I'm Going to Be...
Title: I'm Going to Be...
Character/Pairing: Wash/Miles Quaritch, Wash/Taylor
Word Count: 5956
Genre: Drama/Romance
Rating: R
Summary: Every time Wash sees Taylor's brother, she finds herself in a heated situation.
Authors Note: So, makesometime gave me the prompts Crazy, Burn, Claim and Ice for Wash/Quaritch about two weeks ago, and they stewed and bubbled and troubled into this. No spoilers, set through the years pre-series in Somalia and Terra Nova. Thank you to sky_kiss for reading it over and assuring me it didn't suck!
Claim
Sonic blasts flew overhead, booming blue and purple, supercharged to turn anything they hit to sludge and bone dust. Wash flattened herself harder against the ground and turned her head left and right, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of her people.
It was her own damn fault for actually looking forward to meeting up with another unit. To want to see some fresh faces, hear some new jokes, to actually get out of the scrub and sand and onto a boat. With water. (Even if the USS Worthington was an ailing assault vessel in desperate need of retirement - it was still a damn sight better than a tent. It had beds). It was her own fault for secretly dying to meet Major Miles Quaritch. Her CO's brother. For that little extra peek into Taylor's private life, which was still something of a mystery to her. She’d obviously jinxed their run of good luck and quiet nights.
When she'd asked how long the Major had been in Somalia, Taylor had been simultaneously unhelpful and surprisingly open. "No idea. Miles joined the Marines as soon as he was old enough and never was one to keep in touch before that. I keep track of him when I can. Not too many Quaritchs around." At her inquiring look, he'd clarified. "Our folks split when we were kids. Mom and I went back to her maiden name, but Miles was younger, took it harder - refused to change his name. She gave in and let him keep it." He chuckled. "He was a tough bastard even then. You'll see."
Well right now she couldn't see a damn thing. Everything had gone to hell shortly after that conversation, ambushed before they could rendezvous with the Marines. Dust churned up her vision, barely beginning to settle before the rebels let off another round of sonics. Her eyes itched and watered as she tried to make out shadows of her team in the haze.
Another cacaphony over her head - a hail of bullets this time, low enough to scorch the air above. Throbbing in her ears fading she finally heard Taylor's bellow cutting through the racket, ordering everyone out of dodge. Distant shouting in unfamiliar voices accompanied him; military commands she recognised. The roar of a chopper lowering to the ground. The Marines had found them. Turning on her stomach Wash started hauling herself through the brush towards the sound.
Another sonic wave hit, by some sheer stroke of luck hitting the boulders to her right instead of her. Rock pellets and sand blasted her arms and face, shredding her armour and cheek. The shockwave knocked her sideways several feet, leaving her gasping for air through bruised ribs. Another wind kicked up to her other side; the mechanical scream of blades as another helicopter hovered low just clear of her prone position was the best damn sound she'd heard all day.
Then arms were grabbing her, dragging her out of the line of fire and hauling her by the scruff of her neck onto the chopper. She grabbed the nearest strap and held fast as they lifted into the air almost immediately at a shouted word from her companion.
It took a moment for recognition of the voice to penetrate. She rubbed sand out of her eyes and blinked up at the Commander, smiling as he turned around. "Sir..."
She blinked again. "Jesus."
Major Quaritch's eyes crinkled as he settled himself easily on a trauma crate, grasping a dangling strap loosely as if he barely noticed the lurching of the craft. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Soon as people realise how much better looking I am than my brother."
Wash remembered herself, and saluted sharply with her free hand. "Sergeant Alicia Washington, sir."
"Pleasure, Sergeant." He returned the salute and leaned back against the wall separating them from the cockpit. Ran his gaze up and down her battered form and Wash was too exhausted to pretend she wasn’t doing the same. He looked less like Taylor than he sounded like him; clean shaven, taller, rolled up sleeves wrapped tight around muscles even meaner and leaner than her CO’s - and she’d stolen more than one feverishly appreciative look at Taylor’s arms when nobody was looking. Kind of like the look Quaritch was giving her right now.
Heat flooded her face and she reached for a safe subject. “Do we know if there were any casualties yet, sir?”
“We got lucky - a few shrapnel hits but nothing too serious.” He gestured at her cheek. “You take anything worse than that?”
She shook her head, coughing as dust billowed from her ponytail.
Quaritch grinned at her. “Wish I could tell you you’d be getting a hot shower where we’re going, but you’ll be roughing it for a few more days yet. Sorry, Sergeant.”
Wash’s head came up. “We’re not drawing back to the Worthington, sir?”
“No, we are not.” Quaritch nodded vaguely out at the desert. “Change of plans. That ambush left the rebel camp low on defence so we’re taking advantage of the situation. We’ve got a camp set up a few klicks from here. You’ll be joining us.”
“A joint operation?”
“Nope, just us. The commander and the rest of your unit are headed back to the Worthington as planned.”
Wash’s insides knotted oddly, but she fought to keep it from her face. It wasn’t her place to protest orders. Except...usually she’d expect an order of this sort to come from her CO. “Commander Taylor doesn’t need me for our wounded, sir?”
“Commander Taylor is headed for a perfectly fine medical facility. I’m sure he can manage without you.”
Realisation hit her. “He doesn’t know, sir?”
“Our medic is dead, and I don’t have time to waste picking one up or waiting for reinforcements,” he told her bluntly. “I’m claiming you until that changes. My brother will just have to learn to share.”
He pinned her with a look and Wash’s stomach twisted again at his abrupt change in demeanour. The Marines around her holding posts at the windows didn’t stir, apparently unconcerned by their CO’s disregard for protocol or chain of command. Family or not, Taylor was the senior officer of the two.
But Quaritch was the superior here. With nowhere to go and no choice but to follow orders, she wisely bit her tongue...for now.
Crazy
"No."
His mouth pulled to the side, an expression that was both amused and disbelieving. "Excuse me, Sergeant?"
"I said no. You're not going back out there." Almost as soon as she said it, she saw his eyes harden and refused to flinch at how they made his smirk suddenly look more like a snarl.
"Who the hell do you think - "
"I'm the chief medical officer in this unit at the moment and regardless of rank, sir, that gives me the authority to pull you off duty until I decide you're fit for it. You're not fit for it, sir." She hardly believed she needed to say it, with his blood staining half his torso, coating her hands and smeared across her forehead from when she'd swiped her hair out of her face. With a six inch ugly purple gash sewn up across his lower abdomen, deep enough that he would feel the muscles protest for weeks even with the best painkillers they had on hand. That had to hurt like hell right now as he propped himself up on his elbow to get in her face. She held her ground. To show weakness now would be worse than defying him in the first place.
He stilled halfway to upright, and she knew he was feeling the pain but was damn, damn impressed that he managed not to show a hint of it. He made it look exactly like a calculated pause; close enough for her to see every fleck of steel in his blue eyes - to see the dangerous challenge written there. She saw a wolf goading his prey; she the stupid, stupid rabbit caught in his line of sight.
