[ Hallway clearing. That's a pretty visceral image, but oh, he can imagine it, picture it almost too clearly -- he imagines Carolina, imagines Tex, the way they'd demolish everything in their path, remembers Maine whenever he plowed a line straight through a battlefield and sometimes right through a wall. Natasha doesn't fight the way they do, but more graceful and fluid than any of them were but no less vicious, and it's easy to picture her fighting through a corridor full of guards. Flawless, efficient, elegant. Wash's lips might quirk upward in the slightest flicker of a smile, imagining it.

Another brief moment to really catch his breath because god that'd taken the wind out of him, before he slowly pushes himself up to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow. ]

Learning to fight without my armor again has been pretty rough. [ Not nearly the same, but that's the closest sympathy he can give her, the best solidarity he can offer. The armor was a part of them, in so many ways, and definitely essential to how they moved, how they fought, even how they thought sometimes. Wash has been without it for two months now and still feels himself feeling far too vulnerable, far too naked without it. ] I've been getting used to it, a little at a time.

From where I'm standing, Natasha, that wasn't much of a miss. [ Stretching himself out slightly, reaching up to crack his neck to the side, giving her another grin, the slightest shake of his head. ] I'm sure you'll fix up that track record soon enough.