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“You continue to both surprise and disappoint me, Agent Washington.”
I am not responsible for your expectations of me.
Washington had gotten over Felix's betrayal relatively quickly – that is to say, with a burning desire to make him pay and destroy every single plan he had. Once it became clear that there were bigger things at stake, Wash decided that personal revenge was not so much up the ladder even though Felix was, morally speaking, a terrible excuse for a human being.
Maybe Felix has his reasons, Wash told himself. He, too, had done so many bad things that he didn't consider himself an adequate judge. What mattered then was getting things done – stopping Hargrove.
His room had a window that was sealed, but from it, he could look out of it to the surrounding area. It was located in one of the more highly protected areas. He could see people march into the underground barracks from where he was, and it wasn't a bad view.
What made a potential security breach was the fact that the window was transparent, and he had no curtains. Which was fine by him; nobody looked up, anyway, and he wouldn't stand at a position where somebody could see him from below. Unless, of course, they had scopes, and were also on high ground.
Which wasn't impossible, all things considered.
After the fight with Locus, Wash's entire body ached. His ribs, in particular, were in a pretty bad shape after he had taken a beating from Locus, even with armour on. Logically, he knew he was in his prime for at least a few more years, but after the stint with Project Freelancer and Recovery One, getting his entire body rammed against cars at least twice now, becoming catatonic for a bit, losing control of his limbs, having been hit over the head multiple times – all of that meant wounds over old wounds. He was starting to feel it – the toll of being a soldier on his body.
That didn't even include the impact of an AI attempting suicide in his head.
He remembered seeing scars on Felix's body, too. Hadn't Felix said that he and Locus survived one of the worst fights in UNSC history during the Great War? That was how Wash had been seduced, he recalled, much to his own bitterness.
“Locus. The big, bad son of a bitch – There can only be one standing at the end of this. We shall see who will be the last survivor.” There had been a certain ominous determination to Felix's voice – something which, in retrospect, wasn't exactly contradictory.
There was too much that he didn't know about those two. He should have known better than to trust – that was the underlying point. But if he didn't trust, he wouldn't have found his home with the Simulation troopers. (Of course, a lot of it had to do with being in extenuating circumstances, such as being possibly thrown into Solitary. Again.)
Didn't they say he was gullible in Project Freelancer? He'd gotten better these days, but he couldn't change what he was.
Wash leaned back against his chair. They'd promised him that when he got better, he could train the soldiers. Wash had experience in the UNSC as corporal, after all – there was a lot of yelling involved, whether or not the recruits were obedient. He couldn't do that when it felt like his chest was caving in, even though the doctor had said that it was fine – just a fist fight – it should heal by itself.
Of course, her advice was also to stay out of more fights in the future.
Wash knew that. He also knew that every incident, every scrape would eventually build up over the course of his career – sometimes there was the occasional pain from old wounds that should have healed properly. One more hit across the back of his head could mean that there could be no next time.
Wash didn't want to think about becoming a civilian anymore, though; he was certain that if he hadn't met the Reds and Blues, he'd have ended up like the Mercs. Like Felix or Locus. Returning to civilian life would mean re-learning a whole host of skills, a new way of life. He couldn't do it. He could at least put his life on the scale and hope to tip it a bit such that things became better, though.
I used to be a real piece of shit. Trying to do the right thing on Chorus is the least I could do to make up for it. I wonder what I would have become if...
Wash breathed in deeply. He suddenly caught a flicker – a movement – on one of those buildings outside the city.
The mercs! He thought. No, Alien tech can't shoot through these windows. I should inform Carolina about this.
Wash stared for a bit, and saw another flicker.
Is it Felix? He wondered. Locus has the camouflage cloak. I wouldn't be able to see anything if it was Locus. Won't make sense to have both watching me at the same time.
Felix. He didn't actually want to kill either of them. Which could be a potential outcome if he told anybody about this. ...I am safe where I am – but Locus and Felix have had their chances to kill me already. I wonder why they haven't. They said that “Control” – Hargrove – wanted us alive, but...
Wash looked at the building, trying to catch another flicker again. A pang seized his chest, and he looked down at himself, thinking for a moment about Felix. Ghosts of memories past – in which his body was touched by Felix's hands; warm and supple.
He smiled a sad smile. I should be more objective about this. If not for the simulation troopers, then for this planet.
Wash ran his hands down – eyes closed – sliding out of his pants. In his mind's eye, he could almost sense the beauty which he could not see in reality; vivid and immaterial as a ghost, it haunted him.
Felix.
Another pang.
I should have known that I never knew you. I knew your hands, your face, your body, and one of your masks... But those were not you.
I don't think there's many new scars this time around. Wash thought about how Felix used to observe the tiny details of his own body, and about how Felix would lean down and put his mouth over parts of him. Kisses like he was devouring. The best sex always started when they were so hungry for each other.
Oh, Felix –
As he palmed his cock to erection, Wash wondered how his arched back looked. Such a pity: he could not see himself as Felix saw him. There was no mirror which provided a lens through Felix's eyes, through the gaze of another man's mind. Feeling empty from within his soul, he looked down at his own body; toned and perhaps slim, the light that illuminated and the shadows that gave himself shape had a mesmerizing quality. He closed his eyes again, picturing Felix's face, watching him with a self-absorbed rapture.