She lifted her chin and stared the wolf down.
He hurled his knife belt and holster at the ground, making an angry noise that sounded more animal than human. Hard fingers gripped her chin. “Then get me a fucking decent comm relay up here, Sergeant,” he growled. “If I’m leading from the bench I need something better than this piece of shit earpiece.”
“Sir.” She jumped to her feet and strode out the tent, not daring to breathe until the flap closed behind her. When it did, the breath escaped her in a rush and a heady thrill raced through her body. She was crazy. Absolutely crazy. And she had the taste of victory on her tongue to show for it.
-
With the rebels successfully put down, their late arrival on the Worthington ought to have been a victorious one and on the surface, it was. Only Wash and perhaps a few other long term officers spotted Taylor hauling Quaritch off to the side while sailors and soldiers mingled together in open celebration. Beer (sadly non-alcoholic, but still good) was hauled out and once the musically talented among them found each other and their instruments, the men and women settled in for a good night off.
Wash stayed long enough to make the rounds, catch up with her unit, and smooth the introductions between her soldiers and Quaritch’s (she didn’t feel like patching up any broken noses over her having been “borrowed”; a few threats to set any such noses as painfully as possible seemed to do the trick). Beer in hand, exhausted, she took herself off to find the barracks and her new bunk.
She had barely begun her planned evening of quietly worshipping the bed (she had a mattress. A mattress) when her comm chirped and Quaritch summoned her brusquely to his quarters.
She bit her lip, having half a mind to tell him to go to hell. It was one thing for him to make demands when in active combat (even if her presence there was unauthorised) and completely another for him to issue orders across military branches when they were off duty. Especially when her real CO was on board and had just raked him over the coals for bypassing command structure and (likely) for commandeering her.
Professionalism and curiosity got the better of her. So it was that she found herself standing outside his door. Logically she should have been dreading this. She couldn’t believe he was done with her over her decision to pull him from the field, or that he’d be in a good mood after speaking with Taylor. Logically, she should have been braced for unpleasantness. Instead she had butterflies gathered in the pit of her stomach that seemed to disagree with logic entirely.
She supposed her taste of victory had given her a little more confidence than anticipated.
Quaritch let her in without a word and left her to shut the door. He crossed the room to pick up two glasses of amber liquid from his desk and handed one to her. Leaning back against the desk, he gestured at her with his drink. “I’ve been instructed to apologise to you for putting you in a difficult position back there in the trenches. Consider this it.”
Wash quirked an eyebrow and took a sip of her drink. It tasted like paint stripper, but with a less appealing taste. She just about managed not to spit it back into the glass, but couldn’t help but pull a face. “With all due respect sir, this is a lousy apology.”
He grinned at her, and sampled his own drink with a grimace. “Non-alcoholic Scotch - they managed to recreate the burn but forgot about the flavour. Best I could do under the circumstances. Makes you want to switch citizenship and join the Brits - at least their Navy isn’t dry.”
“It’s not too late to emigrate, sir.” Wash wrinkled her nose at her glass, but if he was going to keep drinking, she wouldn’t let hers beat her. She could feel him watching her with a thoughtful almost-smile, and suppressed a shiver. Ridiculous that it was harder not to squirm under his appreciative scrutiny than his anger.
“I informed my brother that you handled any so-called difficulty with grace and perfect conduct,” Quaritch remarked after a few moments. “He said he’d expected nothing less and that I owed you anyway.”
She flushed under the praise from both corners. Taylor’s approval, however generously given, was precious to her, never failing to make her warm with pride. Quaritch’s was no less effective, coming unexpectedly when she was certain her defiance had been a black mark in his book. “I was doing my duty, sir.” His geniality made her a little reckless. “How’s the scratch doing?” she asked pointedly.
His eyes danced wickedly at her jab. “Just about sealed up after a trip to the med bay on board. They approved of your...care.” He shrugged; she smirked, knowing that was about as close to an admission that the hospital had backed her decision to ground him as she was going to get.
Her smug expression made him raise an eyebrow. He eyed her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. “You know, I’ve never had a medic who would have dared to countermand me before.”
“Then it’s a good thing you had me instead, sir,” Wash shot back. “It’s my job to keep you alive.”
“You can’t always succeed.”
“I can do my best.”
"You still got some balls telling me what to do, Sergeant. You ever say no to my brother like that?"
"I've never had to, sir." She wasn't lying, not exactly. Taylor had never taken a wound so bad in a location so vital, though it was a close thing and probably only a matter of time. Whether she would be as effective in pitting herself against him was another matter. She was more than aware that he was, always had been, her weakest point and much as she hated the phrase “hero worship”, she had to admit that when it came to Taylor she had it bad. He had a damnable ability to convince her and everyone around him that he was immortal. She had to hope that the day he took that vital injury, her self assurance would be a match for his.
It struck her once again as crazy that she was more capable of saying no to her CO's considerably more aggressive, intemperate brother.
Quaritch set his glass down and approached her slowly. The butterflies in her stomach began to flutter in earnest. Deliberately, precisely, he crowded her against the wall and placed his hands on either side of her hips. “I don’t enjoy being overturned even by my superiors, Washington,” he informed her. His voice was low, but she detected no threat in his tone, noticing how relaxed he was in leaning against the wall. If she wanted, she could push him aside with little effort. “What made you think I would tolerate it from you?”
“I had the right and the authority to say no to you, sir.” Wash made herself rest casually back against the wall and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to enjoy that fact, but I believed you to be the sort of man to respect it.”
“I am.” He admitted as his gaze trailed slowly down her body, snagging on her chest as her breathing deepened the tiniest fraction. He looked back at her face and met her eyes. “Still believe it?”
Ball in her court, Wash contemplated the space between them. His weight rested lightly on his fingertips, leaving a very important few inches between their bodies. The tingling in her fingers and toes and other sensitive parts demanded she close the space immediately. A very small, dull voice in her head acknowledged that she could slip away without touching him at all. But the honest part of her knew the most likely outcome there would be that she’d be unable to resist brushing past him as she left and then be lost entirely at the contact. She despised cowardly half measures; she’d own her decision fully. “I do.”
She raised her chin at him, mimicking their earlier confrontation. Only this time she let her gaze drop to from his eyes to his mouth, and back again. Inviting. Daring.
His mouth pulled to one side and she caught a glitter of pride in his eyes before he ducked his head to kiss her. Whether it was in her or in himself lost its importance as his lips forced hers apart and her butterflies took flight.
She groaned with relief as the ache in her body was relieved by his hands coming to grip her backside and his hips pressing against hers, forcing her hard against the wall. She ran her hands up his chest to grip his collar, hauling him closer. He was all hard muscle and heat, barely contained; his kiss fiercely relentless. Wash broke it before pleasure drugged her entirely, tilting her head up to gasp for air and rocking her hips into him at the same time. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, squeezing her ass hard and moving to capture her lips again.
