Note: This is the last chapter of this part of the story, but I will absolutely be posting other stories set in this particular AU—just wanted to set the stage with something relatively self-contained. Thank you for all the encouraging comments. I really, really appreciate them!

They manage to drag themselves back home before the authorities arrive on-scene, saving themselves a seriously awkward line of questioning. Gosh, officer, I have no idea why that tree's on fire. Please ignore the power armor and military-grade weaponry liberally coated with blood. I was just out for a stroll, honest.

Wash gets the couch, because it's actually in better shape than the makeshift mattress York's been sleeping on. He's out cold for most of the day, drugged up and huddled under the green glow of the healing unit. York sits beside him on the floor, ostensibly so his shoulder and bruised-up throat will heal faster, but also because, y'know. The guy kinda shot him last time he was conscious. Probably best to keep those kinds of ambitions contained at the source.

South foregoes the healing unit for now, wrapping her busted ribs and split knuckles and retreating into a corner to clean and polish her new bladed grenade launcher, and to monitor comm channels. Wash hasn't been identified as AWOL yet, which is making them both a little nervous.

"Could be he didn't just come charging in like we thought," York says, drowsily. The healing unit always seems to drain him. "Could be he called for backup."

"Either way, his fucking recovery beacon might've transmitted his location before I disabled it," South says. "We should probably move on once he's stable."

"Yeah," says York, thinking regretfully of the fresh groceries and, well. The way the room looks in the mornings, now that they finally got off their asses and did a little dusting. The smear of hair dye on the wall where South leaned against it. The same damn bit of wood sticking out of the wall that he always stubs his toe on in the middle of the night.

You know. Homey stuff.

Wash stirs, a sort of full-body shiver. York turns toward him, a little cautiously. Hopefully sitting at eye-level is less confrontational than, well. Looming.

Wash's hands clench around the threadbare blanket, and then his eyes open a crack. He squints at York, who stares back nervously.

"Well," he says, in a faint, raspy voice. "I guess that happened."

York smiles, says, "Hey, you," like they've just stumbled off a dropship after a long mission, like they're in the infirmary on the MoI, like they're gonna be back on the training room floor that afternoon. "How're you feeling?"

Wash's gaze flickers to Delta, hovering at York's shoulder. "Confused," he says, and closes his eyes, drawing both hands up to the sides of his head.

"Yeah," York says, "I know the feeling. You done shooting me?"

Wash doesn't open his eyes. "I only meant to graze you. Besides, I saved your life back there."

"Yes, you did. So, hey, you done shooting me?"

Wash sighs, which isn't exactly an answer. "Water?"

"Yeah, man, hang on." York scrambles to his feet, trying to ignore the way South's still hiding in her corner, apparently becoming one with the wallpaper. He returns with a cup of water and crouches down beside Wash, who still has his eyes squeezed shut. "Wash, hey. You okay?"

In response, Wash props himself up, reaching out for the water, and downs it all in one go. "Headache," he mumbles, slumping back against his pillow. "Bad headache."

"You are concussed," Delta says. "The pain will fade."

"If this is a concussion, feels like I've been concussed for years," Wash says, and rolls onto his side. "Ohh no."

York jumps. "What? What is it?"

Wash swallows, hard. "Shouldn't have moved. I think I heard something... slosh. There's nothing in your head that's supposed to slosh, right?"

"You gonna puke?"

"Nausea is common with concussions," Delta says, with maybe a measurable trace of sympathy. York gives him props for putting in the effort.

Wash swallows again. "No, I... I think I'm okay. I think I'll just. Uh. Just lie here. Until the end of time."

York rests a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, but his grin is forced and he feels a weird twist at the pit of his stomach, because this is... this is Wash. This is just Wash, not the strange hard-eyed asshole who'd been on the radio. Not the guy who'd shot him.

But even as he watches, Wash's dramatic grimace fades out into a tight-lipped frown. He says, "South," his voice soft and steady and completely unreadable.

She comes up behind York, hackles raised, making no effort to put herself at Wash's eye-level. "What, Wash? What the fuck do you want?"

Wash exhales. York still has his hand on Wash's shoulder, and he can feel the muscles tense under his fingers, putting the lie to Wash's calm, neutral tone of voice. "Eighteen hours."

South blinks. "What?"

"It was eighteen hours before the recovery team made it to me after you shot me in the back. Eighteen hours is a really long time to choke on your own blood." He shrugs off York's hand, rolling onto his other side so his back's facing them. "I want you to think about that."

South stands in place for a long moment—York can't quite bring himself to meet her eyes—then turns on her heel and stomps out the door, slamming it behind her.

It's quiet in the room, except for Wash's harsh breathing. York nervously rakes a hand back through his hair. "Look," he says.

