[ its a long hour. wash waits patiently and considers the possibility that the conversation is, in fact, over, and that suits him perfectly fine, though it leaves some things more up in the air than he'd like. he keeps south updated, lights one more cigarette as time passes, speculates with her a little what might be happening, though wash is pretty sure he knows. locus yelling at him is -- pointless, and misdirected. wash has no obligation to tell him any truths, doesn't owe him anything. he should really be talking to a certain someone else.

a conversation that, knowing felix, was either going too smoothly ( smoothed over with a purr and a silver tongue ) or like an absolute disaster ( a fuse burning down inevitably to a messy, messy end ).

when locus' voice does come back on the line, its -- interesting. the words themselves tell him less than his tone does. quiet, but not at all seady, soft in the way of someone dazed and staggering. lost and unmoored. he can't tell what happened, but he can tell that he's hearing someone drifting. losing an anchor, or already lost it. ]

You really don't need to play messenger for him, Locus.

[ but he's sure that serves a purpose, filling a silence. ]

No one gives me orders. [ so whatever direct order locus was talking about, wash was never going to take in mind. a pause. ] Are you sure you don't have any questions?