She ducked his advance deftly, darting in to catch his lower lip from a different angle. Withdrew when he tried to respond, to possess, and did it again, and again, evading his attempts to take control of each fleeting kiss. Grinned when he squeezed her backside again warningly. Her hands slowly unfastened his shirt as she teased him, danced with him. She only succumbed when the last button parted and she slid her palms over the firm expanse of his bare chest. Then she let him tangle a hand in her hair and take her mouth, hard. He was brief about it, punishing; drawing back after a few moments and leaving her unsatisfied.
He jerked her away from the wall and spun her round to the narrow metal desk, pushing her roughly up against it. Wash threw an arm behind her to brace herself and pull herself onto the flat surface, winding her other arm around his neck to drag him with her. Her fingers ran through the short bristles of his hair, a short-lived exploration; he quickly untangled himself from her to divest of her shirt. Without preamble, he flattened her against the desk, rough palms skimming up her stomach and ribcage to cup her breasts through her bra. Wash complied with a gasp, arching up from the cold metal into the heat of his hands. His thumbs moved over her nipples through the thin cotton as his mouth came down on her collarbone.
She’d imagined what he’d be like to know intimately (hadn’t mean to, found it hard to resist). Had wondered if his temper indicated roughness and passion, or if he’d be a study in opposites; hard in battle, gentle in bed. She needn’t have bothered with the psychoanalytical bullshit; Quaritch was exactly what he always was. Ferocious, dedicated, and fiercely controlled. His hands were steel anchors on her hips as his mouth moved down over the swell of her breasts, pressed hot kisses down her stomach, but he left her hands free to flutter over his forearms, smooth over his scarred shoulders. Her nails raked red lines over his skin as he unbuttoned her fatigues and drew them off along with her underwear. At no point did he overwhelm her, hurt her, trap her entirely with no means to protest or say stop. They were seriously skirting the edge of professional conduct here, him more than her, and he was careful to let her breathe.
And yet he left her in no doubt that as long as she was along for the ride, he dominated. He held her hips down and drove her wild with lips and tongue, allowed her to writhe and encourage but not control. He teased her to the edge and retreated, scattering light nips over her lower abdomen, then surprised her with hard suction and a graze of teeth at her most sensitive spot.
“Letting her breathe” was only metaphorical; he had no qualms about taking her breath away.
Even when they were both finally naked in his bunk and he tugged her onto his lap to straddle him, it was him that made the first sharp thrust that made her arch her head back with a choked gasp. His arm like an iron band around her waist that held her steady as he moved inside her. His hands back on her hips that guided her to rock against him just like that...
Mostly. She wasn’t entirely incapable of rendering a man breathless herself. His look of naked, unguarded pleasure when she shoved him down on his back and rode him the way she wanted to (Hands braced on his chest, thighs spread wide over his hips, grinding sinuously against him and hearing him groan) was proof of that. So was the fact that he let her get away with it.
She couldn’t stay the night of course, had to steal back to the barracks before the party wound down and her absence was noted, but she stayed in his bunk a while, dozing and watching him do the same. His arm lay heavy over her shoulder, a comforting weight. Her lips quirked as she observed that even in rest, he was still not completely still. If she so much as stirred, his eyes would open to observe her, check her mood had not shifted, glance at the time. It would take more than great sex to undo his rigid control. She shivered with more than arousal at the thought of him if he ever truly unleashed.
Still, despite the warmth with which he saw her from his quarters, he’d given no indication this was more than a one night occasion, an indulgence of their mutual attraction before they parted company. A pang of disappointment at the thought warred with a relief that Taylor wouldn’t have to know about it. Now there was a scenario too awkward to even contemplate for reasons she wasn’t even sure she wanted to admit to herself.
Maybe in ten years. Maybe.
Ice
She stripped her clothes off with more than the usual haste; stepping under the drizzle of tepid water that passed for a shower on this rusty junkard did absolutely nothing to cool her, and as she towelled off in the (empty - the other women had already dispersed, not having the additional duty of stitching up the wounded when they got back to the ship) barely fan-cooled barracks, she felt the sweat already regathering at her hairline.
The sensation of ice slipping roughly up her spine in combination with a hand on her stomach, yanking her back into a hard body, made her squawk in an incredibly undignified way as she struck out with elbows and feet (later she would SWEAR it was a battle cry. An abrupt, slightly squawky battle cry).
Quaritch's rasp in her ear halted her struggle as abruptly as it had started. "Be nice, Washington, or I won't share." He demonstrated his meaning; slipped the hand at her back around to her front and trailed the ice cube in his fingers over her lips. Already melting, the cool water ran down her chin and over the throat. Wash's tongue darted out instinctively, eager for the first properly cold drink she'd encountered in days. Quaritch's chuckle rumbled through her entire body, and the tilt of his hips against her bare behind punctuated his pleasure.
So. Not a one night thing after all, then.
Wash considered schooling him on exactly how fucked up it was for him to be wandering into the women's barracks while she was showering, where she was supposed to have a measure of privacy, where they could so easily get caught, but when he slipped the ice cube from her mouth down her neck, down between her breasts, and pressed the heel of his hand into her lower body to hold her still, she suddenly forgot how to form words. And remembered that he was cunning enough to ensure he would never get caught.
It was still fucked up.
He slid the ice lower.
This whole thing was.
Lower.
She didn't care.
Burn
With the Seventh Pilgrimage came eighty new civilians and soldiers, a truckload of meds and other supplies, and an active cryotube that had all of them on guard until Reilly wiped down the glass front and her face turned white with shock. Then they were downright alarmed.
“Report, Corporal,” Wash snapped.
“It looks like...it...it’s clear, ma’am. I think you need to see for yourself.”
When Wash approached and looked through the glass to see what had Reilly so shaken up, she ordered the pilgrimage back to the colony, double time. Calling up Taylor directly, she advised him he was going to want to shorten his big welcome speech.
-
The report that accompanied the critically injured Colonel Miles Quaritch was about as cold and inadequate as the beaten up cryo unit they’d shipped him in. Fucking company men. They’d brought him back from Pandora with two holes in his chest and unknown neural damage from a toxin he should never have survived, discharged him from service and tossed him back through the portal to his brother - all without even waking him up. Wash would have dearly loved to know what happened on Pandora - she suspected Taylor knew more than she did, but so far he wasn’t ready to share it with her - to make the powers that be want Quaritch to disappear, but they had apparently been willing to pay a lot of bribe money to make it happen, and swiftly.
Though she supposed they’d saved it on his medical care. There were still arrow fragments lodged in his chest. Only the suspension had kept them from getting infected, and blind luck had kept them from shifting and killing him. The doctors were going in surgically as soon as they were sure all the toxin was clear of his system and he was stable enough to survive the procedure.
In the meantime, he was on lockdown in a private room. Wash hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of him since they’d brought his cryo unit to the infirmary. As far as she knew, the only ones who had were Taylor and the medical staff. She tried probing for information, but her CO was shut down on the matter.
