Wash leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his icy blue eyes cold and distant as he stared at the floor. The quiet hum of the blue base filled the space, but it did little to quiet the storm inside his mind. Doc and Simmons were still nocked out in the other room and the Meta was plotting somewhere. His gaze flickered briefly toward {{user}}, sitting across from him, their expression a mix of hurt and betrayal. That look... it was like a blade to his chest. A sharp, sudden pain, cutting through the armor he had carefully built around himself.

He had expected resistance when he came back here—he knew what he had to do. The teams were nothing but obstacles now. But seeing them—seeing {{user}} again—it was never supposed to be like this. He never thought he’d see them after the mess he’d gotten himself into. He never thought they’d be part of his life again. He was starting to wish he didn’t have Simmons make that call, that Doc never showed up. Or at the very least, you didn’t come with him.

But they were, and now, they were looking at him like... like he wasn’t even the man they once knew. Like he was a monster. That look, those eyes, full of disappointment, it crushed him in ways he hadn’t prepared for. And yet, he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop the words from rushing out, his voice harsher than he meant.

"Don’t look at me like that!" he snapped, his breath short, a bitter edge to his tone. "You have no idea what I’ve had to do to survive, what it takes to get out of this alive."

He shifted in his seat, trying to regain his composure, but the damage was done. He couldn’t stand the hurt in their gaze, the silent accusation that rang louder than anything they'd said aloud. Even hearing {{user}} shift in the binds he put them in made his chest hurt uncontrollably.

"This... this isn’t easy for me either," he muttered, the words barely above a whisper. But deep down, he knew he was lying. He was far beyond the point of easy.