This is first in my series of Wash oneshots. I absolutely love Wash, and his story and backstory, so I decided to make some of my own stories for him. Hope you like it!

Characters: Wash, Tucker, Caboose

Summary: Tucker and Caboose realize that they've never seen Wash without his helmet on. They try to fix that.

Setting: Season 11 at the Crash Site.

Disclaimer: I don't own RvB, but I do in my heart and imagination.

Wash sighed and put on his helmet. Another tedious day of training, cataloging, and attempting to whip his idiotic team into shape. He wasn't looking forward to it, but there wasn't much he could do about it, was there?

The helmet locked on with a hiss and a click, and he was ready to go and wake everyone else up. It was 6:54 in the morning, and Wash was super freaking tired, but now that he was living in close quarters with everyone else, he had to get up earlier so he could eat breakfast and get in early morning training. That meant waking up at 5:45 every day, and he never really slept well. He had considered eating breakfast and working out at the same time as the others so he could sleep later, but that meant not wearing his armor while around them and he'd rather not do that. None of the others had even seen him without a helmet before.

He was painfully aware of the fact that he looked exactly the same age as everyone else here, even though he was somewhat older. And that fact pissed him off, because if he wanted to maintain some level of order and respect around here, he had to appear to be older and more experienced. So he kept his armor on at all times, which was a super fucking pain. But it was worth the small shred of obedience he was given.

And so he walked into the room Tucker and Caboose shared, and started yelling. "Get up! We have training in 45 minutes! Get dressed and eat breakfast! Go!"

Tucker mumbled and rolled over in bed, saying something about 'oh baby, right there' that Wash shuddered at before disregarding. Caboose shot up in bed and started to ramble.

"Can we have waffles today, Washingtub? I like waffles. Especially with the chocolate that's on the ground. Ooh, Agent Washingtub, can we please have waffles with ground chocolate?" Wash blinked.

"Uh, I don't think we have any waffle mix... sorry, Caboose." Caboose pouted for a moment before rambling on about the next thing and walking into the kitchen in his kitten-covered pajamas. Wash waited for Tucker to get up for a second, and then ripped the sheets off of Tucker's bed. Tucker shot up.

"Damn, it's cold in here! I'm putting on a sweatshirt." He shot a dirty look at Wash and started sorting through his civilian clothes. Wash watched for a second as Tucker pulled out an aquamarine (or was it teal? turquoise?) hoodie and put it on. Then, the two walked out into the kitchen where Caboose had already set something on fire.

"Caboose!" Wash exclaimed exasperatedly as he put out the fire. "What did I tell you about fire?!" Caboose thought for a second, and then sighed.

"Don't play with it." Wash nodded, and sat on the couch and let out a breath. His armor was super heavy, and he sunk really far down into the couch with it on. It was kinda uncomfortable, but he didn't want to take off his armor. Tucker stared for a second, and then decided to comment.

"Bro, why don't you just wear civvies? You're sinking so far into that couch we're gonna need to winch you out." Wash sighed.

"I'd rather not take it off." Wash sighed. Tucker looked at him weirdly.

"Now that I think about it, I've never seen you with a helmet off. Dude, you've seen both of us without armor on like, a gazillion times. What's up with that?" Tucker implored. Wash felt they were straying into dangerous territory.

"Nothing, I just feel safer in my armor."

Tucker scoffed. "Please, dude. Who's gonna attack us now, the Reds? It's 7 o'clock in the fucking morning, nobody is organizing an attack. I really doubt there even is anyone out on this planet. You're perfectly freaking safe. Now take off your helmet."

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because."

"Dude, I bet it's 'cause you're ugly."

"I'm not ugly."

"Prove it!"

"No, you should take my word for it because I'm your leader. Now eat your breakfast and stop talking about this, and then we can get our training done faster." Tucker backed off at the little edge in Wash's voice, but he vowed to try again.

"One hundred pushups, now." Tucker groaned. This must have been punishment for earlier! He got down on his hands and feet, but was surprised when Wash joined him. Wash must have received the strange look when he said, "What? I'm trying to keep in shape, too." And so Tucker began the agonizing one hundred pushups, but was glad for the breeze. A violent change from when Tucker had woken up, it was sweltering now, and the small wind gave some relief. But as he looked over to Wash, it looked like Wash wasn't fairing as well as Tucker was.

