Just One Word: Gift Fic Edition 2
Title: Sick Day
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 5,011
Genre: Romance/Fluff/Humor
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: She isn't sick; she can function perfectly well and she's damn well going to prove it.
Author’s Note: Gift Fic for makesometime. Originally, she was going to get something else, but it was similar (and far less sexy) then something she wrote. Oddly, the replacement topic was...also something she wrote, in the same set of fics. Oh well. Remembered you saying you wanted some domestic BAMF so...hopefully you enjoy this at least a little, lovely! ItmightbesugaryenoughtomakeyouvomitI'mnotsure....
Sick Day
The general consensus around the colony for the first four years or so is that their leaders are something more than human. Guzman starts it, laughing, giving Taylor a clap on the shoulder as the duo soldier on, weather the tumultuous start of Terra Nova. It’s a joke at first but as the years wear on it’s said with more conviction, something bordering on suspicion. By year four any laughter is mostly nervous because, as far as anyone can tell, neither Taylor nor Washington is human. They don’t ever seem to sleep, they eat infrequently at best, and they are never, ever, sick. Ever. It’s strange and disquieting.
Around year six, the rumor finally dies. Both the Commander and his second take ill. Nothing serious but it's enough to lay them up for a few days; it’s a rare occasion at best but a decent portion of the colony is relieved when they catch whatever bug is making its rounds. It’s rather sadistic, but seeing the practically invincible duo struggling with a drippy nose helps…humanize them. Reminds the populace that they are simply mortals as well.
That it also tends to precede an always amusing row between the two is neither here nor there.
So, no, they don’t fall ill often. Hell, it’s still practically an urban legend.
Which serves only to further the good Lieutenant's irritation as she makes an inelegant pass at her nose, growling low in her throat as her body turns on her. This is not happening. This doesn’t happen. Not to her. She fists hands in her sheets, glares up at the ceiling. Her head feels like it's swimming, her senses thick and hazy. The very idea of moving only serves to incite a warning spike of nausea. Her body, with the dull, bone deep, ache spreading through it, makes itself very clear. It wants to stay precisely where it is, fall back into a dreamless, feverish sleep. Wash grits her teeth, fights her way up into a sitting position. It sends her vision swirling around her in sickening, unnatural, angles.
She isn’t going to lie in bed all day. She doesn’t give a damn what her body wants; it’s a filthy traitor that’s suddenly decided to succumb to this illness. It’s nothing life threatening, simply a nuisance. A hand through her matted hair, another to pull the sweat soaked sheets from where they’re plastered against her skin. With her jaw set, the woman makes her way to the shower, intent on getting on with her day.
She isn’t sick. She doesn’t get sick and she’s going to work and that’s all there is.
__
There are very few things in the universe that cause a man like Nathaniel Taylor to pause. Fewer still that intimidate or even begin to frighten him (he can count them on one hand); this may just be one of those things. The Commander leans back in his chair, hands linked, resting on his abdomen, as Wash moves about Command, her pristine hair in slight disarray, her skin having adopted a subtly more greenish hue. The omnipresent sheen of sweat on her skin is a less than understated hint as to her condition; her more measured movements dictating her discomfort. His Lieutenant is, he knows for a fact, sick as a dog. That she is faring slightly better than she was during the night is hardly inspiring.
He knows better, however, than to suggest she take the day off.
He’d made the mistake of doing it once before, early in their tenure here, and had nearly received a broken jaw for his efforts (as it turns out, flu’s of all varieties are not terribly conducive to her self control). When she’d fallen into bed halfway delirious last night, shedding her clothes as she went, clutching him to her as she suffered through some impossible combination of sweating and shivering, he’d thought she’d come around enough to accept the offered leave. His ever rational, ever sane, ever stoic, Lieutenant had favored him with a glare hard enough to dent steel and shoved him away (overcame her irritation about five minutes later, intent on leeching his body heat as punishment).
