Wrong, Wash; any other person would be in here for months with a fucking trach and one of those microphones you hold to your throat to speak. Tucker knew how lucky they were, how a few centimeters either way and he'd be burying him, not visiting him, but he also knew Wash well enough to know that he would never see it that way. He just wanted out.

And Tucker didn't blame him for that either.

The growl made Tucker blink once, his brow furrowed. He hadn't exactly known Meta beyond fighting (and subsequently stabbing him in the chest) at Sidewinder, but damn if Wash didn't sound a little like--

Nope. Not going there.

Tucker read the look, and that one he understood as if the question was spelled out on his forehead in Sharpie. "Look, I don't fucking know; I thought running into fight those assholes was a good idea-" no he hadn't; he hadn't thought of anything at the time "-and we saw how that turned out. But fuck, you look like you could use your kid in here, and he's going to have to find out sooner or later, right?"

Your kid, Wash. Yours. That was important.

"You know I hate you being here, too, right?"