Until three nights later. Taylor showed up on her doorstep. “He’s awake, Wash,” he told her heavily. “Doc’s taking him in for surgery in a few hours. Would you go talk to him? He should see a friendly face before...”
“Before undergoing a dangerous op. Got it.” Wash eyed Taylor carefully, noting the strain in his face, the way his hands were fisted. “You’re not going to see him?”
“Already have. Not sure I would call it friendly.” His laugh was harsh, unhappy. “We’ve never been too good at putting arguments to one side, even when it’s not the time. Especially when it’s not the time. Probably makes me a lousy brother.” He rubbed his face tiredly.
“You know you’re going to have to fill me in sooner or later.”
“I know. And I will. But not yet. Just...go and see him first. He’s like a bear with a sore head right now, but he liked you, and he needs to see someone who doesn’t want to kill him before he goes under.”
Wash just nodded, knowing now was not the time to let Taylor know exactly how much his brother had ‘liked her’ all those years ago. Or how much it had been reciprocated. Ancient history, but the delicacies of telling the man she loved that she’d once had a fling with his brother escaped her for the moment. He was trying to spare her something for the moment, spare Miles her reaction, and if she told him the truth he might have changed his mind.
Whatever Miles had done, it had to be pretty bad to have his own, all too forgiving brother show this much feeling. When she knew, she’d probably want to kill him too. But he was also wounded, disgraced, alone in a place he never asked to come to and could never leave, and either facing death on the table or a lifetime facing the consequences of his choices. So she didn’t need to know what those choices were right now. She could give him a little more time.
As she crossed the square towards the infirmary, she wondered how the hell she should handle this. He’d scorn condolences or pity. He wouldn’t be interested in comfort. And “How have you been?” seemed rather rhetorical at this point. Finally she settled for something simple and straightforward - something he always seemed to like, something she thought he’d appreciate.
“So three tours of Nigeria, a stint in Somalia, at least one round in China that I’m not supposed to know about - and you get your ass kicked by some skinny half-naked princess with a bow and arrow?”
“Screw you, Washington.” His voice sounded terrible, dry and strained, but she grinned as she saw a reluctant smirk tug at his mouth. “Nice to know you still like to burn a man when he’s down.” He lifted his arm from his eyes and glared at her. “And she was a warrior princess with a Marine boyfriend and a fuckin’ big dog, thanks very much.”
“Oh, like you’d ever let me live it down for a pitiful “it was three on one” excuse.” Wash dragged a chair backwards up to his bedside and straddled it, crossing her arms loosely around the back. “You look pretty good for a dead man, though. Thought that neurotoxin shit was supposed to be fatal.”
“Not a topic I want to visit right now, soldier.” He didn’t break her gaze, but she saw his jaw lock, his eyes ice over. He had never been a man to tolerate defeat well. It only roused his temper to more frightening heights, and from his perspective it had only been a few days ago he’d suffered that humiliation.
Wash chose to distract rather than attempt to placate him, reaching over and lightly sweeping her fingers along his arm. He certainly hadn’t suffered from the effects of Pandora’s low gravity. She hummed deliberately aloud with approval, smoothing her thumb over his wrist, making small circles. She kept her touch light, teasing, an edge that could not be mistaken for anything so weak as comfort.
After a moment she felt his muscles relax and he lowered his eyes to study her ministrations. One eyebrow lifted lazily. “Never took you for the tender type, Washington. Paradise making you soft?”
“‘Don’t be mean to me, Washington. Don’t be nice to me, Washington.’” She raised her own eyebrow at him and leaned closer. “I suppose your bedside manner is better, hotshot?”
It was too easy, and his smirk told her as much, but he took the bait anyway. “I don’t remember any complaints from you.” And then took it further. “And I’d never turn down you offering to be nice to me, Lieutenant.”
Wash grinned. “I wasn’t offering that. You’re in no shape for it anyway.”
“A quickie under the hospital sheets for old time’s sake? Pretty sure I could find it in me. Might let you have the top.”
“Oh, tempting.” She was playing with fire now, and her heartbeat quickened in response. He wouldn’t forget her flirting when he was awake (because of course he was going to wake up - the only knife Miles Quaritch would deign to die under wouldn’t be wielded by a surgeon) and then she’d have to figure out how to deal with said fire without getting burned.
Still, she’d rather tangle with the unruly blaze than bury cold ashes.
“Sorry.” She gave an exaggerated shrug and withdrew her hand from his arm, leaning back. “I just don’t think you can handle me in your condition.”
“Shame.” The wicked glint that had come into his eyes faded. “That was my last shot at a good ride in years. I figure when I wake up, Nathan’ll have told you everything and your pretty little heart will be bleeding all over the floor just like his so righteously is.”
“You don’t mean for you,” Wash remarked quietly.
He gave a short huff, a half laugh. “No I do not.”
She was quiet a moment. Then, “Who did you kill?”
Quaritch gazed at her for so long a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then she realised he wasn’t looking at her, but through her at something only he could see.
Finally he turned away, facing the ceiling, and closed his eyes. “Everyone who mattered.”
And just like that, he'd shut her out. Wash licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. Sensing she wasn’t going to get a better reply from him, she rose to leave him in peace. "Rest easy, Miles."
His hand caught hers just as she was about to move away from the bed. Wash froze as he threaded his fingers through hers and drew the back of her hand to his lips. They felt hot, feverish against her cool skin, and she shivered as it drew forth an old memory. Cold ice on heated skin... The oddly gentlemanly gesture had her utterly confounded for a moment until he raised his eyes to hers and nodded towards her chest. He favoured her with a cynical smile. “You moved on.”
Nathaniel’s tags. His old military tags, broken, hanging round her neck with hers. Her hand flew to the chain instinctively. “Wasn’t exactly planning on pining my life away for a few weeks of good sex.”
He lowered her hand but didn’t release it. “Just good? Give me a little more than that, woman. I’ve had a hell of a day.”
She leaned over him, bracing her free hand on the edge of the mattress, and gave him a dark smile. “Tell you what. Promise to come through, and I’ll see that a very flattering reputation finds its way through the female barracks.”
“Hell, Washington, you’re a hard woman to get a compliment out of.” His laugh turned into a cough. Wash shifted her hand to settle on his chest as he groaned in pain. He didn’t seem to mind. “What if I don’t make it?”
“Oh, then I tell them all you wrote me poetry, and cried when you had to be parted from my side.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She smirked and patted his chest. “Are you willing to take that chance?”
“They’d never buy it.”
“I’m their boss - they have to believe me.”
He laughed painfully again. “God help me, I guess I’m working under you now too.” He sighed and, giving her hand a final squeeze, let her go. “Get your ass out of here, Lieutenant. Let me get some sleep.”
When she hesitated, the anxious question hovering on the tip of her tongue, he gave her a slight nod and gestured to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Wash nodded, gripped his arm lightly before she left. “Welcome to Terra Nova, Colonel. I’ll bring you a stuffed dinosaur.”
