Just One Word
Title: Grave
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 910
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: PG
Spoiler Alert: Season Finale
Summary: Taylor will never grow accustomed to seeing her like this, so unsure. She looks more frail, too thin, sitting in front of the grave that had been her own.
Author’s Note: Was done for zapf_chancery's prompt "Grave" way back yonder.
Grave
It’s an odd place to find her and yet it’s where she inevitably is, night after night, dark hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. It’s rather morbid in the grand scheme of things but the woman will not be dissuaded. There’s a sort of peace to it, camaraderie she cannot help but fall prey to. Completeness she is now lacking in life.
Taylor will never grow accustomed to seeing her like this, so unsure. She looks more frail, too thin, sitting in front of the grave that had been her own. It’s empty, yes, but there’s her name, her title, her life, etched on a simple piece of stone and there’s something strangely melancholy about it. Wash reaches out a hand to trace the letters, follows the blocky script through till the end.
Lieutenant Washington, Soldier, Leader, Friend, Companion, Sister. There are other words there but those are the ones she fixates on, the ones that matter most. They have little meaning in her scrambled head but they are undeniably pretty and shed a light she is positive is far too idealistic on an otherwise ugly life. The woman sighs, shakes her head. The moonlight catches on her profile a moment before hiding behind a cloud, illuminating amber eyes. Full of hurt, regret, longing, a simple need to remember what she once was.
The Commander steps forward, coming to rest beside her. She does not turn, does not offer him a smile or a welcome. Simply stares at the grave in front of her. The Lieutenant takes a withering breath, stares ahead almost sightlessly, eyes sad (and he notes, with some hurt, that she always wears that expression around him now), the voice he so remembers pitched in a manner positively foreign, “Elisabeth says I should have remembered by now.” No pretense, simply what’s bothering her; just like his Wash…
But this isn’t his Wash.
He nods, offers her a small smile, attempts to offer comfort. It’s true, what’s she’s saying. It’s been three months since their return to Terra Nova; three months since they found her, lying on death’s door, in the back of Boylan’s, Carter and the bar tender desperately attempting to nurse her back to health. The recovery has been arduous at the very best, hellish, more often than not. Her body has recovered (she’s a fighter, whether or not she remembers it), her minds has not. There are flashes, occasionally, where she might glean a fleeting glimpse of her past life but such moments are rare, gone as quickly as they came. She doesn’t remember her past, she doesn’t remember her life, she doesn’t remember her friends, her family…
She doesn’t remember him.
It stings in ways he’s only beginning to comprehend.
“It’ll all work out,” His tone is surprisingly soft. There’s a note of hope to it, perhaps, but nothing like pleading. Only confidence, trust. It earns him a bemused smile; she shakes her head, runs a hand through her hair. This woman, this new woman, is still something of a stranger to him but he reaches out a hand to catch hers, stills it. Her eyes widen momentarily but she does not protest, fascinated as he twines their fingers together. Another smile, blue eyes bright, “You’ll come back to me, Wash.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
Taylor chuckles. The woman arches a brow, confused (both by the laughter and the bitterness in it), and he gives her hand a squeeze. “No, I guess I don’t. Had no way of knowing you’d make it back from that gunshot either. Or Somalia, or a thousand other things.” Things she has no memory of, things that have no meaning to her other than the emotion in his voice, the fondness, something like love. If she were his Wash she would lean in near to him, take his face in her hands, ghost lips over his chin.
This isn’t his Wash. She simply stares at him, apologetic, almost affectionate but unable to justify him as anything in her memories. Taylor smiles, “You’ve always come back to me, Wash. Don’t think that’s changed now.”
It isn’t much, but it’s enough. The woman finally smiles, nods. She stares at their entwined fingers for a moment before giving a light squeeze. Settles down in front of her grave, sits cross-legged there. Coupled with her expression there’s something strangely youthful in the gesture; he finds himself staring, a fond smile turning his lips. When he doesn’t join her, she gives a light tug on his hand, pulling him down beside her.
Perhaps she doesn’t remember him, but she knows him well enough. He leans his back against her headstone; the woman leans her head against his shoulder. There’s silence, comfortable, still. Then she turns slightly, voice soft as she moves to rest against his side, “Tell me about myself?”
It’s a strange question, but he smiles, moves an arm to rest near her waist.
Lieutenant Washington, Soldier, Leader, Friend, Companion, Sister…seems as good a place as any to start.
Title: Dinosaur
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 1,503
Genre: Romance/Family/Shameless Sickening Fluff
Rating: PG
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: There are some things she has simply resigned herself to never understanding.
Author’s Note: I won't lie. This is the most sickeningly, shamelessly, sugary thing I have ever written. It may send you into a diabetic coma. (andican'tevensayi'msorry...)
Dinosaur
There are some things she has simply resigned herself to never understanding. Shannon’s penchant for getting himself into (and, somehow, out of) impossible situations; Taylor’s desire to endanger himself at every possible opportunity; her own tendency to tolerate such insane behavior….
She doesn’t pretend to understand any of those things.
And she doesn’t understand this fascination either…
Her son has decided, with all the certainty only a four year old (a four year old Taylor) can muster, that he is a dinosaur. Not that he likes dinosaurs, not that he wishes to hunt them or study them. He is one. A Slasher, if one is feeling precise. Sam will give her a look, a roar proportionate to his size, and then tromp around their housing unit, flicking his mock tail (made of real Slasher scales, mom, and wasn’t dad just the best for getting it, huh?), roaring his mock roar. She’d taken all this in with an arched brow, taken aback by how something that shared her genetic material could behave in such a manner. Her childhood had not been ideal, admittedly, but she can never remember entertaining such fantastic notions.
