale as death, just to see him not fucking breathing. He remembers shaking him, no, come on, rookie, David, don't -- come on --
Then there was Maine. He couldn't afford to stay, but he couldn't just fucking leave him there either, and. York ended up taking the helmet with him.
Wash doesn't need to know any of that. ]
How could I walk away with nothing to show for all my hard work?
I'll get it mounted, put your name under it it in shiny brass lettering. I'll polish it every day, don't worry. I remember how particular you were about that.
[ see wash five seconds away from blowing a fucking gasket. see wash put his hand straight through a plaster wall. see wash throw his phone to the ground to stomp on it before immediately deciding better of it and picking it up to text york back. ]
You want to bait me with your bullshit, York? Go ahead. Keep it. You're gonna need it more than me when I bust your fucking faceplate open.
The good stuff, too. Brass is a little unbecoming. I've got just the place picked out, though, right above the mantelpiece. Don't know about what kind of wood the mount's gonna be made out of, I'll get back to you after I check with my decorator, but let me tell you, rookie, it's gonna look fantastic.
wash stops replying entirely for over an hour, mostly so he can calm the fuck down and recollect his thoughts. he's better than this. he's too fucking old for this. so, fine. if york wants to see him so badly, then maybe they can work something out. on wash's terms. ]
I'm not coming to you, but you can come to me. Unarmed and out of armor.
[ He's being a dick 'cause he loves you and he knows you aren't going to show unless he pisses you off enough. And because he's a bit of a dick, sure. But mostly because he loves you.
Do you honestly think I'm stupid enough to come to a predetermined location on your terms and on your turf? The only reason you fucked me up so bad the last time is because you caught me off guard. I'm not letting that happen again.
But if I spot even a glint of metal on you that's not my helmet, I will pump you so full of bullets you'll be spitting casings through your teeth. Don't think I won't.
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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
I'm not playing this game with you, either. Leave. It. Where. I. Can. Find. It.
no subject
I have it, you want it. Sounds like you play by my rules, or you're out of luck.
no subject
no subject
Just said you had to come get it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Why the hell did you even take it? You should've left it with my body.
no subject
Then there was Maine. He couldn't afford to stay, but he couldn't just fucking leave him there either, and. York ended up taking the helmet with him.
Wash doesn't need to know any of that. ]
How could I walk away with nothing to show for all my hard work?
I'll get it mounted, put your name under it it in shiny brass lettering. I'll polish it every day, don't worry. I remember how particular you were about that.
no subject
You want to bait me with your bullshit, York? Go ahead. Keep it. You're gonna need it more than me when I bust your fucking faceplate open.
1/2
no subject
The good stuff, too. Brass is a little unbecoming. I've got just the place picked out, though, right above the mantelpiece. Don't know about what kind of wood the mount's gonna be made out of, I'll get back to you after I check with my decorator, but let me tell you, rookie, it's gonna look fantastic.
1/3 i lied
no subject
wash stops replying entirely for over an hour, mostly so he can calm the fuck down and recollect his thoughts. he's better than this. he's too fucking old for this. so, fine. if york wants to see him so badly, then maybe they can work something out. on wash's terms. ]
I'm not coming to you, but you can come to me. Unarmed and out of armor.
no subject
Probably. ]
Can't.
no subject
no subject
no subject
You come to me.
no subject
I'll be unarmed and out of armor.
1/2
Fine. Send me your location.
no subject
1/2
There won't be any need for that, David.
no subject
2100H.
I know I said I'm not asking for a gift basket, but, you know. I'm not not asking, either. Just sayin.
no subject
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. ]