Character/Pairing: Wash/Miles Quaritch, Wash/Taylor
Word Count: 5956
Genre: Drama/Romance
Rating: R
Summary: Every time Wash sees Taylor's brother, she finds herself in a heated situation.
Authors Note: So, makesometime gave me the prompts Crazy, Burn, Claim and Ice for Wash/Quaritch about two weeks ago, and they stewed and bubbled and troubled into this. No spoilers, set through the years pre-series in Somalia and Terra Nova. Thank you to sky_kiss for reading it over and assuring me it didn't suck!
Claim
Sonic blasts flew overhead, booming blue and purple, supercharged to turn anything they hit to sludge and bone dust. Wash flattened herself harder against the ground and turned her head left and right, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of her people.
It was her own damn fault for actually looking forward to meeting up with another unit. To want to see some fresh faces, hear some new jokes, to actually get out of the scrub and sand and onto a boat. With water. (Even if the USS Worthington was an ailing assault vessel in desperate need of retirement - it was still a damn sight better than a tent. It had beds). It was her own fault for secretly dying to meet Major Miles Quaritch. Her CO's brother. For that little extra peek into Taylor's private life, which was still something of a mystery to her. She’d obviously jinxed their run of good luck and quiet nights.
When she'd asked how long the Major had been in Somalia, Taylor had been simultaneously unhelpful and surprisingly open. "No idea. Miles joined the Marines as soon as he was old enough and never was one to keep in touch before that. I keep track of him when I can. Not too many Quaritchs around." At her inquiring look, he'd clarified. "Our folks split when we were kids. Mom and I went back to her maiden name, but Miles was younger, took it harder - refused to change his name. She gave in and let him keep it." He chuckled. "He was a tough bastard even then. You'll see."
Well right now she couldn't see a damn thing. Everything had gone to hell shortly after that conversation, ambushed before they could rendezvous with the Marines. Dust churned up her vision, barely beginning to settle before the rebels let off another round of sonics. Her eyes itched and watered as she tried to make out shadows of her team in the haze.
Another cacaphony over her head - a hail of bullets this time, low enough to scorch the air above. Throbbing in her ears fading she finally heard Taylor's bellow cutting through the racket, ordering everyone out of dodge. Distant shouting in unfamiliar voices accompanied him; military commands she recognised. The roar of a chopper lowering to the ground. The Marines had found them. Turning on her stomach Wash started hauling herself through the brush towards the sound.
Another sonic wave hit, by some sheer stroke of luck hitting the boulders to her right instead of her. Rock pellets and sand blasted her arms and face, shredding her armour and cheek. The shockwave knocked her sideways several feet, leaving her gasping for air through bruised ribs. Another wind kicked up to her other side; the mechanical scream of blades as another helicopter hovered low just clear of her prone position was the best damn sound she'd heard all day.
Then arms were grabbing her, dragging her out of the line of fire and hauling her by the scruff of her neck onto the chopper. She grabbed the nearest strap and held fast as they lifted into the air almost immediately at a shouted word from her companion.
It took a moment for recognition of the voice to penetrate. She rubbed sand out of her eyes and blinked up at the Commander, smiling as he turned around. "Sir..."
She blinked again. "Jesus."
Major Quaritch's eyes crinkled as he settled himself easily on a trauma crate, grasping a dangling strap loosely as if he barely noticed the lurching of the craft. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Soon as people realise how much better looking I am than my brother."
Wash remembered herself, and saluted sharply with her free hand. "Sergeant Alicia Washington, sir."
"Pleasure, Sergeant." He returned the salute and leaned back against the wall separating them from the cockpit. Ran his gaze up and down her battered form and Wash was too exhausted to pretend she wasn’t doing the same. He looked less like Taylor than he sounded like him; clean shaven, taller, rolled up sleeves wrapped tight around muscles even meaner and leaner than her CO’s - and she’d stolen more than one feverishly appreciative look at Taylor’s arms when nobody was looking. Kind of like the look Quaritch was giving her right now.
Heat flooded her face and she reached for a safe subject. “Do we know if there were any casualties yet, sir?”
“We got lucky - a few shrapnel hits but nothing too serious.” He gestured at her cheek. “You take anything worse than that?”
She shook her head, coughing as dust billowed from her ponytail.
Quaritch grinned at her. “Wish I could tell you you’d be getting a hot shower where we’re going, but you’ll be roughing it for a few more days yet. Sorry, Sergeant.”
Wash’s head came up. “We’re not drawing back to the Worthington, sir?”
“No, we are not.” Quaritch nodded vaguely out at the desert. “Change of plans. That ambush left the rebel camp low on defence so we’re taking advantage of the situation. We’ve got a camp set up a few klicks from here. You’ll be joining us.”
“A joint operation?”
“Nope, just us. The commander and the rest of your unit are headed back to the Worthington as planned.”
Wash’s insides knotted oddly, but she fought to keep it from her face. It wasn’t her place to protest orders. Except...usually she’d expect an order of this sort to come from her CO. “Commander Taylor doesn’t need me for our wounded, sir?”
“Commander Taylor is headed for a perfectly fine medical facility. I’m sure he can manage without you.”
Realisation hit her. “He doesn’t know, sir?”
“Our medic is dead, and I don’t have time to waste picking one up or waiting for reinforcements,” he told her bluntly. “I’m claiming you until that changes. My brother will just have to learn to share.”
He pinned her with a look and Wash’s stomach twisted again at his abrupt change in demeanour. The Marines around her holding posts at the windows didn’t stir, apparently unconcerned by their CO’s disregard for protocol or chain of command. Family or not, Taylor was the senior officer of the two.
But Quaritch was the superior here. With nowhere to go and no choice but to follow orders, she wisely bit her tongue...for now.
Crazy
"No."
His mouth pulled to the side, an expression that was both amused and disbelieving. "Excuse me, Sergeant?"
"I said no. You're not going back out there." Almost as soon as she said it, she saw his eyes harden and refused to flinch at how they made his smirk suddenly look more like a snarl.
"Who the hell do you think - "
"I'm the chief medical officer in this unit at the moment and regardless of rank, sir, that gives me the authority to pull you off duty until I decide you're fit for it. You're not fit for it, sir." She hardly believed she needed to say it, with his blood staining half his torso, coating her hands and smeared across her forehead from when she'd swiped her hair out of her face. With a six inch ugly purple gash sewn up across his lower abdomen, deep enough that he would feel the muscles protest for weeks even with the best painkillers they had on hand. That had to hurt like hell right now as he propped himself up on his elbow to get in her face. She held her ground. To show weakness now would be worse than defying him in the first place.
He stilled halfway to upright, and she knew he was feeling the pain but was damn, damn impressed that he managed not to show a hint of it. He made it look exactly like a calculated pause; close enough for her to see every fleck of steel in his blue eyes - to see the dangerous challenge written there. She saw a wolf goading his prey; she the stupid, stupid rabbit caught in his line of sight.