Taylor had dismissed her worries with an offhanded gesture, assured her all was well. Lucas had done much the same. This had only served to bring the most ridiculous grin to her lips and a wary look to her mate’s face. The man held up a warning hand, “Don’t, Wash. Don’t even think it.” The wicked glimmer in her eyes assures him his request has fallen upon deaf ears. There is, after all, only one common factor between Lucas and Sam.
And it was sitting in her study, scowling at her as if he could intimidate the phrase out of her head, purge his admission from her thoughts. The Lieutenant crosses to him, pulls his head against her shoulder, chuckling to herself, staring out towards their son (devouring his lunch with suitably carnivorous vigor), “Did you play pretend as a dinosaur when you were little too, Nathaniel?”
His eyes had widened comically and that had been all. He’d ignored her, stared pointedly back down at his reading, ignored her chuckles, given a slight shove with his shoulder to dislodge her from her seat on the arm of the chair. The image of the composed Commander tromping around as a dinosaur is enough to break her composure and she chuckles to herself.
Hears him call from behind her, “Not a word to anyone, Wash!”
She’s feeling magnanimous today; decides to oblige him.
____
They have just returned from a particularly long day OTG and she straggles into the Reynolds home, Mark on her heels. Light abrasions mark each of their faces, dirt smeared across them. Small things in comparison to the exhaustion that seems to radiate off their figures in waves. Maddy is there to greet them, a relieved smile on her lovely face. She waves lightly, gives her husband a quick kiss before turning to the Lieutenant. “Sam is inside playing.”
The tone tells her everything she needs to know; Wash shakes her head, runs a hand tiredly through her hair, “Dinosaurs again, is it?”
“Yep,” the younger woman nods cheerfully, leading her inside. The scene playing out has the stoic woman nearly rolling her eyes, hopelessly amused despite it all. There’s her kid, toddling along after the younger Reynolds girl, cooing and grunting like there’s no tomorrow. “He’s a Slasher and Mallory is, and I quote, science-ing him.” That sounds about right. The green-eyed girl catches sight of them first (Sam is too busy stalking her, hunched over and growling), lets out a surprised noise, comes to so abrupt a stop that the older boy nearly barrels over her.
She clutches his shoulder protectively (the “Slasher” growls at this but nuzzles her back affectionately, regardless), “Oh, no, the Lieutenant is here to take you away.”
Wash smirks, kneels in front of the duo, “That’s right. You know you aren’t allowed to keep dinosaurs in the colony.”
“But this one’s different,” she whines.
The Lieutenant makes a little humming noise, “But if I let him stay, I’ll have to let all the baby dinosaurs stay. And then where will we be?” She reaches out to run a hand through her son’s hair; he makes a pleased cooing sort of sound, moves to snuggle against her immediately, arms twining around her neck. He is, as he insists in his more sleep deprived moments, a snuggly sort of Slasher looking for his mother. This scenario is pointedly ignored in his more stubborn (Taylor-ish) moments, and repainted for her every time he desires her affections. He presses a kiss to her cheek, giggles when she shifts to hold him to her.
“But….” The little girl frowns, crosses her arms over her chest, eyes alight with new determination at the display of affection, “You can ask the Commander, can’t you? He has to let him stay!”
“I don’t know,” she taps a finger to her lips as if considering, glances over her shoulder towards the doorway where the man in question has only just appeared. “What do you think, sir? We have room for a stray Slasher?”
He arches a brow, shakes his head when his son quickly attempts to detangle himself from his mother. It’s half hissed and half squawked, but the little creature appears to yell, “Dad!” The boy clutches his father’s knees in a tight embrace, delighted when he’s gathered up. Sam pouts as Taylor appears to take stock of him, “Kinda small for a Slasher don’t you think, Wash?”
“I’m sure he’ll grow.”
“You going to feed him?”
She smirks, “I think we can manage that.”
“Then I don’t see why you can’t keep this one. He seems pretty alright,” the “Slasher” makes a pleased sort of sound, nuzzles against the man’s shoulder. She still doesn’t pretend to understand the fascination but it does make her heart warm (distressingly) in her chest.
__
Sam isn’t afraid of the dark (he insists on this pointedly, chin held high, defiantly set) but he isn’t particularly fond of it either. She expects, late that night, with a little finger poking her repeatedly in the shoulder, that this is the reason she is being torn from her slumber. She cracks one eye open, finds blue ones staring at her expectantly. She closes her own with a smirk, “Go back to sleep, Sam. Slasher’s aren’t afraid of the dark.”
“Not afraid,” he mutters, crosses his arms over his chest as if affronted by the insinuation.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing up, then?”
“Checking on you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Checking if you’re scared.” There’s a moment of silence; he takes this to mean she’s fallen back asleep, deems this unsuitable, and pokes her again. “Mom. Are you scared?” She arches a brow. Sits up in bed to take in the small figure of her son, looking rather ridiculous, with her dark hair and his father’s blue eyes, a dinosaur doll tucked under his arm.
She sighs, hold up the blankets. Without a sound, he clambers over her to lay in the center of the bed, curls beside her. The moment she is nearly asleep she hears feet coming down the hall, stares tiredly at the silhouetted figure in the doorway. Taylor crosses to stand near the end of the bed, brow arched at the lump next to her, tucked securely under the blankets. “Got company in there, Wash?”
“Mom was scared,” Sam mutters from under the blankets.
“I was scared,” she mouths, shaking her head. The man smirks at her, looks very much like he’d like to tease her about her going soft in her old age (she knows for a fact that this is the precise phrase running through his head). The sound of him going about his nightly routine, then sliding into bed. Sam lets out a pleased sound, snuggling between the two of them.
“Last night you get to stay in here, little Slasher. Might get jealous.”
