#deadfreelancer

“Love is a gift,” says Florida. They’re the first words he’s said since mission start thirty two hours ago, and the first words anyone’s said since mission end forty five minutes ago.

“Whuzzat?” is what you say, startled into wakefulness by the sound of his voice. Wyoming, the only other Agent in the Pelican, does not wake up. His arms are folded across his chest, and every now and then his helmet droops dangerously close to leaning-on-Florida’s-shoulder territory. He had a close call on the mission - you’re not surprised he’s exhausted.

Florida is watching you. Blood is still dripping in fine red tracks down his armor, standing out against the blue. “Do you know what the opposite of love is, Agent Washington?”

You have to think about that for a minute, parse through the words, still waking up. Love. The opposite of love. You shouldn’t be surprised, really; Florida’s held conversations about stranger things. The problem is, you’ve never been in love. You have no experience in it. Your story is a generic story, a sob story, run of the mill: inner colony bastard, foster homes, fall through the cracks, abuse. Grow up tough and quick. Army or bust. No love interest, no time for one. You found a place in the ranks, and took comfort in the rules and regulations, the clean, rigid military lines to live by. Suddenly you’re here, in this ship with Florida and Wyoming, at a loss for what to say. Obviously no one else can ever know that you’ve never been in love. The other Freelancers already think you’re a dumbfuck greenhorn (South’s words), they don’t need another reason to back it up.

Still. This is a pretty easy question, “the opposite of love.” Even a rookie like you knows the answer to this one.

Take a stab: “Hate?”

Florida watches you for a long moment - long enough that you start to second guess your answer. You fidget under his gaze and he cocks his head. The action brings his helmet that much closer to Wyoming’s. “You’ve never been in love, have you, soldier?”

Splutter and choke, Washington. You try to say, “Of course I have” at the same time that you try to say, “That’s ridiculous” at the same time that you try to say, “Oh fuck oh shit oh fuck”. What comes out is a sort of strangled squawking noise. It is entirely pathetic and you hate everything.

Florida takes pity on you. “Easy, son, I was only joking.” You can feel his smile through his visor. “I’ll tell you: the opposite of love isn’t hate - it’s indifference. That’s what war does to you, it makes you cold. It takes all color and warmth from the world. Indifference is the real enemy, Wash.”

He seems to be waiting for an answer, which is a problem because you have no idea what to say. You wonder if what he’s saying is true, when the metaphors and dramatics are peeled away. You wonder if love really conquers all, and how cliche it would be if it did. You wonder, since love apparently gives color to the world, if that means you’ve been living in black and white.

“Also the insurrectionists,” you say lamely. “They’re the enemy too.”

Florida laughs: his laugh is a disturbingly accurate audio representation of the phrase “peachy keen”. “Well, you’re not wrong. But while we fight insurrectionists with bullets, we fight apathy it with love. Isn’t that amazing?” The tap of Wyoming’s helmet finally resting on Florida’s shoulder is soft but audible, and when Florida looks down at him he doesn’t look back up. “Yes, indeedy. Love is a gift.”

Watch them, Washington, and think of the mission: think of the close call Wyoming had, his cover blown, the sounds of close combat struggle a static buzz through interteam radio as you pumped lead into insurrectionists and couldn’t get to him in time. Think of the sudden deafening silence as Florida came to his aid, quick and clean and efficient. Think of Wyoming’s head on Florida’s shoulder and Florida bringing up love of all topics and holy shit. The other shoe drops.

“Holy shit,” you say, eloquently. “You two are-”

Amusement radiates off of Florida in waves. He holds a finger to the front of his visor, where his mouth would be; you get the distinct impression he’s winking at you. “Our little secret.”

“Holy shit. I owe Maine fifty bucks-”

Your babbling is cut off as 479er’s voice patches through. “Alright kiddies, buckle up. We’re docking in ten.”

The Pelican rocks a little and Wyoming wakes with a start.

“Good morning, Reggie,” says Florida, voice bright. “Have a nice nap?”

“Ah, yes, just sterling. Nothing like an hour on this rickety old bird to recharge the-”

He pauses. Looks between you and Florida, and suddenly the angles of him go hard and sharp.

“Florida,” Wyoming says, dangerously, “did you say something compromising? Because if you did I may have to kill Agent Washington.”

Florida just laughs.  “Oh Reggie, you old kidder, you!”

Wyoming’s helmet whips to you. “Washington,” he says, more dangerously, “did Florida say anything compromising? Be a sport now, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Say nothing, Agent Washington.

Wyoming scrutinizes you for a moment longer before he leans back with an explosion of a sigh. “Well bullocks, Butch, you’ve gone and told him. Now I’ve got to kill the poor sod. I hope you’re happy.”