She lifted her chin and stared the wolf down.
He hurled his knife belt and holster at the ground, making an angry noise that sounded more animal than human. Hard fingers gripped her chin. “Then get me a fucking decent comm relay up here, Sergeant,” he growled. “If I’m leading from the bench I need something better than this piece of shit earpiece.”
“Sir.” She jumped to her feet and strode out the tent, not daring to breathe until the flap closed behind her. When it did, the breath escaped her in a rush and a heady thrill raced through her body. She was crazy. Absolutely crazy. And she had the taste of victory on her tongue to show for it.
-
With the rebels successfully put down, their late arrival on the Worthington ought to have been a victorious one and on the surface, it was. Only Wash and perhaps a few other long term officers spotted Taylor hauling Quaritch off to the side while sailors and soldiers mingled together in open celebration. Beer (sadly non-alcoholic, but still good) was hauled out and once the musically talented among them found each other and their instruments, the men and women settled in for a good night off.
Wash stayed long enough to make the rounds, catch up with her unit, and smooth the introductions between her soldiers and Quaritch’s (she didn’t feel like patching up any broken noses over her having been “borrowed”; a few threats to set any such noses as painfully as possible seemed to do the trick). Beer in hand, exhausted, she took herself off to find the barracks and her new bunk.
She had barely begun her planned evening of quietly worshipping the bed (she had a mattress. A mattress) when her comm chirped and Quaritch summoned her brusquely to his quarters.
She bit her lip, having half a mind to tell him to go to hell. It was one thing for him to make demands when in active combat (even if her presence there was unauthorised) and completely another for him to issue orders across military branches when they were off duty. Especially when her real CO was on board and had just raked him over the coals for bypassing command structure and (likely) for commandeering her.
Professionalism and curiosity got the better of her. So it was that she found herself standing outside his door. Logically she should have been dreading this. She couldn’t believe he was done with her over her decision to pull him from the field, or that he’d be in a good mood after speaking with Taylor. Logically, she should have been braced for unpleasantness. Instead she had butterflies gathered in the pit of her stomach that seemed to disagree with logic entirely.
She supposed her taste of victory had given her a little more confidence than anticipated.
Quaritch let her in without a word and left her to shut the door. He crossed the room to pick up two glasses of amber liquid from his desk and handed one to her. Leaning back against the desk, he gestured at her with his drink. “I’ve been instructed to apologise to you for putting you in a difficult position back there in the trenches. Consider this it.”
Wash quirked an eyebrow and took a sip of her drink. It tasted like paint stripper, but with a less appealing taste. She just about managed not to spit it back into the glass, but couldn’t help but pull a face. “With all due respect sir, this is a lousy apology.”
He grinned at her, and sampled his own drink with a grimace. “Non-alcoholic Scotch - they managed to recreate the burn but forgot about the flavour. Best I could do under the circumstances. Makes you want to switch citizenship and join the Brits - at least their Navy isn’t dry.”
“It’s not too late to emigrate, sir.” Wash wrinkled her nose at her glass, but if he was going to keep drinking, she wouldn’t let hers beat her. She could feel him watching her with a thoughtful almost-smile, and suppressed a shiver. Ridiculous that it was harder not to squirm under his appreciative scrutiny than his anger.
“I informed my brother that you handled any so-called difficulty with grace and perfect conduct,” Quaritch remarked after a few moments. “He said he’d expected nothing less and that I owed you anyway.”
She flushed under the praise from both corners. Taylor’s approval, however generously given, was precious to her, never failing to make her warm with pride. Quaritch’s was no less effective, coming unexpectedly when she was certain her defiance had been a black mark in his book. “I was doing my duty, sir.” His geniality made her a little reckless. “How’s the scratch doing?” she asked pointedly.
His eyes danced wickedly at her jab. “Just about sealed up after a trip to the med bay on board. They approved of your...care.” He shrugged; she smirked, knowing that was about as close to an admission that the hospital had backed her decision to ground him as she was going to get.
Her smug expression made him raise an eyebrow. He eyed her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. “You know, I’ve never had a medic who would have dared to countermand me before.”
“Then it’s a good thing you had me instead, sir,” Wash shot back. “It’s my job to keep you alive.”
“You can’t always succeed.”
“I can do my best.”
"You still got some balls telling me what to do, Sergeant. You ever say no to my brother like that?"
"I've never had to, sir." She wasn't lying, not exactly. Taylor had never taken a wound so bad in a location so vital, though it was a close thing and probably only a matter of time. Whether she would be as effective in pitting herself against him was another matter. She was more than aware that he was, always had been, her weakest point and much as she hated the phrase “hero worship”, she had to admit that when it came to Taylor she had it bad. He had a damnable ability to convince her and everyone around him that he was immortal. She had to hope that the day he took that vital injury, her self assurance would be a match for his.
It struck her once again as crazy that she was more capable of saying no to her CO's considerably more aggressive, intemperate brother.
Quaritch set his glass down and approached her slowly. The butterflies in her stomach began to flutter in earnest. Deliberately, precisely, he crowded her against the wall and placed his hands on either side of her hips. “I don’t enjoy being overturned even by my superiors, Washington,” he informed her. His voice was low, but she detected no threat in his tone, noticing how relaxed he was in leaning against the wall. If she wanted, she could push him aside with little effort. “What made you think I would tolerate it from you?”
“I had the right and the authority to say no to you, sir.” Wash made herself rest casually back against the wall and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to enjoy that fact, but I believed you to be the sort of man to respect it.”
“I am.” He admitted as his gaze trailed slowly down her body, snagging on her chest as her breathing deepened the tiniest fraction. He looked back at her face and met her eyes. “Still believe it?”
Ball in her court, Wash contemplated the space between them. His weight rested lightly on his fingertips, leaving a very important few inches between their bodies. The tingling in her fingers and toes and other sensitive parts demanded she close the space immediately. A very small, dull voice in her head acknowledged that she could slip away without touching him at all. But the honest part of her knew the most likely outcome there would be that she’d be unable to resist brushing past him as she left and then be lost entirely at the contact. She despised cowardly half measures; she’d own her decision fully. “I do.”
She raised her chin at him, mimicking their earlier confrontation. Only this time she let her gaze drop to from his eyes to his mouth, and back again. Inviting. Daring.
His mouth pulled to one side and she caught a glitter of pride in his eyes before he ducked his head to kiss her. Whether it was in her or in himself lost its importance as his lips forced hers apart and her butterflies took flight.
She groaned with relief as the ache in her body was relieved by his hands coming to grip her backside and his hips pressing against hers, forcing her hard against the wall. She ran her hands up his chest to grip his collar, hauling him closer. He was all hard muscle and heat, barely contained; his kiss fiercely relentless. Wash broke it before pleasure drugged her entirely, tilting her head up to gasp for air and rocking her hips into him at the same time. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, squeezing her ass hard and moving to capture her lips again.