She doesn’t understand a lot of things that have happened in her life. She doesn’t pretend to understand this. For the life of her, though, she can’t even pretend to care. Wash feels Taylor press a kiss to her forehead, hand resting on her hip; her son nuzzles against her, sighs contently. The Lieutenant feels herself lulled into a relaxed sleep, listens to the soft breathing of the men in her life as she drifts off.
Title: Riding High
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 2,439
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: R
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: He's been OTG five days. When he doesn't come to see her, she's determined to find him. That he's waiting for her in the garage is neither here nor there.
Author’s Note: Gift for my lovely, hugely talented, Sexy Ninja, admiralkate. Evidently, it's become my mission to defile all the vehicles in Terra Nova.
Riding High
It’s not an overly pressing issue, not really. She doesn’t need to find him right away; the colony does not depend on it. This is pointedly ignored as she steps out of Command, descends the stairs and directs her steps towards the garage. It’s not late, not really, but it’s the middle of one of their festivals (they have more and more of them each year it seems…)and the goodly portion of their population is in the middle of reveling in the pavilion. She slides through the mass of humanity, waves where it is required, smiles when she’s needed. It takes some doing but she’s able to escape in relatively short order.
Excellent, as she is of no mind to indulge in conversations.
He’s been OTG for the last five days, has only just returned. Usually, this would mean one thing. He’d rush to her side, intent on releasing the pent up frustration their time apart always seems to foster. It’s been hours since his return, however, and she’s seen nothing of him. Only heard his initial report. He wasn’t injured; he simply…isn’t coming to her.
It’s a distressing thought, one that has her both puzzled and irritated.
And so here she is, with an issue that matters little (doesn’t matter at all, is of her own invention more than anything else), striding towards the garage, intent on having it out with him. Wash clears her throat as she enters the building. It’s large, mostly empty, smelling of oil, leathers and metal. Rovers and Rhino’s, some covered under sheets, some halfway torn apart, awaiting repair. The shop lights cast everything in strange, pale colors, reflecting off the metal, the polished floor. She finds him near the back, near one of the still open bay doors, the evening sunlight coloring him in intriguing pinks and oranges. It causes her breath to catch momentarily, a flood of entirely undignified arousal sweeping through her.
She’s too old for this. It’s damn insane that she should feel this way.
When he looks up at her, though, the same sentiment coloring those pale eyes, she can’t feel even the least bit sorry. A smile turns her lips and she closes the distance, comes to rest her hands against the handlebar of his cycle. Still wearing his field armor, a cut (somehow she isn’t surprised; he has yet to return without an injury of some sort) marring his cheek. She reaches out to brush her fingers across it, smirks when he leans into the touch, dragging lips across her palm. He smirks against the skin, nuzzles his nose against her crooked fingers, “Was wondering when you’d come.”
Something about the wording causes her to chuckle and she knows it’s deliberate. She arches a brow as his lips move upwards, trail up her wrist, his tongue tracing the thin line of a scar there, nipping at the bone. A pattern, the hair of his beard tickling and scratching, lips and tongue smoothing upwards; she allows him to draw her closer to him, lips to the inside of her elbow.
It isn’t a location conducive to romance. The bay door is still open and anyone could walk in on them. The music from the festival not far from here still reaches their ears. More than that, he shows no sign of giving up his seat on the cycle. When she flicks her gaze to it, he favors her with a wide grin; reaches forward to grab her around the waist, draw her up to him. It leaves her sitting sideways across the seat in front of him as he straddles the thing. His hand snakes up to twine in her hair, pulling her into a hungry kiss. It’s always something like this when they’ve been apart any length of time, halfway desperate, frenetic. Her hands slide beneath his armor, beneath his shirt, scratching lightly over the muscle beneath.
The disparity between their clothing creates an intriguing friction between them, the plates of his armor unyielding, hard, against her flesh, the fabric of her tank. She presses against him as best she can given her awkward positioning, sucking lightly on his lower lip, pulling back as he attempts to engage her. The hand in her hair tightens its grip, hold her fast. Her “punishment” (she uses the term loosely, both smirking against the others lips) as he crushes her to him, swallowing every gasp, every one of her movements finding resistance. It becomes little different from one of their sparring matches, nearly playful, skirting the edges of propriety, teasing the others limits.
She’s missed this. Tongue running lightly across his teeth before engaging him, stroke for stroke as she presses herself more insistently against him; needs to, somehow, close the distance between them, needs to feel his skin against her, needs him now. It’s an awkward location, but she’s become accustomed to it, especially when he’s only just returned. His fingers hook in the material of her top, pull it over her head (for once, she does not fight him, too eager for his touch), nipping at his jaw as he does so. It earns her a throaty laugh, “Patience is a virtue, Wash.”
“Never was overly virtuous…”
Her lack of repentance (and the terseness of her tone) seems only to heighten his amusement, dips his head to suck at her pulse, explore the newly exposed flesh as his hand drops, fiddling with her belt, unbuttoning her fatigues. It’s becoming rapidly more obvious that he’s going to have her at more than one disadvantage, sliding the material down her legs before she can protest. There’s a dull thud as the heavy material connects with the floor somewhere, a softer one as he rids her of the rest of clothes. The wicked glimmer in his eyes is not missed as he takes in her nudity, desire openly on display for her. It’s flattering, she won’t deny, strokes a purely feminine ego in her. She rolls her eyes at his expression, strokes fingers over his cheek, “Don’t say it, sir.”
“Want me to rev up your engine, Lieutenant?” He offers her a wide grin, chuckling as she rolls her eyes.