You do not squeak. “What? But I didn’t-”

“Come off it, chap, it was written all over your bloody face.”

You maybe squeak a little. “I’m wearing a helmet!”

By the time you dock, you and Florida have managed to bargain Wyoming down from killing you for knowing that they’re together to the threat of bodily harm in the case that you let the secret slip. You follow them off the Pelican at a respectful distance, watching them talk in low voices; you can’t hear what they’re saying but your eye is constantly drawn to the blood, now smeared from Florida’s armor to Wyoming’s, bright between them.

:

“Love is stupid,” says Grif. You don’t look at him. Continue brewing coffee in Red team base, because Blue base ran out and Red team knows that if they refuse you can break all their arms. You’re surprised that Outpost 17-B is so poorly stocked, but that doesn’t make it any less disappointing.

You’ve been here for six months now, and between fixing Caboose’s mistakes and stealing Red team flag and enduring the occasional psychotic episode, you’ve discovered that Tucker drinks nearly as much coffee as you do (Caboose has been banned from all hot drinks forever). He’s a terrible soldier and a not-much-better person, but in the mornings, when you’re not being unresponsive and he’s not being a lazy goodfornothing, you’ll drink coffee together. Another thing you’ve discovered: he’s not that bad when he’s quiet.

Grif repeats: “I said, love is stupid.”

“Are you and Simmons fighting again?” You say this while continuing not to look at him, in as bored a tone you can manage, but when his only answer is a scoff you have to turn and - holy shit. “Oh my god, you really are fighting again. Why am I even surprised.” And then, belatedly, “Oh my god, you really are talking about Simmons. Why am I even surprised?”

“Hey guess what? Shut the fuck up.”

Grif glares, and you are smug enough to just let your smirk answer for you. You turn back to your coffee, but then: “Whatever, asshole. I’m just trying to warn you, but if you’re going to be a prick about it…”

You shouldn’t bite. You really, really shouldn’t. You’re pretty sure this could count as fraternizing with the enemy if they weren’t all idiots. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Love doesn’t give a shit if you know or not, idiot,” For someone of his size Grif is surprisingly stealthy when he wants to be. He’s slurping down your coffee before you even notice it’s gone, and you are appalled enough that you do not punch him in the throat. He takes advantage of this and says, “It’s mysterious and awful like that. It sneaks up behind you and wham! kicks you in the balls. No escaping it, no defense.”

You glare at him and your coffee, slowly going back to the pot to brew another cup. “So in this analogy Tex is love and the balls are your balls.”

“One: you’re a dick. Two: that’s not distracting me from the current conversation, nice try, asshole. Three: you’re a dick.”

You shrug one shoulder. You had to at least try to derail whatever the fuck is happening.

“The point is, love is stupid and it’s going to bite you in the ass when you least expect it. When it does, there’s no point in trying to resist. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

You contemplate bringing up the fact that he’s talking about Simmons and how goddamn amusing and ridiculous that is, but then you see the look on his face and. Well. You just go back to your coffee. “Why are you telling me this, Grif?”

“Because you’re a fucking idiot.” He shrugs off the glare you shoot him, casual as sin and drinking your coffee. “You can’t even see what’s right in front of your face.”

Stiffen, each vertebrae in your spine locking into place. Feel your hackles rise. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

You crowd into his space, both of your coffees sloshing. “Clearly it meant something or you wouldn’t have said it.”

“Jesus, calm down, crazy-”

“I’m not crazy.”

The look he gives you clearly says you could’ve fooled me, but he holds up his hands and backs out of the room. Smart of him.

“Right in front of my face,” you grumble, raiding the cabinets for every bit of coffee you can find. You end up finding a stash of Doritos, how the fuck did Grif even get those, and end up snatching those too out of pure spite. “Right in front of my face.“ You can feel the edges of a panic attack gnawing at the frayed fabric of your mind, and already you realize there’s no help for it. Hefting your winnings under one arm and balancing your coffee in the other, you take your leave. Maybe after you come back to your senses Tucker will have a cup with you.

:

“Love is hard,” Caboose murmurs. He’s sitting on the couch you salvaged last week, an emergency blanket draped around his shoulders and his hair a flyaway mess about his head. You blink and look around, but the rest of the base is empty besides the two of you. Tucker is outside doing laps, because he’s stubborn and an ass and doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. He has a bloody nose to attest to it - then again, so do you. After a moment in which Caboose does nothing but sigh and stare at the ceiling, you conclude he was talking to himself and go back hunting for your tool box. Fixing the radio tower is imperative, and with your luck the Reds have taken your tools yet again-

“Love is hard.” Caboose says again. He still isn’t looking at you. You say, slowly, “Yeah, it is,” as though you actually have any idea what he’s talking about - as though you have any idea what you’re talking about.