She ducked his advance deftly, darting in to catch his lower lip from a different angle. Withdrew when he tried to respond, to possess, and did it again, and again, evading his attempts to take control of each fleeting kiss. Grinned when he squeezed her backside again warningly. Her hands slowly unfastened his shirt as she teased him, danced with him. She only succumbed when the last button parted and she slid her palms over the firm expanse of his bare chest. Then she let him tangle a hand in her hair and take her mouth, hard. He was brief about it, punishing; drawing back after a few moments and leaving her unsatisfied.
He jerked her away from the wall and spun her round to the narrow metal desk, pushing her roughly up against it. Wash threw an arm behind her to brace herself and pull herself onto the flat surface, winding her other arm around his neck to drag him with her. Her fingers ran through the short bristles of his hair, a short-lived exploration; he quickly untangled himself from her to divest of her shirt. Without preamble, he flattened her against the desk, rough palms skimming up her stomach and ribcage to cup her breasts through her bra. Wash complied with a gasp, arching up from the cold metal into the heat of his hands. His thumbs moved over her nipples through the thin cotton as his mouth came down on her collarbone.
She’d imagined what he’d be like to know intimately (hadn’t mean to, found it hard to resist). Had wondered if his temper indicated roughness and passion, or if he’d be a study in opposites; hard in battle, gentle in bed. She needn’t have bothered with the psychoanalytical bullshit; Quaritch was exactly what he always was. Ferocious, dedicated, and fiercely controlled. His hands were steel anchors on her hips as his mouth moved down over the swell of her breasts, pressed hot kisses down her stomach, but he left her hands free to flutter over his forearms, smooth over his scarred shoulders. Her nails raked red lines over his skin as he unbuttoned her fatigues and drew them off along with her underwear. At no point did he overwhelm her, hurt her, trap her entirely with no means to protest or say stop. They were seriously skirting the edge of professional conduct here, him more than her, and he was careful to let her breathe.
And yet he left her in no doubt that as long as she was along for the ride, he dominated. He held her hips down and drove her wild with lips and tongue, allowed her to writhe and encourage but not control. He teased her to the edge and retreated, scattering light nips over her lower abdomen, then surprised her with hard suction and a graze of teeth at her most sensitive spot.
“Letting her breathe” was only metaphorical; he had no qualms about taking her breath away.
Even when they were both finally naked in his bunk and he tugged her onto his lap to straddle him, it was him that made the first sharp thrust that made her arch her head back with a choked gasp. His arm like an iron band around her waist that held her steady as he moved inside her. His hands back on her hips that guided her to rock against him just like that...
Mostly. She wasn’t entirely incapable of rendering a man breathless herself. His look of naked, unguarded pleasure when she shoved him down on his back and rode him the way she wanted to (Hands braced on his chest, thighs spread wide over his hips, grinding sinuously against him and hearing him groan) was proof of that. So was the fact that he let her get away with it.
She couldn’t stay the night of course, had to steal back to the barracks before the party wound down and her absence was noted, but she stayed in his bunk a while, dozing and watching him do the same. His arm lay heavy over her shoulder, a comforting weight. Her lips quirked as she observed that even in rest, he was still not completely still. If she so much as stirred, his eyes would open to observe her, check her mood had not shifted, glance at the time. It would take more than great sex to undo his rigid control. She shivered with more than arousal at the thought of him if he ever truly unleashed.
Still, despite the warmth with which he saw her from his quarters, he’d given no indication this was more than a one night occasion, an indulgence of their mutual attraction before they parted company. A pang of disappointment at the thought warred with a relief that Taylor wouldn’t have to know about it. Now there was a scenario too awkward to even contemplate for reasons she wasn’t even sure she wanted to admit to herself.
Maybe in ten years. Maybe.
Ice
She stripped her clothes off with more than the usual haste; stepping under the drizzle of tepid water that passed for a shower on this rusty junkard did absolutely nothing to cool her, and as she towelled off in the (empty - the other women had already dispersed, not having the additional duty of stitching up the wounded when they got back to the ship) barely fan-cooled barracks, she felt the sweat already regathering at her hairline.
The sensation of ice slipping roughly up her spine in combination with a hand on her stomach, yanking her back into a hard body, made her squawk in an incredibly undignified way as she struck out with elbows and feet (later she would SWEAR it was a battle cry. An abrupt, slightly squawky battle cry).
Quaritch's rasp in her ear halted her struggle as abruptly as it had started. "Be nice, Washington, or I won't share." He demonstrated his meaning; slipped the hand at her back around to her front and trailed the ice cube in his fingers over her lips. Already melting, the cool water ran down her chin and over the throat. Wash's tongue darted out instinctively, eager for the first properly cold drink she'd encountered in days. Quaritch's chuckle rumbled through her entire body, and the tilt of his hips against her bare behind punctuated his pleasure.
So. Not a one night thing after all, then.
Wash considered schooling him on exactly how fucked up it was for him to be wandering into the women's barracks while she was showering, where she was supposed to have a measure of privacy, where they could so easily get caught, but when he slipped the ice cube from her mouth down her neck, down between her breasts, and pressed the heel of his hand into her lower body to hold her still, she suddenly forgot how to form words. And remembered that he was cunning enough to ensure he would never get caught.
It was still fucked up.
He slid the ice lower.
This whole thing was.
Lower.
She didn't care.
Burn
With the Seventh Pilgrimage came eighty new civilians and soldiers, a truckload of meds and other supplies, and an active cryotube that had all of them on guard until Reilly wiped down the glass front and her face turned white with shock. Then they were downright alarmed.
“Report, Corporal,” Wash snapped.
“It looks like...it...it’s clear, ma’am. I think you need to see for yourself.”
When Wash approached and looked through the glass to see what had Reilly so shaken up, she ordered the pilgrimage back to the colony, double time. Calling up Taylor directly, she advised him he was going to want to shorten his big welcome speech.
-
The report that accompanied the critically injured Colonel Miles Quaritch was about as cold and inadequate as the beaten up cryo unit they’d shipped him in. Fucking company men. They’d brought him back from Pandora with two holes in his chest and unknown neural damage from a toxin he should never have survived, discharged him from service and tossed him back through the portal to his brother - all without even waking him up. Wash would have dearly loved to know what happened on Pandora - she suspected Taylor knew more than she did, but so far he wasn’t ready to share it with her - to make the powers that be want Quaritch to disappear, but they had apparently been willing to pay a lot of bribe money to make it happen, and swiftly.
Though she supposed they’d saved it on his medical care. There were still arrow fragments lodged in his chest. Only the suspension had kept them from getting infected, and blind luck had kept them from shifting and killing him. The doctors were going in surgically as soon as they were sure all the toxin was clear of his system and he was stable enough to survive the procedure.
In the meantime, he was on lockdown in a private room. Wash hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of him since they’d brought his cryo unit to the infirmary. As far as she knew, the only ones who had were Taylor and the medical staff. She tried probing for information, but her CO was shut down on the matter.
