ucker wouldn’t understand how he heard anything over the sound of his own crushing guilt, but the rustling of Wash moving cut through everything else. Was he—was that bastard trying to get out of bed? What the hell?!

Whipping around, Tucker ran back to the bed, closing the distance in four dashed steps as his hands circled Wash’s wrists. He was shaking his head, trying to holding both of them and not damage the IV line he had running, his bloodshot, watery eyes staring at him. He was hurt, fuck he was hurt and probably confused and—

“N-No, dude, no. You gotta stay in bed.” Or else they’ll restrain you and I already know you’ll flip your shit over that. That will be a complete shitshow. He turned his head a little, trying to wipe his face on his sleeve and this was a fucking mess. His breath shook, and he rubbed little circles in the few spaces where he wasn’t tubed up.

He needed to let Grey handle this. He needed—

“Wash… you got hurt. You…you got hurt b-bad. But…but you’re going to live.” Way to be vague. His chest hitched again. “You’re going to have…the most badass scar. I…I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

Yeah, sure, as Tucker sat there, crying.