Later
Summary: Part II. Maine/Wash, after the war.
Two years later:
"Hey hon, you wanna..." Wash grunted a little as he tried to maneuver himself under the truck, but the required tool was still just out of reach. "...wanna hand me that wrench?"
Maine rubbed the grease off his hands with a rag and bent down. "This one?" he asked, picking it up and peeking under at Wash with a mischievous smile.
"Yeah, that," he said, waving for him to pass it over.
Maine stood up and walked around to the other side of the truck as Wash protested, wondering why he couldn't have handed it to him just then, he was right there. But soon Maine had slipped his way in beside him and was staring up at the engine with a bemused look on his face. "You ain't never gonna get this thing running. You do know that, right?"
"Course I will," Wash said, snatching the tool from his hand. "You could help, you know."
"Sorry, dude. I don't waste my time on hopeless projects," he chuckled.
Wash frowned. He had been working on this truck with his dad since he was a boy. He had learned practically everything he knew about mechanics on this truck, and it had never let them down. Sure, it had sat in the garage for the last ten-plus years, rusting ever-so slowly, and parts for it were practically impossible to find these days, but he wasn't going to give up that easily.
Part of him, he realized, did feel the slightest bit sad that he'd never have sons to work on things with. He'd never have kids to cook breakfast for, or take on camping trips, or teach to hunt and use a gun. And he found himself growing angry at Maine's casual disregard for what was such an important link to his past, and a bitter-sweet reminder of a future he would never have.
"It's not hopeless," he growled. "She'll run, she just... needs a lot of work."
Maine looked over at him, then smeared a greasy thumb across his chin. "Always a sucker for hopeless causes," he chuckled.
One year later:
"It's always the same, isn't it?" Maine yelled. "Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you!"
"Maybe if you put a little effort into anything you did-"
"God, I can't believe you! This is just like when Epsilon-" Maine cut himself off sharply, realizing he had crossed one too many lines.
Wash had stopped dead, then his voice dropped to a dangerously low tone. "You sorry son of a bitch, don't you ever,ever mention Epsilon to me!"
Maine was too damned stubborn to admit he had gone too far with that one, or to apologize for it. Wash was too angry and hurt to recognize the remorse that had crossed Maine's face. That's when things had come to blows.
Three hours later:
The words echoed in his mind. 'I guess I learned not to waste my time on hopeless causes, Maine.' He couldn't forget them. They stung. They stung almost more than anything he could imagine.
He had really thought that after the war he could have faced anything. That they could have made it through. It turns out their fight was too easily turned towards one another rather than towards things that needed fighting.
He cursed into the empty car and pounded the heel of his hand against the steering wheel as he drove away from the only thing in life that really, truly mattered to him. The few possessions he had cared to take were in the back, clothes mostly.
***
Wash sat on the couch holding his head, so hurt and angry and sorry that he didn't know what to do. How could he have just kicked out the man who meant everything in the world to him? How could Maine have just... left?
"I didn't mean it," he whispered to the empty house. "God, I didn't mean it."
Two years later:
"Hey hon, you wanna..." Wash grunted a little as he tried to maneuver himself under the truck, but the required tool was still just out of reach. "...wanna hand me that wrench?"
Maine rubbed the grease off his hands with a rag and bent down. "This one?" he asked, picking it up and peeking under at Wash with a mischievous smile.
"Yeah, that," he said, waving for him to pass it over.
Maine stood up and walked around to the other side of the truck as Wash protested, wondering why he couldn't have handed it to him just then, he was right there. But soon Maine had slipped his way in beside him and was staring up at the engine with a bemused look on his face. "You ain't never gonna get this thing running. You do know that, right?"
"Course I will," Wash said, snatching the tool from his hand. "You could help, you know."
"Sorry, dude. I don't waste my time on hopeless projects," he chuckled.
Wash frowned. He had been working on this truck with his dad since he was a boy. He had learned practically everything he knew about mechanics on this truck, and it had never let them down. Sure, it had sat in the garage for the last ten-plus years, rusting ever-so slowly, and parts for it were practically impossible to find these days, but he wasn't going to give up that easily.
Part of him, he realized, did feel the slightest bit sad that he'd never have sons to work on things with. He'd never have kids to cook breakfast for, or take on camping trips, or teach to hunt and use a gun. And he found himself growing angry at Maine's casual disregard for what was such an important link to his past, and a bitter-sweet reminder of a future he would never have.
"It's not hopeless," he growled. "She'll run, she just... needs a lot of work."
Maine looked over at him, then smeared a greasy thumb across his chin. "Always a sucker for hopeless causes," he chuckled.
One year later:
"It's always the same, isn't it?" Maine yelled. "Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you!"
"Maybe if you put a little effort into anything you did-"
"God, I can't believe you! This is just like when Epsilon-" Maine cut himself off sharply, realizing he had crossed one too many lines.
Wash had stopped dead, then his voice dropped to a dangerously low tone. "You sorry son of a bitch, don't you ever,ever mention Epsilon to me!"
Maine was too damned stubborn to admit he had gone too far with that one, or to apologize for it. Wash was too angry and hurt to recognize the remorse that had crossed Maine's face. That's when things had come to blows.
Three hours later:
The words echoed in his mind. 'I guess I learned not to waste my time on hopeless causes, Maine.' He couldn't forget them. They stung. They stung almost more than anything he could imagine.
He had really thought that after the war he could have faced anything. That they could have made it through. It turns out their fight was too easily turned towards one another rather than towards things that needed fighting.
He cursed into the empty car and pounded the heel of his hand against the steering wheel as he drove away from the only thing in life that really, truly mattered to him. The few possessions he had cared to take were in the back, clothes mostly.
***
Wash sat on the couch holding his head, so hurt and angry and sorry that he didn't know what to do. How could he have just kicked out the man who meant everything in the world to him? How could Maine have just... left?
"I didn't mean it," he whispered to the empty house. "God, I didn't mean it."