Her inelegant snort in cut short but his lips crashing over hers again, dragging her bodily onto his lap; a sharp hiss of breath escapes her, the material of his armor digging at her sensitive skin, cool against her. He bites (not nips) when she grinds against him, legs tightening about his waist, her fingers searching for purchase in hair too short to offer a satisfactory hold. She repeats the motion, groaning as the rough fabric scratches her inner thighs, the feel of him through the material.
“You aren’t playing fair, Wash…” he groans, the muscles in his neck tightening as she presses against him with greater force. She snickers against his neck, presses a kiss there, traces the corded muscles with her tongue before sucking at the underside of his jaw.
“Get off the damn bike and even the field then, sir.”
Wash doesn’t intend the words as a challenge; does not object when they are taken that way. Her hands make for the fastenings of his armor, the familiar clasps coming quickly underdone under skilled hands. It’s a small skirmish getting it off him (she cheats; leans in and kisses him hard enough to steal air and conscious thought away as she drags the material down his arms). His shirt quickly follows (and he snickers, amused by the delight that always plays across her features when the material is cast aside), dips her head to ghost kisses across her favorite scars. One near his heart (a knife wound she’d had a hand in treating), one a long, thin, line down the center of his chest; there is nothing particularly special about the second; she simply likes dragging her lips down it, teeth grazing the musculature of his chest.
The minute her hands make for his belt (she’s tired of their games, needs him), he catches her wrists, holds them one handed over his head. With a scowl, she shifts against him again, hips grinding against his, offers little relief to the ache she’s feeling. The movement earns her a chiding look, a hand set square on her chest, leaning her back flush against the front of the bike, arms coming to rest along either of the handlebars. The Lieutenant arches a brow as he gives her thigh an affectionate pat, nails grazing the delicate skin before sliding higher to press against her with more force. She lets out a surprised moan, head lolling back, alternating feather lights touches with more insistent force, playing over her in frustrating patterns. She arches against his touch, tries to gain more contact in her awkward position.
“Now,” she’s proud of her voice, still convincingly even despite the chaos of her rapidly degenerating thoughts, “Who isn’t playing fair, sir?”
“Certainly not me,” he presses down hard, elicits a throaty moan. One finger and then a second inside her, the perfect angle; she clamps down on her bodies innate reaction, bites down hard on her lip, the harsh jolt of pain effective in forestalling her end. It earns her a chuckle, “Come on, Wash.” The lightly teasing tone has her steeling her resolve.
“Not yet.”
“Can’t imagine what you’re waiting for…”
She grits her grits her teeth, hips bucking despite her best efforts, “You’re an ass, Taylor.”
“Hard to find that convincing,” he presses a kiss between her breasts, free hand sliding behind her back, tracing the arch, “When you’re like this.”
She manages to loop a hand in his belt, draws him flush against her again. Let’s out a groan as it pins his hand between them (and he knows it well, presses his palm flat against her; it has a sharp bolt of light flashing behind her eyes as she comes dangerously close to the edge, fights to hang on); shifts against him, the warmth of his skin delightful against her own, fingers undoing his belt. He groans when she manages to slip her hand inside his fatigues, fingers closing around his length. She smirks, kisses him lightly as she moves, turns his earlier words against him, “Come on, sir.”
He doesn’t manage a proper reply, eyes sliding shut as she works him, tongue stroking his in time with the movements of her hand. They’ve been apart long enough to render her movements remarkably effective; the man thrusts against her hand and she smiles, leans him forward, teeth tugging lightly at his ear. Her free hand moves, finishes unzipping him, feet catch the material of his fatigues, easing it down his legs. The angle prevents her from ridding him of it entirely but it’s a start. He rests his forehead against her shoulder, breath leaving him in uneven hisses as he nears completion. She stills entirely, removes herself, yanks his boxers down.
With a wicked grin on her face she leans back again, rests against the handlebars, amber eyes alight with unabashed mischief. She grips his biceps, squeezing lightly, legs looped around his waist. With a growl, he kicks the material off the rest of the way, hands gripping her hips to pull her towards him as he thrusts forward.
Their moans come in unison, the feeling of being reunited, of him filling her so completely having yet to lose its novelty. Her nails dig at his shoulders, inclines her hips to better meet him. She finds herself infinitely grateful for the support of the vehicle (and the widened seat), as he reaches over her to grip the handles, pounds her back. The metal digs at her back (not entirely unpleasant) but she finds it difficult to care, air leaving her in a whoosh with each of his movements. She tightens her hold on him, pleased when he fists a hand in her hair, dragging her lips back to his. It’s more his teeth grazing her jaw, moving lightly down her neck, her fingers coming to twine in his hair.
Her gasp is harsh; Taylor breaks first, a muffled yell against her shoulder. He bites down hard, the unexpected jolt of pain coupled with his suddenly erratic movements pushing her over the edge. The festival going on not far from them calls enough of her senses back to mind that she returns the favor, sinks teeth in his shoulder (not hard enough to break skin) to stifle her call. It’s enough to urge him on a little while longer, creates pleasant little aftershocks. She drags him back to her, kiss light, playful, once more, hands gliding down to rest on his ass.
Taylor smiles against her skin, tongue flicking out to brush a stray bead of moisture from the hollow of her throat. She chuckles, gives a warning squeeze. They can’t stay here long. They’ve pushed their luck as is and it’s only a short time until someone comes looking for them. He leans back into a sitting position, taking her with him, rocking her lightly. The Commander nuzzles the junction between her neck and shoulder, voice little more than a throaty purr, “Not done with you yet, woman.”
She’s far from done with him either. Arches into him, shimmies slightly, cranes her neck to give him a better angle, “Then get me home, sir.” Brings him back to her, catches his lower lip between her teeth, dragging it with her a moment as she leans back, “Now.”
The wolfish grin on his face has them both laughing, dressing in record time.
The speed pales in comparison to how quickly they shed their clothes the moment they're safely home.