"I don't want to hear it," Wash says.

"She saved both our asses back there. She could've just left us."

"Wow," Wash says. "Can't imagine what that would've been like."

"Look," says York. "Just... just look, man, I know you have every right to feel betrayed. Not just by South, by all of us. We let you down again and again. We were all so wrapped up in ourselves, in our own problems. You kinda slipped through the cracks. For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry. We're trying to do better."

Wash's shoulders tense, then relax as he exhales. It's a mildly irritated sound. "York, I had a plan. I knew what I was doing. They trusted me, and you guys stomped in and fucked it up."

York stares at the back of Wash's head. "Um," he says. "Wait, what?"

A corner of Wash's mouth twists into a smile. "Epsilon was the memory, York. He was the key. He remembered everything that had been done to the Alpha. And, while he was tearing himself to shreds inside my head, well. I managed to pick up a few details."

York kinda wants to stand up, wants to start pacing. "You knew."

Wash shrugs. "I was going to find a way to put an end to it."

"Put an end to it," York echoes. "That sounds awfully final."

Delta speaks up, sounding subdued. "Based on Agent Washington's recent patterns of reckless behavior, I do not believe he expected to survive his attack on Project Freelancer."

Wash looks away. Doesn't deny it.

York slumps down on the floor so he's sitting with his back to the couch, then tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. "Jesus, Wash."

"Hey. Freelancer didn't exactly have a retirement plan," Wash says. "I just, I don't know. Wanted it to be over."

"Yeah, well," York says. "You don't have to do it alone, this time."

He listens to Wash breathe for a while, counts the cracks in the ceiling. Then Wash says, in a deadpan that's only slightly forced, "Just so you know, this plan already fills me with confidence."

York smiles.

South comes back that morning, breathing hard, face flushed like she's been jogging. York's got a nervous greeting on his lips, but she just looks at him with a strange expression on her face, opens her mouth as though to say something, then shakes her head. She shoves past him, stomps up to Wash's couch and crouches down, shoving his shoulder none-too-gently to wake him up. Just over York's right shoulder, Delta flares red in warning.

"Hey," she says. "I fucked up. I fucked up big, and I got my brother dead and fucked you over in the bargain, just trying to keep my head above water. You didn't deserve that."

"I never thought I did," Wash says, coldly.

Her jaw tenses; York can see the muscles working. Then she says, "I found something."

York moves closer, going for 'casual stroll' and not 'nervous tiptoe in case of imminent gunfire.' "You found something."

She glances back at him. "You're not the only one with ex-PFL contacts in this city, fucker. Took some digging, but I've got a location. Name that keeps getting dropped in high places."

Wash pushes himself shakily to a sitting position. York notices that he doesn't shrug off South's hand when she automatically reaches out to steady him. "What's the name?"

When South grins, it puts York in mind of a shark. Lots of teeth, and a certain gleeful disregard for the continued existence of the rest of the planet. "Somebody fucked up about a year ago, dropped a name he shouldn't have on a secured frequency. My contact just got through the records today. Remember Florida? Brown-nosing scum-sucking shithead? Turns out he got himself a special assignment, top clearance, to Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha. I'm pretty sure the trail starts there, if we're serious about tearing these fuckers down."

"Alpha," Wash says, and York hears Delta echo the word quietly in his head. "Not exactly being subtle, are they?"

York half-raises his hand. "This from the organization that brought you death in rainbow-colored armor."

"Fair point."

South slumps down on the couch beside Wash; he stiffens but doesn't move away. "I managed to transmit a false recovery beacon signal, buy us some time. So I figure we maybe rest up, finish getting ourselves as unfucked as we can possibly manage, and then we move out. And maybe we stop shooting each other."

York raises his hands. "Hey, man, I never shot anyone."

"Give it time," Wash murmurs, and South snorts a laugh.

Three days later, they go.

York isn't exactly comfortable trusting South's mysterious source, but they don't really have a choice. Any way forward. Stay conscious, stay sharp, stay moving.

Well. Maybe he insists on stopping for coffee before they leave. Priorities, y'know?

He hams it up as the self-styled leader of their Grand Adventure, talking a mile a minute to fill the awkward silences. And there are a lot of awkward silences. Wash is silent and brooding, and York quietly has Delta monitor any outgoing comm activity from his armor. South is loud and angry, picking fights on the street with anyone who looks at her funny.

But Wash chokes when South orders her peppermint white chocolate frappuccino (extra whipped cream), and she presents him with a go-fuck-yourself glare, and York thinks maybe they're gonna get out of this in one piece after all.

It's a long, long way to Blood Gulch, but at least this time they're not traveling alone.