And so he knows better than to suggest she leave, simply gives her the wide berth she requires to function. The majority of her Kids have caught on to this. Guz knows better; Malcolm knows better. In short order, the woman has narrowed the list of individuals willing to associate with her down to two (himself, for obvious reasons, and Shannon, who manages to hang on through sheer pig headed stubbornness). Wash settles herself across from him and he inclines his head to the side, arches a brow. She looks simply…
He knows from experience, fact, and constant comment, that he is a protective man. Some would say overly protective but it comes with the job and he’s never let it concern him much. He feels that urge flaring to life now, a desperate desire to get her out of here, back home, resting. To borrow a cliché, the woman looks like death warmed over. The simple fact of the matter is she isn’t doing anyone any favors being here. He leans back a little further, watches as she scrolls through a particularly tedious requisition form (nothing that can’t wait until she’s feeling better), attempts, as stealthily as she is able, to clear her throat, fights valiantly against her runny nose. The image is fairly ridiculous and he has half a mind to chuckle at it (values his shins and decides against the idea).
With a frown, she runs a hand over her face, sets the forms aside, “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’m going to step outside for a moment.”
“Take your time, Wash, no rush.” Blue eyes catch hers, as near to pleading as he’ll come. Go home, Lieutenant. Just take the day off, make yourself something to eat, curl up in bed and wait for this to pass.
She gives him her answer with a harsh scowl, shakes her head, “I’ll be back in a minute.” She isn’t going anywhere.
Shannon slides past her as she’s taking her leave and the man does a double take at her condition, is prudent enough to keep his mouth shut about it. The Sheriff shoots him a pitying look, nods in understanding. When the door is safely shut and its obvious the woman is not simply waiting outside to ambush him, Jim sighs, “She has it too, huh?”
“It’s been a while since I saw her like this.”
“And she won’t stay home?” Taylor raises a brow, as if asking whether or not that is even a question. They are both more than aware of the answer. Shannon nods in agreement, “Liz has the same thing.” A long, heavy, sigh, “Doctors make the worst patients. Doesn’t matter whether or not you’re trying to talk some logic into them; they will argue, and argue, and then when you get something through their stubborn heads they insist they’re the doctor and know better.”
“Take it you’re speaking from personal experience?”
“Nearly twenty years of marriage and three kids; personal experience doesn’t even begin to cover it.” The younger man sighs, settles across from him. He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, “You’d think those years of medical training would help them come to term with things.”
A shake of the head, “It doesn’t.”
“No. No, it does not.”
The two men exchange a glance, an understanding passing between them. Their women are not so different, both strong, opinionated, powerful. And a damn nuisance when their oft lauded control and self reliance is stolen away from them. Shannon sighs again, rises and goes about preparing a coffee for himself. Sugary, an indulgence if ever there was one; considering the morning he’s been having, he figures he deserves one. Taylor plucks the discarded requisition form from the table, runs a finger idly over the edge. It really isn’t important, nothing for her to kill herself over. With some concern, he can hear the woman coughing outside, the sound muffled as she attempts to keep it under whatever semblance of her control remains.
The older man crosses his arms over his chest, “Don’t suppose you happen to know how to deal with this?”
“You just have to fight it…” Jim shrugs, as if it’s something simple.
Not really the best answer anyone has ever offered him. Hell, it’s barely an answer at all. With a scowl, he repeats, “Fight it? And how would I go about doing that, Shannon?”
“No idea; was honestly hoping you might know.”
Somehow it does not surprise him that the man is supremely unhelpful. The hacking subsists somewhat and, having collected herself, Wash returns, settles herself down beside Shannon (who edges, not so subtly, away). The woman favors him with an arch look, crosses arms defiantly over her chest, before turning to the Commander, extends her hand for the plex. When he refuses to pass it to her, she frowns. She reaches across the desk a bit, stills immediately, screws her eyes shut. Shannon sets his glass on the desk, reaches over to clasp her shoulder. It’s a mistake (they are all away of that) and she bats his hand away half heartedly, speaks slowly as if through gritted teeth (the muscles in her torso tightening, contracting, as she fights off another spasm of coughs), “My files, sir.”