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 910
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: PG
Spoiler Alert: Season Finale
Summary: Taylor will never grow accustomed to seeing her like this, so unsure. She looks more frail, too thin, sitting in front of the grave that had been her own.
Author’s Note: Was done for zapf_chancery's prompt "Grave" way back yonder.
Grave
It’s an odd place to find her and yet it’s where she inevitably is, night after night, dark hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. It’s rather morbid in the grand scheme of things but the woman will not be dissuaded. There’s a sort of peace to it, camaraderie she cannot help but fall prey to. Completeness she is now lacking in life.
Taylor will never grow accustomed to seeing her like this, so unsure. She looks more frail, too thin, sitting in front of the grave that had been her own. It’s empty, yes, but there’s her name, her title, her life, etched on a simple piece of stone and there’s something strangely melancholy about it. Wash reaches out a hand to trace the letters, follows the blocky script through till the end.
Lieutenant Washington, Soldier, Leader, Friend, Companion, Sister. There are other words there but those are the ones she fixates on, the ones that matter most. They have little meaning in her scrambled head but they are undeniably pretty and shed a light she is positive is far too idealistic on an otherwise ugly life. The woman sighs, shakes her head. The moonlight catches on her profile a moment before hiding behind a cloud, illuminating amber eyes. Full of hurt, regret, longing, a simple need to remember what she once was.
The Commander steps forward, coming to rest beside her. She does not turn, does not offer him a smile or a welcome. Simply stares at the grave in front of her. The Lieutenant takes a withering breath, stares ahead almost sightlessly, eyes sad (and he notes, with some hurt, that she always wears that expression around him now), the voice he so remembers pitched in a manner positively foreign, “Elisabeth says I should have remembered by now.” No pretense, simply what’s bothering her; just like his Wash…
But this isn’t his Wash.
He nods, offers her a small smile, attempts to offer comfort. It’s true, what’s she’s saying. It’s been three months since their return to Terra Nova; three months since they found her, lying on death’s door, in the back of Boylan’s, Carter and the bar tender desperately attempting to nurse her back to health. The recovery has been arduous at the very best, hellish, more often than not. Her body has recovered (she’s a fighter, whether or not she remembers it), her minds has not. There are flashes, occasionally, where she might glean a fleeting glimpse of her past life but such moments are rare, gone as quickly as they came. She doesn’t remember her past, she doesn’t remember her life, she doesn’t remember her friends, her family…
She doesn’t remember him.
It stings in ways he’s only beginning to comprehend.
“It’ll all work out,” His tone is surprisingly soft. There’s a note of hope to it, perhaps, but nothing like pleading. Only confidence, trust. It earns him a bemused smile; she shakes her head, runs a hand through her hair. This woman, this new woman, is still something of a stranger to him but he reaches out a hand to catch hers, stills it. Her eyes widen momentarily but she does not protest, fascinated as he twines their fingers together. Another smile, blue eyes bright, “You’ll come back to me, Wash.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
Taylor chuckles. The woman arches a brow, confused (both by the laughter and the bitterness in it), and he gives her hand a squeeze. “No, I guess I don’t. Had no way of knowing you’d make it back from that gunshot either. Or Somalia, or a thousand other things.” Things she has no memory of, things that have no meaning to her other than the emotion in his voice, the fondness, something like love. If she were his Wash she would lean in near to him, take his face in her hands, ghost lips over his chin.
This isn’t his Wash. She simply stares at him, apologetic, almost affectionate but unable to justify him as anything in her memories. Taylor smiles, “You’ve always come back to me, Wash. Don’t think that’s changed now.”
It isn’t much, but it’s enough. The woman finally smiles, nods. She stares at their entwined fingers for a moment before giving a light squeeze. Settles down in front of her grave, sits cross-legged there. Coupled with her expression there’s something strangely youthful in the gesture; he finds himself staring, a fond smile turning his lips. When he doesn’t join her, she gives a light tug on his hand, pulling him down beside her.
Perhaps she doesn’t remember him, but she knows him well enough. He leans his back against her headstone; the woman leans her head against his shoulder. There’s silence, comfortable, still. Then she turns slightly, voice soft as she moves to rest against his side, “Tell me about myself?”
It’s a strange question, but he smiles, moves an arm to rest near her waist.
Lieutenant Washington, Soldier, Leader, Friend, Companion, Sister…seems as good a place as any to start.
Title: Dinosaur
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 1,503
Genre: Romance/Family/Shameless Sickening Fluff
Rating: PG
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: There are some things she has simply resigned herself to never understanding.
Author’s Note: I won't lie. This is the most sickeningly, shamelessly, sugary thing I have ever written. It may send you into a diabetic coma. (andican'tevensayi'msorry...)
Dinosaur
There are some things she has simply resigned herself to never understanding. Shannon’s penchant for getting himself into (and, somehow, out of) impossible situations; Taylor’s desire to endanger himself at every possible opportunity; her own tendency to tolerate such insane behavior….
She doesn’t pretend to understand any of those things.
And she doesn’t understand this fascination either…
Her son has decided, with all the certainty only a four year old (a four year old Taylor) can muster, that he is a dinosaur. Not that he likes dinosaurs, not that he wishes to hunt them or study them. He is one. A Slasher, if one is feeling precise. Sam will give her a look, a roar proportionate to his size, and then tromp around their housing unit, flicking his mock tail (made of real Slasher scales, mom, and wasn’t dad just the best for getting it, huh?), roaring his mock roar. She’d taken all this in with an arched brow, taken aback by how something that shared her genetic material could behave in such a manner. Her childhood had not been ideal, admittedly, but she can never remember entertaining such fantastic notions.