Until three nights later. Taylor showed up on her doorstep. “He’s awake, Wash,” he told her heavily. “Doc’s taking him in for surgery in a few hours. Would you go talk to him? He should see a friendly face before...”
“Before undergoing a dangerous op. Got it.” Wash eyed Taylor carefully, noting the strain in his face, the way his hands were fisted. “You’re not going to see him?”
“Already have. Not sure I would call it friendly.” His laugh was harsh, unhappy. “We’ve never been too good at putting arguments to one side, even when it’s not the time. Especially when it’s not the time. Probably makes me a lousy brother.” He rubbed his face tiredly.
“You know you’re going to have to fill me in sooner or later.”
“I know. And I will. But not yet. Just...go and see him first. He’s like a bear with a sore head right now, but he liked you, and he needs to see someone who doesn’t want to kill him before he goes under.”
Wash just nodded, knowing now was not the time to let Taylor know exactly how much his brother had ‘liked her’ all those years ago. Or how much it had been reciprocated. Ancient history, but the delicacies of telling the man she loved that she’d once had a fling with his brother escaped her for the moment. He was trying to spare her something for the moment, spare Miles her reaction, and if she told him the truth he might have changed his mind.
Whatever Miles had done, it had to be pretty bad to have his own, all too forgiving brother show this much feeling. When she knew, she’d probably want to kill him too. But he was also wounded, disgraced, alone in a place he never asked to come to and could never leave, and either facing death on the table or a lifetime facing the consequences of his choices. So she didn’t need to know what those choices were right now. She could give him a little more time.
As she crossed the square towards the infirmary, she wondered how the hell she should handle this. He’d scorn condolences or pity. He wouldn’t be interested in comfort. And “How have you been?” seemed rather rhetorical at this point. Finally she settled for something simple and straightforward - something he always seemed to like, something she thought he’d appreciate.
“So three tours of Nigeria, a stint in Somalia, at least one round in China that I’m not supposed to know about - and you get your ass kicked by some skinny half-naked princess with a bow and arrow?”
“Screw you, Washington.” His voice sounded terrible, dry and strained, but she grinned as she saw a reluctant smirk tug at his mouth. “Nice to know you still like to burn a man when he’s down.” He lifted his arm from his eyes and glared at her. “And she was a warrior princess with a Marine boyfriend and a fuckin’ big dog, thanks very much.”
“Oh, like you’d ever let me live it down for a pitiful “it was three on one” excuse.” Wash dragged a chair backwards up to his bedside and straddled it, crossing her arms loosely around the back. “You look pretty good for a dead man, though. Thought that neurotoxin shit was supposed to be fatal.”
“Not a topic I want to visit right now, soldier.” He didn’t break her gaze, but she saw his jaw lock, his eyes ice over. He had never been a man to tolerate defeat well. It only roused his temper to more frightening heights, and from his perspective it had only been a few days ago he’d suffered that humiliation.
Wash chose to distract rather than attempt to placate him, reaching over and lightly sweeping her fingers along his arm. He certainly hadn’t suffered from the effects of Pandora’s low gravity. She hummed deliberately aloud with approval, smoothing her thumb over his wrist, making small circles. She kept her touch light, teasing, an edge that could not be mistaken for anything so weak as comfort.
After a moment she felt his muscles relax and he lowered his eyes to study her ministrations. One eyebrow lifted lazily. “Never took you for the tender type, Washington. Paradise making you soft?”
“‘Don’t be mean to me, Washington. Don’t be nice to me, Washington.’” She raised her own eyebrow at him and leaned closer. “I suppose your bedside manner is better, hotshot?”
It was too easy, and his smirk told her as much, but he took the bait anyway. “I don’t remember any complaints from you.” And then took it further. “And I’d never turn down you offering to be nice to me, Lieutenant.”
Wash grinned. “I wasn’t offering that. You’re in no shape for it anyway.”
“A quickie under the hospital sheets for old time’s sake? Pretty sure I could find it in me. Might let you have the top.”
“Oh, tempting.” She was playing with fire now, and her heartbeat quickened in response. He wouldn’t forget her flirting when he was awake (because of course he was going to wake up - the only knife Miles Quaritch would deign to die under wouldn’t be wielded by a surgeon) and then she’d have to figure out how to deal with said fire without getting burned.
Still, she’d rather tangle with the unruly blaze than bury cold ashes.
“Sorry.” She gave an exaggerated shrug and withdrew her hand from his arm, leaning back. “I just don’t think you can handle me in your condition.”
“Shame.” The wicked glint that had come into his eyes faded. “That was my last shot at a good ride in years. I figure when I wake up, Nathan’ll have told you everything and your pretty little heart will be bleeding all over the floor just like his so righteously is.”
“You don’t mean for you,” Wash remarked quietly.
He gave a short huff, a half laugh. “No I do not.”
She was quiet a moment. Then, “Who did you kill?”
Quaritch gazed at her for so long a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then she realised he wasn’t looking at her, but through her at something only he could see.
Finally he turned away, facing the ceiling, and closed his eyes. “Everyone who mattered.”
And just like that, he'd shut her out. Wash licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. Sensing she wasn’t going to get a better reply from him, she rose to leave him in peace. "Rest easy, Miles."
His hand caught hers just as she was about to move away from the bed. Wash froze as he threaded his fingers through hers and drew the back of her hand to his lips. They felt hot, feverish against her cool skin, and she shivered as it drew forth an old memory. Cold ice on heated skin... The oddly gentlemanly gesture had her utterly confounded for a moment until he raised his eyes to hers and nodded towards her chest. He favoured her with a cynical smile. “You moved on.”
Nathaniel’s tags. His old military tags, broken, hanging round her neck with hers. Her hand flew to the chain instinctively. “Wasn’t exactly planning on pining my life away for a few weeks of good sex.”
He lowered her hand but didn’t release it. “Just good? Give me a little more than that, woman. I’ve had a hell of a day.”
She leaned over him, bracing her free hand on the edge of the mattress, and gave him a dark smile. “Tell you what. Promise to come through, and I’ll see that a very flattering reputation finds its way through the female barracks.”
“Hell, Washington, you’re a hard woman to get a compliment out of.” His laugh turned into a cough. Wash shifted her hand to settle on his chest as he groaned in pain. He didn’t seem to mind. “What if I don’t make it?”
“Oh, then I tell them all you wrote me poetry, and cried when you had to be parted from my side.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She smirked and patted his chest. “Are you willing to take that chance?”
“They’d never buy it.”
“I’m their boss - they have to believe me.”
He laughed painfully again. “God help me, I guess I’m working under you now too.” He sighed and, giving her hand a final squeeze, let her go. “Get your ass out of here, Lieutenant. Let me get some sleep.”
When she hesitated, the anxious question hovering on the tip of her tongue, he gave her a slight nod and gestured to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Wash nodded, gripped his arm lightly before she left. “Welcome to Terra Nova, Colonel. I’ll bring you a stuffed dinosaur.”