His pushups were getting weaker by the minute, and his armor looked as if it was weighing him down. And since it was so hot out, Wash might have been baking in there. The AC in their armor had been malfunctioning lately, with the crash and all, and Wash had been ticked off about that for almost a week.

Around number 47, Wash gave out. Tucker stopped his pushups for a second. "Dude, take off your armor. You know the AC isn't working! It's probably an oven in there."

"No - I can do - this." Tucker frowned at Wash's labored breathing and quieter voice.

"Dude, no! We're barely halfway done yet and you look like you're fucking dying. Just take off your armor or stop doing the pushups." Wash stayed silent for a second, and then:

"Fine. You keep doing the pushups." Tucker cautiously began again as Wash shakily got to his feet and went to lean against a tree, holding a hand against his forehead. Tucker started speaking again as he continued doing pushups.

"Why don't you just take off your armor? Like, ever? I'm pretty sure that anybody else, like, even that lazy Grif guy on Red team would have just taken off their armor. Seriously, bro." Wash shook his head.

"Just - don't like - taking it off. Can we - stop talking - about this?" Tucker gave him a look. "Nevermind - I'm going - inside." And he stopped leaning on the tree and headed back to the base. As Tucker discreetly got to his feet despite not being done with his pushups, Wash turned back his head and said, "That's an extra - twenty pushups once you finish - with your hundred, soldier."

As soon as he got inside and had checked to make sure Caboose wasn't lurking about, he ripped off his helmet and breathed in the cool air. He sank back onto his place on the couch and wiped his sticky brow, relieved. Setting down his helmet next to his hip, he felt a sudden sense of foreboding. Would Tucker and Caboose try anything and barge in the base to try and catch him with his helmet off? Who knows what those idiots would do. With a small bitter frown, he stuck his helmet on in an agonizingly slow fashion and walked tiredly back to his room before peeling off all his armor pieces and collapsing on the bed.

He let out one big breath as he heard somebody give a loud shout of frustration. "Goddammit, he moved! Knew that cocksucker wouldn't take his helmet off in the living room..." Wash gave a small triumphant smile and reached up to lock his door. If Tucker wanted to play the game, then Wash was more than willing.

Wash had finally come out of his room and declared training to be over, although Tucker and Caboose had finished with their exercise long ago. And so, they all hit the showers.

Wash couldn't convince Caboose not to sing his sad songs about Church while taking his shower, so Wash and Tucker were yet again subjected to agonizing torture. But Tucker knew it would prove to be very useful.

He waited for Wash to give the all-clear (Nobody was allowed in the shower room while somebody was getting in one of the three showers - the standard issue towels did not seem to be at the crash site, so they had to get in one at a time to save their eyes) before going into the room. Pretending to be taking off his clothes to get in, he quietly tip-toed to Wash's shower (using Caboose's dreadful wails as a cover) before quickly grabbing the curtain by the halfway point (that way, he wouldn't open up the bottom half and could avoid some awkward conversation) and ripping open the top to reveal Wash's - helmet.

Wash turned to look at him and cocked his head. Tucker raised his eyebrows. "Dude, what the fuck are you doing in the shower with your helmet on?" Wash turned away from Tucker, obviously rolling his eyes even though he was wearing the helmet.

"Please, you really think I would let you catch me like that, Tucker? I'm smarter than you give me credit for. Now close the goddamn curtain." Tucker frowned and yanked the curtain back closed. How the hell did Wash know he was going to do that?

Wash called out after him. "Next time, don't let me know you're going to try and catch me without my helmet on!" He started making hand gestures. "In the living room?" At this, he began to imitate Tucker's voice, but at a whinier, screechier level. 'Goddammit, he moved!' You think the Freelancers didn't ever try and prank me..." Tucker grumbled and took off his clothes before getting in the shower and sulking, before getting an idea.

That night, he tip-toed over to Wash's room. He listened at the door to make sure there were no signs of movement or irregular breathing (of which there were none). It was the perfect plan! Tucker knew from experience that it was almost impossible to sleep with a helmet on, and that Wash wouldn't be able to stop him from seeing what he looked like before waking up.