Taylor had dismissed her worries with an offhanded gesture, assured her all was well. Lucas had done much the same. This had only served to bring the most ridiculous grin to her lips and a wary look to her mate’s face. The man held up a warning hand, “Don’t, Wash. Don’t even think it.” The wicked glimmer in her eyes assures him his request has fallen upon deaf ears. There is, after all, only one common factor between Lucas and Sam.
And it was sitting in her study, scowling at her as if he could intimidate the phrase out of her head, purge his admission from her thoughts. The Lieutenant crosses to him, pulls his head against her shoulder, chuckling to herself, staring out towards their son (devouring his lunch with suitably carnivorous vigor), “Did you play pretend as a dinosaur when you were little too, Nathaniel?”
His eyes had widened comically and that had been all. He’d ignored her, stared pointedly back down at his reading, ignored her chuckles, given a slight shove with his shoulder to dislodge her from her seat on the arm of the chair. The image of the composed Commander tromping around as a dinosaur is enough to break her composure and she chuckles to herself.
Hears him call from behind her, “Not a word to anyone, Wash!”
She’s feeling magnanimous today; decides to oblige him.
____
They have just returned from a particularly long day OTG and she straggles into the Reynolds home, Mark on her heels. Light abrasions mark each of their faces, dirt smeared across them. Small things in comparison to the exhaustion that seems to radiate off their figures in waves. Maddy is there to greet them, a relieved smile on her lovely face. She waves lightly, gives her husband a quick kiss before turning to the Lieutenant. “Sam is inside playing.”
The tone tells her everything she needs to know; Wash shakes her head, runs a hand tiredly through her hair, “Dinosaurs again, is it?”
“Yep,” the younger woman nods cheerfully, leading her inside. The scene playing out has the stoic woman nearly rolling her eyes, hopelessly amused despite it all. There’s her kid, toddling along after the younger Reynolds girl, cooing and grunting like there’s no tomorrow. “He’s a Slasher and Mallory is, and I quote, science-ing him.” That sounds about right. The green-eyed girl catches sight of them first (Sam is too busy stalking her, hunched over and growling), lets out a surprised noise, comes to so abrupt a stop that the older boy nearly barrels over her.
She clutches his shoulder protectively (the “Slasher” growls at this but nuzzles her back affectionately, regardless), “Oh, no, the Lieutenant is here to take you away.”
Wash smirks, kneels in front of the duo, “That’s right. You know you aren’t allowed to keep dinosaurs in the colony.”
“But this one’s different,” she whines.
The Lieutenant makes a little humming noise, “But if I let him stay, I’ll have to let all the baby dinosaurs stay. And then where will we be?” She reaches out to run a hand through her son’s hair; he makes a pleased cooing sort of sound, moves to snuggle against her immediately, arms twining around her neck. He is, as he insists in his more sleep deprived moments, a snuggly sort of Slasher looking for his mother. This scenario is pointedly ignored in his more stubborn (Taylor-ish) moments, and repainted for her every time he desires her affections. He presses a kiss to her cheek, giggles when she shifts to hold him to her.
“But….” The little girl frowns, crosses her arms over her chest, eyes alight with new determination at the display of affection, “You can ask the Commander, can’t you? He has to let him stay!”
“I don’t know,” she taps a finger to her lips as if considering, glances over her shoulder towards the doorway where the man in question has only just appeared. “What do you think, sir? We have room for a stray Slasher?”
He arches a brow, shakes his head when his son quickly attempts to detangle himself from his mother. It’s half hissed and half squawked, but the little creature appears to yell, “Dad!” The boy clutches his father’s knees in a tight embrace, delighted when he’s gathered up. Sam pouts as Taylor appears to take stock of him, “Kinda small for a Slasher don’t you think, Wash?”
“I’m sure he’ll grow.”
“You going to feed him?”
She smirks, “I think we can manage that.”
“Then I don’t see why you can’t keep this one. He seems pretty alright,” the “Slasher” makes a pleased sort of sound, nuzzles against the man’s shoulder. She still doesn’t pretend to understand the fascination but it does make her heart warm (distressingly) in her chest.
__
Sam isn’t afraid of the dark (he insists on this pointedly, chin held high, defiantly set) but he isn’t particularly fond of it either. She expects, late that night, with a little finger poking her repeatedly in the shoulder, that this is the reason she is being torn from her slumber. She cracks one eye open, finds blue ones staring at her expectantly. She closes her own with a smirk, “Go back to sleep, Sam. Slasher’s aren’t afraid of the dark.”
“Not afraid,” he mutters, crosses his arms over his chest as if affronted by the insinuation.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing up, then?”
“Checking on you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Checking if you’re scared.” There’s a moment of silence; he takes this to mean she’s fallen back asleep, deems this unsuitable, and pokes her again. “Mom. Are you scared?” She arches a brow. Sits up in bed to take in the small figure of her son, looking rather ridiculous, with her dark hair and his father’s blue eyes, a dinosaur doll tucked under his arm.
She sighs, hold up the blankets. Without a sound, he clambers over her to lay in the center of the bed, curls beside her. The moment she is nearly asleep she hears feet coming down the hall, stares tiredly at the silhouetted figure in the doorway. Taylor crosses to stand near the end of the bed, brow arched at the lump next to her, tucked securely under the blankets. “Got company in there, Wash?”
“Mom was scared,” Sam mutters from under the blankets.
“I was scared,” she mouths, shaking her head. The man smirks at her, looks very much like he’d like to tease her about her going soft in her old age (she knows for a fact that this is the precise phrase running through his head). The sound of him going about his nightly routine, then sliding into bed. Sam lets out a pleased sound, snuggling between the two of them.
“Last night you get to stay in here, little Slasher. Might get jealous.”