“Yeah, it is.” Caboose parrots back. He sighs, slow and sad. “Sometimes you try to love somebody but they’re not ready to be loved yet. Or sometimes they are, but you’re not the person they want to love them. Or sometimes you are, but they’re a ghosty robot trapped in a scary lady’s helmet and then they leave you and you are sad.”

“Yeah, Cab- wait. What?”

“Love is really, really hard, yeah.” Caboose continues, thoughtful, as though you hadn’t spoken. “But it’s also really nice. It’s all fuzzy and warm. And when the person you love is happy, you’re happy.” He turns and smiles at you, over the back of the couch. It’s a sad sort of smile, but it’s sincere. “Love is really, really hard, but it’s worth it, you know?”

You don’t know, but you wonder. “That’s, uh, really nice, Caboose.” A pause. “Why are you telling me this?”

His eyes are very earnest. “Because it is easy to forget sometimes. I know you and Tucker are kind of mad right now, because of reasons that I definitely totally understand completely, but you should remember that love is worth it.”

Fail to be at all coherent. “I- Caboose, Tucker and I aren’t- I don’t- he isn’t-”

“Oh don’t worry, Wash, Tucker feels the same way about you.”

“I mean, he doesn’t- wait, what?” You stare at him and short circuit, for a minute, two. Caboose is patient. “I don’t. He doesn’t. He said that?”

“Yeah. Well, he did not say it with words, exactly.” The breath leaves you in a rush, and only then do you realize you were holding it. “But he feels the same way you do. I can tell.”

“Caboose…” You spend exactly seven more minutes trying and failing to explain to Caboose before Tucker barges in, scowling and dripping sweat, to demand why Caboose doesn’t have to do laps too. Predictably, you fight, and behind the shouting you hear Caboose, humming to himself, something about love.

:

“Love is scary,”

Donut’s voice reaches out to you in the dark, piercing what had previously been an oppressive quiet. You turn to search him out on the next bunk, unfamiliar sheets ruffling beneath your head, in an unfamiliar base, in an unfamiliar war. It’s too dark to see his face, but you’ve had time, recently, to memorize his features. His hair is a cornwheat blonde mohawk, slowly growing out, and he has farmboy blue eyes. The right side of his face is marred by scar tissue; it spiders across his face, webs it’s way down from his ear and across his cheek and along his jaw.

“What?”

“Love. It’s pretty scary, don’t you think?”

What you try to say is: “Why does everyone think I need love advice?” and you try to sound put upon, and acerbic. You try to sound like the conversation is ending here, thanks, good to know your opinion even though I didn’t ask for it. You try to sound like you don’t need to hear this right now, even though you think you might, when all you can think of is Tucker at the mouth of the tunnel, calling to you.

What you actually say is: “I wouldn’t know,” and you sound quiet. You sound lost.

“Wouldn’t you?”

You try again to answer as you normally would: shut him down, keep your tone dry, deflect. All that comes out is, “I’ve never been in love.”

Donut hums softly, the sound dubious at best. He doesn’t believe you, but you’re having trouble addressing that properly when you’ve realized that it’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud. You’ve never been in love before, have you, soldier? asks an old ghost, in the back of your head. Right in front of your face and love is worth it say two fresher ones.

“Well, it is.” Donut assures, before you can get your bearings. “Scary, I mean. Believe me.”

On the furthest bunk Sarge grumbles in his sleep. It’s too quiet here, you’ve decided. They gave you separate sleeping quarters from the soldiers in the barracks. You’re used to more noise than this. Caboose tossing and turning. Tucker breathing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Love is all about trust. Trusting someone else with your heart, trusting them not to break it even though they totally could - what could be scarier than that?”

Make a brief list, Washington, of scary things: jumping off the roof of a building of over one hundred stories. Fighting a losing battle. The Covenant. Agent Carolina. Being shot in the back.

Admit: none of these things frighten you as much as the idea of trusting someone so implicitly.

“Oh boy, and it only gets scarier,” Donut continues. “I mean, when you love someone, they become the most important thing in your life, right? So now you’re putting everything on the line, your heart, your life, all pinned on the hope that nothing bad happens to them, because if they got hurt or killed what would you even do?” He sighs to himself, a forlorn little sound. You wonder if he’s thinking of Doc. “That’s pretty scary, huh?”

He’s right. It is.

“And think about the crazy things that people do for love. I knew a lot of people back in Iowa who chose to stop being farmers because they loved their animals and it just hurt too much to see them slaughtered. It’s kind of like that.” You can’t be certain but you’re pretty sure it’s nothing like that. You think you see where he’s coming from, though. “Then again, it’s not like I have to tell you. I mean just look at what you did back in the canyon, sealing the tunnel and all. Can’t get much crazier than sacrificing yourself for the person you love.”