– He looked at me like he looked at himself in the mirror. In the end, is that as much of a compliment as I thought it was?
He looked in the direction of the flicker, hopefully and afraid. Afraid of being hopeful; afraid of his own desires.
If it's not Felix, what then?
The strangeness of the thought made his body flush with heat. He looked to his side in complete embarrassment, but he did not want to stop. It was better to continue thinking that it was, in fact, Felix; he had no proof either way. Perhaps he hadn't even seen anything.
He knew, on some level, that he was lying to himself. Even if it was Felix, they were enemies, and there were many ways that this could be used against him. Wash was certain that Felix would never run out of ideas.
Maybe it's Locus. I don't see him now. It's probably no one at all. But maybe it's Locus –
“No...!” Wash cried out, into the empty room, as he pumped himself harder, spreading his legs for the imaginary voyeur. He looked into the distance, knowing just how slutty he looked; knowing just how much like a whore he was, having put himself on display for a fictional gaze.
The idea of being seen – it made everything feel more real then, as he slid two fingers between his parted lips – tongue twirling, enjoying the feeling of being kissed and being licked at the same time.
Don't look...
He closed his eyes then, making the vision more real. He pictured Locus, then, with that slightly creepy presence of his, with that intense fascination of his – and, uncharacteristically, thought of the big green warrior tenderly.
...He's looking. Wash breathed in deeply, bucking his own hips into his hand, wishing that he had something between his legs to spread his ass wide – just for the viewer. He'll see me like this, he'll think I'm...
Wash moaned as loudly as he would allow himself to, wiggling his hips and arching his back needily, slowing down occasionally so that he could keep going. He wanted his imaginary audience to see him, in his full nudity, in his most vulnerable moment.
– Does your idea of a “soldier” do this, Locus?
*
In that distance, Agent Washington could only be properly perceived through the lenses of a sniper rifle, with a long-range scope; the sort that could usually not be employed easily on the field, but rather, is used for highly secretive missions where a head-shot must be guaranteed on the first fire.
He had watched Agent Washington slip out of his underwear, quickly, discarding it like it was unnecessary. Like it wasn't something that should be on him.
He had watched the other man, blond hair unfortunately grown out with showing black roots, rock his body in the sunlight. He had seen those eyes, those lovely eyes, darkened with desire, looking at him.
He kept very still, knowing that even if Washington had seen him earlier, he definitely could not see him then.
He licked his lips under the helmet, its visual enhancements allowing him clearer vision than he could have with naked eye perceived –
He saw as Agent Washington spread his legs, thigh muscles flexing with every buck of the hip.
There was the familiar shape of cock and balls, flushed red with blood rushing there – and to Agent Washington's face – in that light gave rise to the visual of pure solidity from a marble statue coming to life.
The delicate, tender details of the skin below that, right down to the curvature of Agent Washington's ass.
He had an eye for detail; he noticed that right before Agent Washington's tight little hole twitched like it needed something inside it, the blond would slow down, so that he could continue for even longer.
As if he wanted to be watched. For as long as he could watch him.
I … cannot.
Perhaps I should turn away. No. I cannot turn away. This is what I should be doing. Watching him. Observing.
Common decency had no place in warfare. And he – he was a soldier. Like a gun in the hands of whoever was wielding him. A well-crafted killing machine.
Machines have no life.
I am...
He continued watching, ignoring the ache that had risen within his own body, demanding its attention. Even guns needed maintenance. A small voice told him that he could and should do it.
Felix. Where's Felix?
Felix would... Reach for him, and everything would become better. They needed each other. He had not done it with anybody but Felix for a long time; Felix was his partner, and would tell him that even a gun needed to be maintained. That a soldier needed to 'get it over with' so that he could function at his best.
Felix made it easier.
Agent Washington seemed to be moaning more and more; he seemed to be saying things; uttering things.
Does he know? That I am here?
His own cock rubbed against his armour painfully.
Finish, Agent Washington. Finish. So that I can...
He waited. His own heartbeats were simply too fast; he wished he could control every single heartbeat. He wished that he could take his own heart in his own hand and crush it like a cockroach. A soldier has no need for a... No. It pumps my blood. It keeps me alive...
Stop hurting.
He could almost feel the longing when Agent Washington finally, glistening lips parted, lifted his hips one last time and his entire body shook like a leaf in the wind. He saw Agent Washington's eyes open again, those mesmerizing eyes, looking at his direction now, spent yet satisfied, and incredibly ashamed.
Pathos.
He recognised the relief that he felt, from deep within, as if he too had just achieved release. The ache in his own crotch told him otherwise, but, on some psychological level, he felt that he too, had come alongside Agent Washington.
I ache as he does.
– What is this body to me? What is your body to you? Tell me, Agent Washington.
As the blond reached for his pants, got up, and slipped under thick covers...
He turned away, at last, took off his gauntlet and codpiece, and began to relieve himself.
Unbecoming of a soldier, but necessary.