“They can wait.” Tone firm.
Shannon gives her arm a squeeze, “Go home; you look like hell, Wash. You’re not doing yourself any favors coming in today.”
“I’m not sick, Shannon.”
“You’re kidding, right?” the man scoffs, shakes his head, “You’re the poster child for sick. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us. Every minute you spend in here you risk infecting us with your…disease.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Washington,” she stills at the use of her full name. It’s strange, coming from Taylor, terribly formal and serious. It says, she is well aware, that this is not an issue up for debate. She will listen and she will yield and that is simply all there is to it. The woman’s squares her shoulders, tenses, coming as near to glaring as she can manage without inciting insubordination. “I realize your feelings on the matter. But Shannon’s right. You’re not helping anyone.” A long sigh, a sympathetic glance, “Take the remainder of the day off; get some rest, take care of yourself. That’s an order.” The last is added quickly, sharply, as she opens her mouth to protest.
Something dark passes over her features, something he isn’t the least bit comfortable with. It’s dangerously close to an idea, some horrible plot running through her keen mind at a nearly dizzying speed. All he knows is it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, the entirety of her disposition nearly transforming. A sort of peace overtakes her and she nods, rises. “Very well, Commander. I suppose I’ll see you at home.”
“I’ll see you at home.”
With a smirk, she plucks Shannon’s mug from the desk. The man lets out a low groan as she brings the rim to her lips, runs her tongue around the edge. If he didn’t know her better, he’d almost wager she winks at the unfortunate man; with a final nod, she departs, the sound of her booted feet heavy as she descends the stairs.
For a long moment, the two men sit in silence, not entirely certain how to react. She hadn’t fought; she hadn’t protested. It was entirely too easy. That is immediately suspicious. Shannon purses his lips, raises a brow, “You know you’re going to regret that later, right?”
“I am aware, Shannon.”
“Good, just checking,” the man chuckles to himself, leans forward to collect his sullied mug from the table. Takes a drink and allows the lukewarm sugary beverage to wash over his palette.
Oh yes, Taylor is most certainly going to regret this.
__
She’s in a sour mood. The walk home does nothing for her temper. If anything it only gives her time to fume. Admittedly, her vision is very nearly swimming and her temperature has, for reasons she cannot place, decided to goddamn skyrocket (she’s boiling under her jacket and fatigues, absolutely dying) but she’s still fit to work. She can fill out paperwork. She isn’t some civilian or invalid in need of protection. That’s he’s behaving in such a manner is…
Endearing….
…Infuriating. Wash runs a hand through her mussed hair, angrily tucks the rebellious strands that have managed to escape the tail behind her ear. There’s no reason she should be so angry over this. In her head, the rational part of her she is so staunchly ignoring, she realizes there’s no reason for her hostility. She is sick, however desperately she’d like to deny it. Medically, spending the day resting is best for everyone. There is no reason for her to feel sore over this.
It doesn’t stop her from feeling pissed.
She leans heavily against the frame of her unit, uses it to stabilize herself as a nearly debilitating wave of nausea sweeps over her. The metal is cool, entirely welcome against her overheated skin. Ultimately, it has little to do with him sending him home, and only slightly more to do with her own illness. She hates being sick, this is true, hates feeling weak like this but, ultimately, is capable of dealing with it. Recognizes it as a side effect of being human. But she’ll never adjust to him fretting over her in such a way, thinking she needs his protection. That he’d ordered her home as if it was nothing is…
She doesn’t really know. Things are almost nonsensical in her head, thoughts flowing together, meshing where they really shouldn’t. She doesn’t need his protection; she doesn’t need him hovering over her. It’d been one thing when they were Commander and Soldier. Now that they are something more it seems…stifling. There is very little resembling logic in the feeling and she writes it off as a byproduct of her fever. Possession she can handle, recognizes, understands. Whatever the hell he’s doing now is…odd.
