#blushingagentwashington

[misterquickwitted]

Touch-Starved Meme: “I think i forgot what human contact felt like.”

“Dude.” Honestly, Tucker isn’t sure what to say to follow that up. He’s pretty sure there aren’t any good responses for something like that. So he just sort of awkwardly inches closer and throws an arm around Wash’s shoulders, giving him a little squeeze. 

“Well, y’know... if you ever need like a high five or... I guess a hug or whatever, you know where I am, man. I’ve got you.” 

[coup-de-maine]

☔️: what does Maine do on a rainy day?

Headcanon meme!

Rain patters against his helmet. Washing away unwelcome thoughts as he learns to relax in it for the the first time in years. Rain had a strange hypnosis to it, and being stuck in space 9 days a week made this especially precious.

Everyone was back inside, reading, writing reports, spreading rumors about deadly viruses he in no way possessed. He was rabid for the weather, nothing else. No books to read, no words to struggle over, or hurtful comments out here. Just his boots and inch deep puddles. There’s quite a bit of splashing, soaking into the seams of armor. Thin enough to make his skin cold, but not to get him wet.

When he’s had enough of that, energy spent, he kneels in the dirt. Among the filth and grime, further temptation removes a glove. Fingers plunging into the soil and pulling it up, letting it mat his skin most satisfyingly. Worms, beetles, creatures basking and retreating from the weather alike. He digs, finds dry earth and makes that wet too.

He plays. Makes mud pies, and snowmen, draws pictures in the muck and lets the rain wash them clean. He forgets to be a soldier for a moment and remembers childhood, ignorance, bliss. Both hands stained black he collects sticks, each one the shape of a different gun. Then a fence, then a shack, a flag, victory.

He comes in when his fingers are numb, nails grimy and armor spattered with earths viscera. Then he finds the first freelancer he can, and tackles them into a bear hug. Embrace the wet, the dirt, the smell of freedom.

[coup-de-maine]

*puts head on your shoulder*

Silent Action Starters

Innocence masked in a gesture, Maine feels the muscles unthread themselves from stress and fall limp in his grasp. The kind of tired that infects the bones, turns them to weighted lead. He’s solid though, more than capable, and if Wash wants to rest before the pick up he’d let him.

Washington has always seemed small. Not just in stature, but his wide eyed optimism, good humor- all his attempts to be friendly had changed a number of things in Freelancer. 

Morale skyrocketed. North started to smile more, York talked less about false bravado and instead coloured his stories with more honesty. No one was trying so hard to be the best, the competition faltered and they learned to help one another. The leader board was still there, but once they learned that points were earned easier and faster when they cooperated rather than collide- well, that changed a lot.

Even Maine, who never really fit in much of anywhere, started to linger in common areas. Emotions cracking some of the enamel on his face. Most importantly, Wash became something to protect. A kitten pawing at the sides of an old soggy box in the gutter. They worked harder, better, faster to hold on to something as precious as that, and even when he got under the skin and itched, it was still preferable to the old polite silence they stewed in.

Maine used to be volatile. Dangerous to stand too close to in the heat of things. He held little regard for anyone but himself, truly selfish, truly driven to complete the mission at all costs. But his sphere of self preservation began to expand, to encompass much more than the self.

He’s gentle when he checks the wound in the other mans side. Forgiving of the burden he has to carry- insists on it in fact. Wash can protest, but he knows by the way he sighs in his arms that Maine is right about the loss of sleep. The murmur of thanks is hardly acknowledged by a soft grunt, and even less sound is made when Wash lays his head against his shoulder. It’s the least he could do.

[coup-de-maine]

▲: The Mun’s Zodiac sign

I thought it would be obvious by now. Lmao

[misterquickwitted]

ღ for a friend-crush text

[text]: hey man

[text]: you wanna like do some shit later?

[text]: like idk just hang out without working out or whatever

[text]: just you and me cause caboose is pissing me off

[text]: idk just feel like you and me haven’t hung out much lately and whatever

[mainemetaman]

37, 31, 14?

Character Development “Hard Mode” Meme: send a number & character to  my ask box  and I’ll write an answer/headcanon in reply.

14: Does your character remember names or faces easier?

Answered here!

31: Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

He’s alone, most likely. Nothing but the soft creak of leather behind his shoulders, the gentle whir of machinery, (and ideally, the chirps and squeaks of his birds) there to break the peace. Maybe there is someone there with him, quietly sharing the space while he works the equipment, spotting for him on the bench, timing his routines.

The gym isn’t everyone’s favourite place, but to Maine, it’s more of a refuge than a place of work or chores. There’s a comforting structure to everything, and it’s always the same. He knows what to expect: rules, routines, and the feeling of complete control of his body. It’s always been an escape of sorts for him from the unpredictabilities of life.

During his partnership with Sigma, the amount of spare time he spends in the gym dropped dramatically.

37: Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?

Status isn’t entirely something Maine’s ever really been aware of beyond military hierarchy. He’s the soldier: the weapon to be pointed and fired. Always has been, and always will be. There’s nothing to defend there as nothing will change.

His honour, on the other hand? While he hasn’t always considered himself to necessarily have any, his time in the project opened his eyes slightly to the concept and practicality that yes, he can have honour and still be a perfectly effective soldier. He also realised it’s something he can own, something that he can control, and don’t you dare try and take that from him.

[misterquickwitted]

- A kiss on the fingers

They’re just messing around. Tucker’s laughing. This is nice, fun even. He and Wash haven’t fought in ages and the guy actually seems like he’s loosening up a little, responding to Tucker’s jokes and quips with a few of his own. It’s cool. With all the time Wash plays at being his drill sergeant, Tucker likes it best when they can just be friends. 

He’s lightly shoving at Wash, smushing his face a little when Wash catches his hand. And Tucker expects to be batted away. But Wash’s hand just kind of lingers on his, just holds it there. And the laughter fades, but the air is still warm and light. Then lips brush his fingers and Tucker does his best not to jolt, eyes widening. He should say something, maybe make a joke. 

“Uh... dude,” is all that comes out though. 

[coup-de-maine]

Maine... are you still in there? Or are you just the Meta now?

The helmet tilts down in acknowledgement of the voice, not so much the question. Washington. The bottom rung. How did you even make it to the leader board, Washington. Meta held a special disdain for him. Maine might not have cared so much for the ranks of the leader board but Sigma had ambitions. Standards, and an unfortunate eye for potential.

Maine lacked coordination, planning, forethought. He was reckless, it cost him points. He was better than Wash, Sigma knew it, if only he’d had proper guidance.

“ωε αяε мσяε тнαη נυsт αηүтнιηg ωαsнιηgтση. ωε αяε ηεαяℓү cσмρℓεтε- ιғ үσυ ωσυℓ∂ ℓιкε тσ нεℓρ υs, ρεянαρs ωε cαη нεℓρ үσυ sεε үσυя ғяιεη∂ αgαιη.”