I'm not glass, Wash! [Safe. Fucking safe. One of his arms waved because he had to move, because he was pissed, because there had to be something, dammit, something he could do other than sit and bitch and argue. Here was Wash worrying about his safety when they should all be worried about hers.] You taught me how to be better than I was; I can do this! I can. You believed in me then, so why don't you now?!

[He couldn't save the guys back home. He couldn't save Church. He needed to at least save her.

At least some of the resolve backed down when Wash was talking about teams, about being needed, his brow furrowing. He felt torn for a moment, wondering which was his place: going after her or being with them. Working with them. Helping with them. He opened his mouth--

--then snapped it shut when Wash got that tone in his voice. Old roles felt comfortable: Wash being in charge, Tucker fighting against authority] Stupid shit works because no one fucking expects it, and you know this! Tell me shotgun hasn't fucking did it a million times, especially against you! [He could hear Sarge saying it in his head, and it fucking hurt how much he missed it now. Damn Reds.]

You know how long shit can take to get coordinated, prepared, how long it takes to move a fucking military mission. This could be weeks! Months! How long do you expect me to sit and do nothing!?