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RvB: Patchyork

Mumblybee asked for anything about York and Sarge. I have a wish-fulfillment AU where dead Freelancers just start showing up alive again in Exile, so if there’s any need for context just go with that. (There isn’t really much need for context.)

"So not all Freelancers are shark women? Or just most of them?" Sarge questioned. York leaned against a crate and nodded as if prepared to give a talk on his favorite subject.

"So far two have been and two have not," Simmons piped up. He was feeling nervous about York having just wondered into Red territory like this, and numbers helped. What side was York on, anyway? It was about time Red got a Freelancer, but this one seemed flighty. Simmons thought he ought to stay and observe the conversation, just in case Sarge needed any backup, or any statistics. "That makes half." 

"Are you countin’ Wash in there?" Sarge swung his helmeted head toward Simmons. "Wash ain’t a Freelancer. He’s a Blue."

"Right, sir. He is an ex-Freelancer. That makes two-thirds."

"Not all of them are shark-women," York said lazily, and unclipped his helmet and sat it on the crate beside him, revealing a frustratingly handsome face. Guys like that had it easy. "Only the good ones."

Sarge asked, “What’s wrong with your eye?”

"Just a scratch," said York, and blinked his good eye. He sounded like he didn’t want to talk about it, but then Simmons was never sure about his own grasp of social cues.

Sarge tilted his head and stepped closer to York, angling around to get a better look at his left eye. “That looks pretty serious. You know, mayhaps we could fix that…”

York almost believed it. Simmons definitely recognized the sounds of temporary hope. “Re, ah, yeah? I don’t think so, man.”

"You don’t know who you’re dealing with, son. Let me just think about this. Simmons! You ain’t usin’ your good eye."

Simmons started to back out. “I, no, I mean yes! Yes I am. I think so sir. Permission to leave?”

"Yes. I mean no! It’s perfectly possible to live with one eye. This fine fellow’s been doing it for years."

Simmons received a certain sycophantic satisfaction from remaining but wasn’t above counting the yes as a yes and the no as nothing at all. “And he can stay like that!”

"Are you gonna talk that way to a guest!"

"Yes!"

"It’s fur science!"

Simmons was already halfway outside when he heard York stand up, grab his helmet, and start to follow him.

"Thanks man," York said, "but Freelancers have a strict no-science policy. Comes from way up."

Simmons hoped that York was smart enough to follow him out, but he didn’t stick around to find out.


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