She doesn’t understand a lot of things that have happened in her life. She doesn’t pretend to understand this. For the life of her, though, she can’t even pretend to care. Wash feels Taylor press a kiss to her forehead, hand resting on her hip; her son nuzzles against her, sighs contently. The Lieutenant feels herself lulled into a relaxed sleep, listens to the soft breathing of the men in her life as she drifts off.
Title: Riding High
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 2,439
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: R
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: He's been OTG five days. When he doesn't come to see her, she's determined to find him. That he's waiting for her in the garage is neither here nor there.
Author’s Note: Gift for my lovely, hugely talented, Sexy Ninja, admiralkate. Evidently, it's become my mission to defile all the vehicles in Terra Nova.
Riding High
It’s not an overly pressing issue, not really. She doesn’t need to find him right away; the colony does not depend on it. This is pointedly ignored as she steps out of Command, descends the stairs and directs her steps towards the garage. It’s not late, not really, but it’s the middle of one of their festivals (they have more and more of them each year it seems…)and the goodly portion of their population is in the middle of reveling in the pavilion. She slides through the mass of humanity, waves where it is required, smiles when she’s needed. It takes some doing but she’s able to escape in relatively short order.
Excellent, as she is of no mind to indulge in conversations.
He’s been OTG for the last five days, has only just returned. Usually, this would mean one thing. He’d rush to her side, intent on releasing the pent up frustration their time apart always seems to foster. It’s been hours since his return, however, and she’s seen nothing of him. Only heard his initial report. He wasn’t injured; he simply…isn’t coming to her.
It’s a distressing thought, one that has her both puzzled and irritated.
And so here she is, with an issue that matters little (doesn’t matter at all, is of her own invention more than anything else), striding towards the garage, intent on having it out with him. Wash clears her throat as she enters the building. It’s large, mostly empty, smelling of oil, leathers and metal. Rovers and Rhino’s, some covered under sheets, some halfway torn apart, awaiting repair. The shop lights cast everything in strange, pale colors, reflecting off the metal, the polished floor. She finds him near the back, near one of the still open bay doors, the evening sunlight coloring him in intriguing pinks and oranges. It causes her breath to catch momentarily, a flood of entirely undignified arousal sweeping through her.
She’s too old for this. It’s damn insane that she should feel this way.
When he looks up at her, though, the same sentiment coloring those pale eyes, she can’t feel even the least bit sorry. A smile turns her lips and she closes the distance, comes to rest her hands against the handlebar of his cycle. Still wearing his field armor, a cut (somehow she isn’t surprised; he has yet to return without an injury of some sort) marring his cheek. She reaches out to brush her fingers across it, smirks when he leans into the touch, dragging lips across her palm. He smirks against the skin, nuzzles his nose against her crooked fingers, “Was wondering when you’d come.”
Something about the wording causes her to chuckle and she knows it’s deliberate. She arches a brow as his lips move upwards, trail up her wrist, his tongue tracing the thin line of a scar there, nipping at the bone. A pattern, the hair of his beard tickling and scratching, lips and tongue smoothing upwards; she allows him to draw her closer to him, lips to the inside of her elbow.
It isn’t a location conducive to romance. The bay door is still open and anyone could walk in on them. The music from the festival not far from here still reaches their ears. More than that, he shows no sign of giving up his seat on the cycle. When she flicks her gaze to it, he favors her with a wide grin; reaches forward to grab her around the waist, draw her up to him. It leaves her sitting sideways across the seat in front of him as he straddles the thing. His hand snakes up to twine in her hair, pulling her into a hungry kiss. It’s always something like this when they’ve been apart any length of time, halfway desperate, frenetic. Her hands slide beneath his armor, beneath his shirt, scratching lightly over the muscle beneath.
The disparity between their clothing creates an intriguing friction between them, the plates of his armor unyielding, hard, against her flesh, the fabric of her tank. She presses against him as best she can given her awkward positioning, sucking lightly on his lower lip, pulling back as he attempts to engage her. The hand in her hair tightens its grip, hold her fast. Her “punishment” (she uses the term loosely, both smirking against the others lips) as he crushes her to him, swallowing every gasp, every one of her movements finding resistance. It becomes little different from one of their sparring matches, nearly playful, skirting the edges of propriety, teasing the others limits.
She’s missed this. Tongue running lightly across his teeth before engaging him, stroke for stroke as she presses herself more insistently against him; needs to, somehow, close the distance between them, needs to feel his skin against her, needs him now. It’s an awkward location, but she’s become accustomed to it, especially when he’s only just returned. His fingers hook in the material of her top, pull it over her head (for once, she does not fight him, too eager for his touch), nipping at his jaw as he does so. It earns her a throaty laugh, “Patience is a virtue, Wash.”
“Never was overly virtuous…”
Her lack of repentance (and the terseness of her tone) seems only to heighten his amusement, dips his head to suck at her pulse, explore the newly exposed flesh as his hand drops, fiddling with her belt, unbuttoning her fatigues. It’s becoming rapidly more obvious that he’s going to have her at more than one disadvantage, sliding the material down her legs before she can protest. There’s a dull thud as the heavy material connects with the floor somewhere, a softer one as he rids her of the rest of clothes. The wicked glimmer in his eyes is not missed as he takes in her nudity, desire openly on display for her. It’s flattering, she won’t deny, strokes a purely feminine ego in her. She rolls her eyes at his expression, strokes fingers over his cheek, “Don’t say it, sir.”
“Want me to rev up your engine, Lieutenant?” He offers her a wide grin, chuckling as she rolls her eyes.
Her inelegant snort in cut short but his lips crashing over hers again, dragging her bodily onto his lap; a sharp hiss of breath escapes her, the material of his armor digging at her sensitive skin, cool against her. He bites (not nips) when she grinds against him, legs tightening about his waist, her fingers searching for purchase in hair too short to offer a satisfactory hold. She repeats the motion, groaning as the rough fabric scratches her inner thighs, the feel of him through the material.