He put his hand on the doorknob and quietly, smoothly cracked open the door so that it dared not make a single sound... and then launched it open and jumped through the doorway, yelling a triumphant "AH-HAH!" to... an empty bed.

He looked around Wash's room for a moment before approaching Wash's untouched bed. He found a note on top of the pillow on a piece of scrap paper. It read: "You really fucking think I'm that stupid? Once again, Freelancers." He sighed and made a bitter frown before tossing the note onto Wash's bed again and shutting the door, stomping back to his and Caboose's room where Caboose was already sound asleep.

Wash let out a sigh. He had heard Tucker walking over from their room, had quickly scribbled a note and tossed it on his pillow, and jumped in the space next to the door. Luckily, he hadn't gotten in bed yet, so it looked as if he had gone somewhere else for the night.

He was annoyed not to have fallen asleep beforehand - it was probably better that he got some sleep after this long day and have Tucker see what he looked like than stay up late to be super tired in the morning and be constantly annoyed by Tucker. But the stupid shitty paranoia and awareness that he had developed from his Freelancer days had acted up, and now he was ready to collapse where he stood. And so he sat on his bed, to keep himself from doing that very thing.

Stupid fucking nightmares, fucking up his already shitty fucking sleep schedule.

Nowadays he was always so tired, because he went to bed late and woke up early and his small time spent actually asleep was constantly plagued with painful reminders from his past that woke him up crying and shaking.

He was too tired for Tucker's shit.

He didn't like having all the attention on his face and what he looked like. It was a lot easier to keep his helmet on when nobody noticed that he never took it off.

He rubbed his face and sighed. It had actually been a while since he had looked himself in the mirror. A really long while. At Project Freelancer, he had his helmet on at almost all times for missions and training. When he was in jail, there were no mirrors. During Recovery, he had almost always been out in the field or in his cell, or some kind of shit. And lately, well... he guessed he was just used to keeping his helmet on and not paying attention to mirrors.

He got up. There was a mirror in every bedroom, by the door. How many times had he walked into Tucker and Caboose's room only to see Tucker checking himself out in the mirror? He slowly got to his feet and raised his eyes to his image.

He was shocked, and almost fell backwards for a moment. It really had been a long time since he had looked in a mirror - he hadn't seen himself in the reflection. For a wild moment, he thought he had seen York before he had discerned the obvious differences.

The coloring, the normal eye, the the slightly thinner face, bags under their eyes... Wash hadn't noticed that last part. He had bags under his eyes that were almost black, giving him the appearance of a raccoon. His eyes were a little red and veined, and looked cold and hard. But besides those, he had almost seen York in his own reflection. And then the memories came back.

How when he finally took off his helmet back on the Mother of Invention, everyone had said that he looked like York's younger brother, (except for the dyed hair) and how York had always called him little bro after that. How York would noogie him as North laughed and occasionally joined in. How North would lend him comic books. How the other Freelancers would look at the two almost-brothers and smile. How York was always, always there to rag on him and help him out of tough spots. One memory in particular stood out, though.

Wash sat on his bed, reading a comic North had given him. A small knock on his door brought his small time of relaxation to a halt, and he dropped the comic book to go open his door.

Carolina stood in front of him, helmet in her hand by her side. He gave her a small curious look before saying, "Am I missing a training session or something...?" Before she gave him a small, rare smile and shook her head.

"No. Could I come in?" Wash, surprised by how meek she was acting, stood aside. She walked in, looked around at the mess for a bit, and sat down in the chair by his desk. He watched before cautiously sitting back down on his bed, fixing her with a worried and confused gaze. She sighed before starting.

"Um, I wanted to come here because... okay, don't tell York about this, but I wanted to know if you were okay with me... uh, dating York." Wash blinked, shocked by that statement.

"Why would you ask me permission?" Carolina gave him a small dirty look before answering.

"Because, you're like his little brother. I'm almost sure you fooled the rest of the Freelancers who aren't on our team that you two are related by blood, and we didn't even say anything about you guys to them. They just... see it. York treats you like his brother, and you act like it. Besides, I wanted to know if you're okay with it. You're important to him, like you're real family. Everyone here is a family, you more than anyone." Wash blushed a little, and his gaze fell to his shoes.

