#freelancer insert

Pairing: Agent North x Reader Day 10 of Fics Advent Calendar 2017. Read the others here

A/N: There have been a LOT of North prompts, so I’m actually gonna put them at the bottom of the fic this time round. 

Summary: Abandoned by your team on a planet in the middle of god knows where, North and yourself are forced to take shelter and a storm sets to knock out the coms and all chance of extraction. 

wc: 881

“We're just gonna have to put up with it,” sighs North, coming to rest beside you in the driest section of the shelter. Scooting up you give him space, the man sits with a groan. “At least until morning.”

You watch the roof leak, large puddles clinging to the bowing floor. The rain pounds heavily against the tiny abandoned base, wind wailing as it pleads for entry, rattling window panes and slipping through the cracks.

“How long does night last on this planet?”

North considers your question with a sinking heart, casting a guilty sideways glance. “4 days.”

“4 days?” you groan, “what the fu- err frick frack are we going to do for 4 days?”

North smiles gratefully, the young AI sitting atop his shoulder and kicking his feet unaware of the curse nearly escaping your lips. “4 days, at least.”

You groan louder.

WC: 703

SUMMARY: You haven’t spoken to Washington in seven years, not since the incident at Project Freelancer. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” you seethe, spitting the words out. “I don’t want to hear the excuses, Wash. It’s too fucking late.” You can hear your words echoing in the silence, but can’t bear to look at his face, preferring to focus on the small puddles of rain he has walking in to your home. “Look, Y/N, would you just,” he takes a sharp breath, desperate; “would you just listen for once in your damn life?!” You whip around, glaring, satisfied as he flinches. “Excuse me? I don’t need your crap,” you point an accusatory finger at him, and he shrinks even further away from your rage. “All I ever did was try and help you. Don’t fucking act all high and mighty because you’re still running around and saving the world.” You take a deep breath, levelling your shoulders, and turning away. “You don’t know me Agent Washington, and I doubt you ever did.”

Washington straightens out, his cheeks flaming pink and eyes dead set, glaring at your back. “You’re wrong,” he states bluntly, “I knew you before all this shit, knew you before your first name was Agent.” You bark out a laugh, throwing your hands in the air. “Oh really, my heart bleeds for you,” you sneer, turning to face Washington; trying to ignore the details of age carved into his face, trying to avoid acknowledging the stinging behind your eyes. “We were best friends, Y/N,” Washington motions at you, slight confusion mingling with the visible anger tracing each feature of his face. You move to mock him, but he stops you with a quick flick of his hand; holding your unspoken words still in the air. “No, you’re going to fucking listen,” he growls, before beginning to talk animatedly. “It’s been seven years.” He almost laughs, “Do you realise that? Seven years!” He’s moving quickly now, each movement sharp and sporadic.

You watch, slightly stunned at the fact he had clung to the years as they dragged past, much the same as you. Project Freelancer was a life time ago, but the scars were still fresh; burning into your mind. Before you can help it, your memories thrust you back, and you see a much younger Washington looking accusingly across the room at you. “You’re going with her?” he’d implored incredulously, motioning to Texas who stood behind you. “Seriously? In case you’d forgotten, they’re the bad guys, Y/N.” You had flinched, taking a step towards him as York yelled to warn of incoming forces. Texas has sworn softly under her breath, before calling to you to pick up the pace. Washington had been shaking his head, backing away with each step you took towards him. “David, please,” you’d pleaded, reaching out for him “You don’t understand. Come with us, I’ll explain everything. We don’t have to be a part of this anymore.” Your stomach churns as you remember the look on his face, the betrayal that continues to haunt you. “You’re just as bad as them,” he’d spat, retreating back into the hallway behind him “Don’t bother coming back”.

You look at him now, seven years later; and still feel yourself steeped in guilt and frustration. You can hear him scrambling over his words as you remain silent, though he sounds distant and strained. “What I’m trying to say is,” he struggles, trying to find some words to cling to “If I could go back I’d, I mean, I don’t know,” he sighs, shoulders slumping under the weight of the discussion. “I wouldn’t let it come to this. I’d have listened,” he kicks his foot in the empty space, before collapsing on the floor dejectedly. “And then maybe I’d still have my best friend.”