He sighs dreamily and you answer on automatic: I’m not crazy.” Then, once the rest of his words have registered: “What th- I don’t love Tucker, that’s not why I-”

“I didn’t say Tucker, Wash.”

Oh. Well, shit.

Donut’s grin is audible, visible, and palpable, darkness notwithstanding. Fuck. Before you can kill him, for real this time, he says, “Anyway, it’s not just about being in love, Wash. You did what you did for Caboose and Grif and Simmons, too, right? Regular love is just as scary.”

You’re not sure how to answer that. On the one hand, you never really thought about it, love in a general sense, love for your team. You haven’t thought about love that way in a long time, and is that the name for the feeling in your chest that keeps you awake on nights like this? Worrying for them, wondering if they’re okay? Did they make it out? Are they taking care of each other? Is Caboose sleeping alright? Is Tucker still training?

On the other hand, there’s the implication Donut makes by leaving Tucker out of the ‘regular love’ group is telling in itself. How the hell do you respond to that other than the way you’ve always responded? Would it even matter, since apparently everyone is deadset on deciding your feelings for you? Do they talk to Tucker about things like this too-

Donut sighs, sounding entirely put upon. “You’re missing the point, Wash.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. You’re clearly overthinking things.” You’re pretty sure Donut is rolling his eyes at you. Donut. That probably says something about you, Washington, but you’re not quite sure what. “The point is, our friends are fine.”

Raise a brow, though he can’t see you do it. “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”

“Because they’re the people we chose to love,” he says, like it’s just that simple. I love them and you do too, even though you’ve never loved anyone before, never known how. “and that means we have to trust in them, no matter how scary it is. And even if they’re not, they will be, because we’re going to get them back, even if we have to win a war all by ourselves. Like I said: people do crazy, scary things for love, don’t they?”

Crazy, scary things. You find yourself thinking about Florida. Thinking about Grif, and Caboose. Thinking about Freckles, shake, and Tucker as he stands in that tunnel, refusing to leave you behind. “Yeah, they do.”

“Exactly. They’re all gonna be fine. They’re gonna be fine, Wash.”

A moment passes in which the quiet resettles; you lay on your bunk and stare at the ceiling and gather your thoughts. Donut does the same. There’s something strangely terrible and comforting about being back in a war zone. Everything smells of gunpowder and plasma.

"Doc’s going to be fine too, Donut.” It’s easier to say than you thought it would be. You don’t know if it’s true, but it doesn’t feel like a lie. You hope that counts for something.

Donut’s gaze is heavy on you. You think he’s smiling, can imagine how it pulls on his scars. “Yeah, he will,” he says, soft, “So will Tucker.”

You’re about to refute him when Sarge shouts something about yellowbellies and shutting up and buckshot. After that, somehow, you sleep easier.

:

“Love?” Tucker’s voice doesn’t crack, but it pitches higher than you have ever heard it. He busies himself with stuffing the last of the ration bar Doyle’s people had to spare into his face and pointedly not looking at you. The sight is stupidly endearing; it softens something in your chest, the cartilage of your ribs. It makes you ache, but the ache is curiously sweet. “That’s kinda gay, man.”

And there goes the sweetness. “Just answer the question, Private.”

“First, it’s Captain now, and second, do you actually think pulling rank is gonna work on me after all this time? I don’t know if that’s hopeful or just psychotic,” he laughs, casual and genuine, before you can glare. “Relax, I know you’re not crazy. Don’t get your Freelancer tighty whities in a knot.”

Punch him, Washington, because he’s a little shit and you’re fond of him. He punches you back - you’re both laughing.

By the time the laughter dies out, your eyes have met and it’s not the kind of gaze you can break easily. He stares at you for a little too long, then finally away. Then back to you again. He’s scowling. “I don’t fucking know, man, love is shitty and hard and annoying. Love is something you always come back to, and it’s always sorta there for you, and it’s always with you, like… it’s like home, okay? Love is home.”

A beat.

“Oh my god, you fucking asshole, stop laughing!”

You do not stop laughing. “Wow, Tucker, I had no idea you were such a poet. Love is home. That’s really beautiful.”

Tucker punches you again, and then two more times after that. You nearly topple. A couple more punches and a kick later and you’re wrestling; wrestling becomes sparring, and sparring becomes training. Others join in. Soon drills are being run and your conversation with Tucker is all but forgotten. Home. You like that definition, you think. You don’t have much time until Felix and Locus come back, but it should be enough to come up with one of your own. Until then, home will tide you over. It’s the best one you’ve heard yet, anyway. It’s enough.

:

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my gift to deadfreelancer! it is sO SHAMEFULLY LATE I’M SO SORRY I HAVE NO EXCUSE I AM TRASH I AM THE TRASH LORD IT IS ME