"I don't know..." he paused before continuing. "Do the other Freelancers really think we're actually brothers?" He lifted his eyes up to give Carolina a sheepish stare. She nodded. He smiled before continuing. "Well, I think it's about damn time you two got together. Me and South have been waiting for ages." Carolina gave him another dirty look, but her smile gave away her true feeling.

She got up from her chair and walked over to him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Wash." And as she reached the doorway, he called out to her.

"Thanks for asking me... and thanks, for... letting me know I was family." And as she gave him yet another rare smile and shut the door, he couldn't contain the rising feeling that he finally belonged somewhere.

Wash snapped out of his reverie, eyes crinkling up and hands that had been up by the mirror, by his reflection fell to his sides. He gave a shaky breath out and his eyes fell to the ground as he attempted to regain his composure. Damn.

He and Carolina really were the only ones left.

Florida had been sent to protect the Alpha and had been killed.

Connie had figured out what Project Freelancer was and had gone behind their backs, falling in love with the Insurrectionist leader and eventually getting killed by Tex.

York had been helping Tex when he was shot by his former teammate and died.

North had been defending South when she betrayed him by running away and left him to the Meta, who killed him.

South took Delta and went rogue, but was then killed. He had killed her. Shot her in the head.

Maine had been thrown off of a cliff after betraying all of his friends and being taken over by Sigma. No, that had been the Meta. Maine had died once the AIs started to take control of him.

Wyoming had been killed by Tucker, but his last copy was killed by Tex.

And Carolina was out there, somewhere, having left without saying goodbye just like every other friend he had.

He reached up a raked a hand through his bleach-blonde hair. It had been light blonde, like York's, before Project Freelancer, but one day during Truth or Dare (they had been majorly drunk) he was dared to dye his hair bubblegum pink. And he freaking did it.

After the pink had finally faded, his hair was left bleached, and he had left it. At first, because it actually looked somewhat good (North said it went well with his eyes), but now he left it as a reminder of better days. A mark on him, physical along with the emotional. It felt right.

He breathed out again, a shuddering noise that failed to mask the tears that were going to come eventually. He was so tired of keeping the things he felt guarded behind large barriers, of pretending that he was okay and awake and that he was perfectly sane. And maybe, just maybe he had pretended long enough that he had fooled himself.

He had been pretending that he wasn't breaking inside, keeping his emotions so tightly guarded behind his walls that he hadn't even seen it when he was breaking, fracturing into thousands of tiny pieces, but he had. He turned to look at his helmet, which was now laying on top of his bed, and knocked it off and watched as it landed with a small clunk on the ground.

Hands shaking, he took off each piece of metal on his armor until he just had his under armour on and collapsed on the bed, tired and shaking with silent sobs and invisible tears. And that was the way he fell asleep.

Tucker rolled over in bed, annoyed and delirious. What the hell had woken him up at this time of night? Rubbing his bleary eyes, he sat up a little and listened. Caboose was still asleep, clutching some weird thing he had probably picked up off the ground somewhere, but at least he wasn't talking and interrupting.

He tiredly put his feet on the ground and stood up. Padding over to door, he pressed his ear to the wall to listen for noises. After a couple seconds, he heard what sounded like... loud, labored breathing? It was coming from Wash's room. He resisted the urge to sprint through the hallway and into Wash's room to see what was going on.

The breathing became louder and more panicked until it finally built up and came to the climax: A shrill scream.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Tucker jerked backwards instinctively, and Caboose lifted his head and mumbled something unintelligible. The breathing from Wash's room sounded more like sobs, now. "NORTH! SOUTH! YORK! I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY... CONNIE!" His screams echoed around the base. "CONNIE, I'M SORRY... MAINE, MAINE, I'M SO SORRY... CAROLINA... YORK... I'M SORRY... SOUTH... I'M SORRY... CONNIE... YORK..." His screams faltered. By now, Caboose had cautiously come to his feet, but didn't say anything. Tucker was too shocked to move.