She is not used to being looked after, cared for, finds the sensation both strange and unwelcome.
The woman winces, brings a hand to her forehead. Goddamn. She’s had hangovers that hurt less. Runs her tongue over chapped lips, snarls to herself and forces her legs to move, straggles inside. As a medic, she’s well aware what’s happening to her, what she’s needs to alleviate her condition. Fluids, rest, time; her beleaguered immune system needs time.
She’s fine, her mind stubbornly insists, rationality shoved aside anew, replaced with wounded pride, so unsure. She can function perfectly well; can take care of herself. Runs another hand through her bangs, glances around the place; her feet carry her to the bedroom almost immediately. She frowns immediately. The bed remains in the same state of disarray as she’d left it, sheets and blankets thrown aside, some pooled near the foot of the bed. It’s all hopelessly rumpled, torn from the corners, crumpled in the middle. Nothing fun about it, simply a fitful sleep, her miserably, sweaty, hellish night; with a sigh, she drags them back into a state resembling presentable. Stares down at them longingly; if she’s being entirely honest with herself (and she rarely is), she’d like nothing better than to curl up beneath those sheets, sleep away the remainder of her evening. She refuses to give in, refuses to let him be right. She’s fine. She can function perfectly well and she’s entirely capable of proving it.
The progression of the idea is not entirely clear in her addled head; it simply strikes her. But she’s snickering to herself and, before she can think better of it, has called Elisabeth on her comm. The doctor sounds about as chipper as she feels, practically groaning her greeting. Wash can sympathize, “Elisabeth, sorry to bother you.”
“No bother, Lieutenant. My family has instituted some strange sort of general quarantine until this,” not sick; she isn’t sick, “passes. It’s quite pleasant hearing your voice, actually.” There’s a shuffling sound as the woman shifts, coughs rather violently into the crook of her arm. “Now, how may I help you?”
Wash braces herself against the counter, wills herself through the grating scratching sensation that seems to have taken up residency in her throat (she isn’t sick). “Just,” she manages, breath hissing through her teeth as her body tenses, desperate to cough, “Curious if I could borrow something.”
There’s something like understanding in the other woman’s voice as she replies and Wash feels a grim smile turning her features. She isn’t sick; she can function perfectly well and she’s damn well going to prove it.
__
He returns early from his shift (certainly not because he’s worried); something resembling soup tucked under his arm (it had sounded good; that was the only reason he’d asked Skye to whip some up). The sun is setting on the colony, most of its members already home, suffering through their own illness. Her home comes into view and he braces himself. He’s known her long enough to know her earlier dismissal has not simply been passed over in these past few hours. It simply isn’t how she functions. The encounter will have been run over in her head, dissected. The supposed quiet is not something he trusts; steels himself as he steps over the threshold, “Wash?” He’s greeted with continued silence as he toes off his boots, sets the soup on the counter.
Taylor also isn’t foolish (or idealistic) enough to believe her silence stems from her following orders and getting some rest like a normal human being. The atmosphere does cause him to hesitate. The overheard lights have been completely shut down, replaced with the lower, softer, chem. lights, a replication of something like candlelight. It’s remarkably soothing; a cinnamon sort of flavor drifts on the air. It’s all rather peaceful; certainly intriguing. He isn’t unfamiliar with any of these things (they’re some of Wash’s favorites) but seeing them used now is….odd.
There’s the soft sound of someone’s feet padding lightly across the floor. The Lieutenant clear’s her throat from where she’s learning against the hall doorway. Almost on instinct, he turns. Contrary to every one of his instincts, a frown turns his lips at her outfit. “Wash.” It’s almost a question. Blue eyes regarding her, bemused in the low light.
“Commander,” she replies evenly, learning back to brace against the jam.
He makes a vague gesture to her, “So…this your new sick day outfit?”
The Lieutenant simply shrugs, shifts, a motion with her shoulders that somehow carries through the whole of her, becomes an entire body movement. The result is certainly…captivating.
