[ wash can't sleep, either, but his excuse isn't near as good as north's excuse.
even back home when he was a snot-nosed kid picking grass out of the folds of his torn clothes and scrubbing blood from his knuckles as his well-meaning mother fluttered anxiously around him, he's never slept well. that's just how he is, how he's always been — restless and wound up, with every one of his thoughts and worries pricking like a needle against his brain the second he tucks himself into bed. it's a double-edged sword: at night he can't sleep because he thinks too much, and during the day he can't think because he never gets any fucking sleep.
but he's dealt with this revolving pattern for years, and his body has more or less adjusted to his constant state of dead-eyed exhaustion. most of his late night escapades are spent in the training room running sims until he's damp with sweat and his arms and legs throb in protest. other nights he's huddled in the mess, and some nights he's here on the observation deck, scrolling through training regulations and maybe glancing at the very occasional cat picture.
on this particular evening, there aren't any incriminating images of fluffy kittens on his datapad when north peers over his shoulder. he'd been reading up on the first battle of harvest in the epsilon indi system, though he'd zoned out about twenty minutes prior to north's arrival, and now he's not so much reading as he is just sitting around looking like the life of the party if the party was full of frowny-faced assholes.
he doesn't normally startle easily, but he's so caught up in his own thoughts that he jerks slightly when north's voice rings out from just behind him. the datapad slips from his hands to clatter to the ground at his feet, and wash twists around to look at him, elbow hanging on the back of the bench. ]
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even back home when he was a snot-nosed kid picking grass out of the folds of his torn clothes and scrubbing blood from his knuckles as his well-meaning mother fluttered anxiously around him, he's never slept well. that's just how he is, how he's always been — restless and wound up, with every one of his thoughts and worries pricking like a needle against his brain the second he tucks himself into bed. it's a double-edged sword: at night he can't sleep because he thinks too much, and during the day he can't think because he never gets any fucking sleep.
but he's dealt with this revolving pattern for years, and his body has more or less adjusted to his constant state of dead-eyed exhaustion. most of his late night escapades are spent in the training room running sims until he's damp with sweat and his arms and legs throb in protest. other nights he's huddled in the mess, and some nights he's here on the observation deck, scrolling through training regulations and maybe glancing at the very occasional cat picture.
on this particular evening, there aren't any incriminating images of fluffy kittens on his datapad when north peers over his shoulder. he'd been reading up on the first battle of harvest in the epsilon indi system, though he'd zoned out about twenty minutes prior to north's arrival, and now he's not so much reading as he is just sitting around looking like the life of the party if the party was full of frowny-faced assholes.
he doesn't normally startle easily, but he's so caught up in his own thoughts that he jerks slightly when north's voice rings out from just behind him. the datapad slips from his hands to clatter to the ground at his feet, and wash twists around to look at him, elbow hanging on the back of the bench. ]
North.