After a couple minutes, the sobs had waned and all was quiet. Tucker and Caboose didn't move. Tucker waited for another minute, and then he heard the quiet noise of a door unlocking and somebody running through the base. He gave Caboose a look before quickly unlocking the door and walking out.

Wash raked his hands through his hair, shaking and sobbing. All of his friends... those nightmares! Thanks to Epsilon, he could never do anything but remember in his dreams. His dreams were never anything new, or random, or strange like normal dreams. All he could do was relive his worst moments, and Wash had plenty of worst moments in his life. Sleep was a living hell.

Seeing York's dead body... watching as his relationship with Connie fell apart... witnessing the fall of the project... shooting South in the head... Epsilon... oh, god, Epsilon... being in jail... slowly watching as his family, his sanity, his life fell apart... that was what he saw again and again when he fell asleep.

And he couldn't take that anymore. He had to just let it all go.

He got up out of his bed and picked up his helmet, holding it by his side and not bothering to put it on. Then, he unlocked his door, sprinted through the base, and ran out into the night.

He sighed a little. It had been a long time since he had felt fresh air on his face.

Then, he kept running on until he found some distinct corner of the crash site, a place nobody could see him from their bases. A rock, surrounded by a couple of trees. And he sat down on the rock, dropped the helmet beside him, and began to cry, his hands in his hair.

Tucker walked through the crash site, looking around curiously. Why would Wash come to this obscure part of the canyon? He understood that Wash didn't want to be found, but this was a little excessive.

He looked around for a moment, looking at the landscape before something caught his eye. A blue and yellow helmet caught his eye, and he quietly trudged a bit around a tree to get a better view. What he saw surprised him.

He had expected Wash to be old, like that Sarge guy on the other team. Or that Wash was going to be ugly. He had at least thought that he was definitely more attractive than Wash. Boy, was he wrong.

There was no other way of saying it... Wash was hot.

He had bleach-blond hair that curled up in the front, sea green eyes that blended into a bluish-gray, a nice, kind of pale skin tone, and really sexy facial features.

What the fuck, Wash?

Then, he noticed how Wash was shaking and that he had one year trailing down his cheek, hands in his hair and dry sobs quietly echoing around the area.

Tucker realized that Wash couldn't see him, which was probably a good thing. Wash wouldn't want to be bothered about his Freelancer friends, or whatever dream he might have had.

Tucker's gaze roamed back up to Wash's eyes, which on second thought looked a little red. He looked closer, and saw the kind of sadness and misery that was most apparent at places like funerals. And that Wash's eyes were old looking - older than anyone who looked Wash's age. He looked tortured inside, as if he was ripping himself apart. And Tucker couldn't take it anymore, and he withdrew his former statement to leave Wash alone.

He came out from behind his tree and came to sit next to Wash on the rock. Wash looked up, surprised, and scrambled for his helmet, but Tucker looked at him and said seriously, "There's no need for that anymore, Wash." Wash sighed and looked down, his breathing ragged from the sobs. Tucker turned to look at him again. "Dude, if you need to talk..." Wash broke down, burying his face in his hands and sobbing.

"I - can't. All of m-my old f-friends are d-dead. York w-was like m-my older brother, a-and so was N-North. And - and Maine, who w-went crazy, S-South is dead because of m-me. And C-Connie... Maybe if-if I had told her how I f-felt earlier, s-she wouldn't have been CT and t-then been k-killed." Tucker moved back, confused about CT being a girl. And Wash's love interest? But he didn't speak, only rubbed Wash's back.

Wash looked confused as surprised about the contact, but soon leaned in to Tucker and hugged him, sobbing into his shoulder. "I didn't want to take off m-my helmet because you guys all expect m-me to be old, even though I'm barely older, and I d-didn't want to lose any r-respect. And I - look too much like Y-York. It hurts me, and now it-it'll hurt Carolina. So p-please stop annoying me." Tucker nodded.

"Of course, bro." And Wash waited a little while before speaking again.

"You know, you - were really fucking annoying about that. Screw you, Tucker."

Tucker smiled. "Screw you too, Wash." And they spent a while sitting there together, Wash hugging Tucker as he cried into the shoulder of part of his new family.