“You aren’t playing fair, Wash…” he groans, the muscles in his neck tightening as she presses against him with greater force. She snickers against his neck, presses a kiss there, traces the corded muscles with her tongue before sucking at the underside of his jaw.
“Get off the damn bike and even the field then, sir.”
Wash doesn’t intend the words as a challenge; does not object when they are taken that way. Her hands make for the fastenings of his armor, the familiar clasps coming quickly underdone under skilled hands. It’s a small skirmish getting it off him (she cheats; leans in and kisses him hard enough to steal air and conscious thought away as she drags the material down his arms). His shirt quickly follows (and he snickers, amused by the delight that always plays across her features when the material is cast aside), dips her head to ghost kisses across her favorite scars. One near his heart (a knife wound she’d had a hand in treating), one a long, thin, line down the center of his chest; there is nothing particularly special about the second; she simply likes dragging her lips down it, teeth grazing the musculature of his chest.
The minute her hands make for his belt (she’s tired of their games, needs him), he catches her wrists, holds them one handed over his head. With a scowl, she shifts against him again, hips grinding against his, offers little relief to the ache she’s feeling. The movement earns her a chiding look, a hand set square on her chest, leaning her back flush against the front of the bike, arms coming to rest along either of the handlebars. The Lieutenant arches a brow as he gives her thigh an affectionate pat, nails grazing the delicate skin before sliding higher to press against her with more force. She lets out a surprised moan, head lolling back, alternating feather lights touches with more insistent force, playing over her in frustrating patterns. She arches against his touch, tries to gain more contact in her awkward position.
“Now,” she’s proud of her voice, still convincingly even despite the chaos of her rapidly degenerating thoughts, “Who isn’t playing fair, sir?”
“Certainly not me,” he presses down hard, elicits a throaty moan. One finger and then a second inside her, the perfect angle; she clamps down on her bodies innate reaction, bites down hard on her lip, the harsh jolt of pain effective in forestalling her end. It earns her a chuckle, “Come on, Wash.” The lightly teasing tone has her steeling her resolve.
“Not yet.”
“Can’t imagine what you’re waiting for…”
She grits her grits her teeth, hips bucking despite her best efforts, “You’re an ass, Taylor.”
“Hard to find that convincing,” he presses a kiss between her breasts, free hand sliding behind her back, tracing the arch, “When you’re like this.”
She manages to loop a hand in his belt, draws him flush against her again. Let’s out a groan as it pins his hand between them (and he knows it well, presses his palm flat against her; it has a sharp bolt of light flashing behind her eyes as she comes dangerously close to the edge, fights to hang on); shifts against him, the warmth of his skin delightful against her own, fingers undoing his belt. He groans when she manages to slip her hand inside his fatigues, fingers closing around his length. She smirks, kisses him lightly as she moves, turns his earlier words against him, “Come on, sir.”
He doesn’t manage a proper reply, eyes sliding shut as she works him, tongue stroking his in time with the movements of her hand. They’ve been apart long enough to render her movements remarkably effective; the man thrusts against her hand and she smiles, leans him forward, teeth tugging lightly at his ear. Her free hand moves, finishes unzipping him, feet catch the material of his fatigues, easing it down his legs. The angle prevents her from ridding him of it entirely but it’s a start. He rests his forehead against her shoulder, breath leaving him in uneven hisses as he nears completion. She stills entirely, removes herself, yanks his boxers down.
With a wicked grin on her face she leans back again, rests against the handlebars, amber eyes alight with unabashed mischief. She grips his biceps, squeezing lightly, legs looped around his waist. With a growl, he kicks the material off the rest of the way, hands gripping her hips to pull her towards him as he thrusts forward.
Their moans come in unison, the feeling of being reunited, of him filling her so completely having yet to lose its novelty. Her nails dig at his shoulders, inclines her hips to better meet him. She finds herself infinitely grateful for the support of the vehicle (and the widened seat), as he reaches over her to grip the handles, pounds her back. The metal digs at her back (not entirely unpleasant) but she finds it difficult to care, air leaving her in a whoosh with each of his movements. She tightens her hold on him, pleased when he fists a hand in her hair, dragging her lips back to his. It’s more his teeth grazing her jaw, moving lightly down her neck, her fingers coming to twine in his hair.
Her gasp is harsh; Taylor breaks first, a muffled yell against her shoulder. He bites down hard, the unexpected jolt of pain coupled with his suddenly erratic movements pushing her over the edge. The festival going on not far from them calls enough of her senses back to mind that she returns the favor, sinks teeth in his shoulder (not hard enough to break skin) to stifle her call. It’s enough to urge him on a little while longer, creates pleasant little aftershocks. She drags him back to her, kiss light, playful, once more, hands gliding down to rest on his ass.
Taylor smiles against her skin, tongue flicking out to brush a stray bead of moisture from the hollow of her throat. She chuckles, gives a warning squeeze. They can’t stay here long. They’ve pushed their luck as is and it’s only a short time until someone comes looking for them. He leans back into a sitting position, taking her with him, rocking her lightly. The Commander nuzzles the junction between her neck and shoulder, voice little more than a throaty purr, “Not done with you yet, woman.”
She’s far from done with him either. Arches into him, shimmies slightly, cranes her neck to give him a better angle, “Then get me home, sir.” Brings him back to her, catches his lower lip between her teeth, dragging it with her a moment as she leans back, “Now.”
The wolfish grin on his face has them both laughing, dressing in record time.
The speed pales in comparison to how quickly they shed their clothes the moment they're safely home.