There’s Wash, all confidence, her pace light and graceful, as she strides into the room, head held high. He’s become fairly accustomed to seeing her in her fatigues, her combat armor, occasionally a loose pair of sweats and, more frequently, nothing at all, around the house. This new iteration causes him to pause. A flimsy, entirely too feminine, slip of a garment hugs her figure, obviously borrowed (the fit is an excellent one but he knows for a fact that his straight laced second would never permit something like that in her wardrobe), likely from Elisabeth. The pale cream sets her darker skin off beautifully, the golden glow only highlighted by the low light, material caressing each of her curves, the disparity in height between the Doctor and herself creating some intriguing adjustments. The lower hem rides just a bit higher, a flash of inner thigh with each step. The fabric is stretched just a bit more form fittingly around her breasts. Dark hair usually pulled back in a rigid tail now hangs loosely about her shoulders, teases the skin of her neck, her shoulder blades, frames her face. It’s an impressive image; coupled with her smoky eyes it’s one that will be burned into his brain for months, perhaps years.
Wash is beautiful even when she isn’t particularly trying for it. This is more than that; so much more. It’s more than simply an attractive image, a fresh coat of paint. It’s an entire transformation, building already impressive qualities, elevating them to dangerous levels. She is sex. She is everything seductive and perfect. The smirk that turns her lips is positively wicked, enough to bring a lesser man to his knees.
It’s particularly jarring, then, when his first thought is less about throwing her to the floor and ravishing her and more about how damn cold she looks. He very nearly winces as she makes her way to him, can see the goose bumps on her arms from halfway across the kitchen; knows she’s about ten seconds away from shivering. It can’t be particularly good for her health…
He is well aware how nonsensical that sounds.
Still, he cannot help but raise an amused brow when she closes the distance between them, stares up at him through hooded eyes (is undoubtedly aiming for seductive), hands pressing flush against his abdomen. Her nails scratch lightly at the muscle through the fabric of his shirt, smoothing their way upwards to rest on either side of his shoulders, trailing down his arms. Both biceps are squeezed lightly; almost out of habit, his arms encircle her waist, pull her to him. The woman comes eagerly (a mixture of her game and a more real, and pressing, need for added warmth), twines her arms about his neck. Almost immediately, she’s leading him down to meet her, lips parted as she presses against him, silk sliding over cotton, nails scratching delicately through his hair.
Wash is perfectly well aware of what she’s doing, a small moan escaping her as she catches his lips. It’s nearly gentle at first, carefully measuring how much she can manage, before she throws herself into it, the pace changed to nearly frenetic. She surges up, impossibly closer to him as her arms tighten, forces his lips to part as her tongue traces a line over his teeth. He indulges it for a moment, allows her to wrest the control from him momentarily. She smirks against his lips, hands moving to rest on his hips as she begins moving him backwards. It’s almost easy to forget his previous misgivings when she grinds against him, a throaty chuckle escaping her as she flicks his tongue with her own. His fingers dig in the silk material, will undoubtedly leave bruises in the morning; the notion that he has marked her in such a way is as intoxicating as ever. Fists a hand in her hair, leverage to hold her to him as he explores her, drags her lip between his teeth.
It’s altogether too easy to forget.
Until she’s goes positively rigid in his arms, her motions stilling immediately. It leaves him puzzled for a moment, staring at her as she nearly convulses, pulls away from him with an expression bespeaking severe nausea. He brushes hands down her back, soothing, and she scowls at him, eyes screwed shut as she tries to keep from coughing, “Wash…”
“Give me a minute.”
Taylor smirks, ghosting his lips over her cheek, a knee between hers. A moment earlier, she would have arched into the touch. Now, she barely opens her eyes to glare at him. He punctuates his sentence with brushes across her skin, a drag of his lips over the rise of her cheek, a nip to her ear, “You need to cough, Lieutenant…?”
