Work Text:
Ever since joining Project Freelancer, colors have taken on new meaning.
In the desert, everything was a gold-tan, nothing much stood out, except for Doc. Wash would sometimes catch himself drifting, his eyes having gone hazy from having looked at the same scenery for so long, so when he sees Doc in his peripheral, he slips, feels the weight of the name “North” on his tongue, and has to bite down on it so hard he draws blood. Doc would hear the strangled noise, ask if Wash was okay, and Wash would snap at him to be quiet, not wanting to hear that, not wanting to hear something so completely and utterly like North.
Sometimes he slips up, the past and present becoming a smeared blur of colors, and he finds his heart speeding up when he sees familiar purple, feels his lips move on their own accord, and has to walk away, angry at himself, when the voice that answers him is not the one he was expecting, has to ignore what feels like a punch to the gut when Doc asks, “Who’s North?”