“Go to hell, sir,” practically growled as she attempts to shift away from him. Even the small movements incite another powerful wave of nausea and she stills immediately, groaning. She shakes her head, holds up a hand. Taking a steadying breath, she smiles, “There. Just fine.” From the amused expression on his face it’s fairly obvious she’s lost all the ground she gained. She leans forward, brushes lips across his jaw only for him to lean back, catching her questing hands before they can make for his belt.
“You’re shivering.”
“I want you.”
“You’re sweating.”
She frowns, looks like she finds the words distasteful, “I’m hot for you?”
“You’re nauseous.” That one, she won’t deny, is a bit off putting. Regardless, she leans in to catch his lips again. He indulges her; it’s little more than a ghost of a touch before he pulls away, runs a hand through her hair. He presses a kiss to her forehead, “You should be resting.”
“For the last time, I am not sick,” it comes out particularly childish, muffled against the fabric of his shirt as she buries her head in the crook of his neck; the woman shivers against him. Every muscle in her body tightens again, fingers digging at the fabric of his shirt as she braces herself. The man can only sigh. Gives her back a reassuring pat.
Neither of them is in the habit of surrendering; compromise is thought of as a weakness. But she’s practically shivering (sweating again, her temperature spiking in a manner he finds worrisome) and so it’s easier to subvert his pride a bit. Rubbing hands up her arms, he leans back, “Didn’t say you were. But…” he smiles, coughs dramatically into his hand, “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Must have got something from Shannon.”
“Did you now?”
“You know it,” His smirk leaves little to imagination as he shrugs, bends to wrap an arm under her knees, the other around her waist. It’s a lie, plain and simple, but she isn’t in the mood to fight him. That she isn’t protesting his carrying her is perhaps more telling. He grins down at her as he makes his way to their bedroom, “I’ve come down with this fever and just don’t think I can stay on my feet.”
Wash smirks, nuzzles under his chin, “You need to man up, Taylor.”
“Watch it, Wash.”
“Turning me down just because you’re feeling a little under the weather…”
“You’re going to be walking to bed if you aren't careful, woman…”
The Lieutenant nods, falling surprisingly silent. It doesn’t take him a long time to figure out why. She’s halfway asleep by the time he’s made it to the bedroom, exhausted from the day’s labors, the illness wracking her body and an unfulfilling sleep. He shifts her to rest comfortably in one arm as he tugs the sheets down. Wash lets out a small huff of breath, a low moan as he maneuvers her into bed. When he makes to pull away she tightens her arms around his neck. A pause, waits, tries again; the same happens. He arches a brow, finds her smirking up at him. “You’re sick, sir.”
“What of it?”
Wash flashes him a wicked look, arms sliding lower to wrap about his torso. He isn’t feeling particularly keen on fighting her; the woman gives a hard yank, pulls him over and on top of her. Despite his best efforts to spare her the majority of his weight, he isn't able to spare her the entirety of it. She lets out a long groan, goes perfectly still as she attempts to fight back her nausea. “Need,” she hisses, nails digging hard at his shoulders, “To get some rest.” The man lets out a long sigh, presses a kiss to her forehead before rolling away from her. It takes a moment, but the woman eventually makes her way back to him, throws an arm over his chest, a leg over his. They aren’t particularly keen on such contact when they sleep and when he shoots her a curious look, she chuckles, “You looked cold.”
There’s almost something endearing in the way she continues to insist on her health, playing up this ruse. He rubs a hand over her arm, “Know me too well.” Wash nods, dark hair spilling across his chest as she shifts beside him. At the moment, she’s almost worryingly hot. In an hour, she’ll be frigidly cold. He wraps an arm around her waist, content. The woman lets out a pleased sound, falling off into a much needed sleep. There’s something strangely intimate, comforting, about the whole of it. Regardless of her coughing, her sweat, and fluctuating temperature, he’s content, entirely willing to indulge her.
He is, perhaps, less willing to indulge her the next morning when his own vision is swimming, his own temperature is in a constant state of flux, and he’s soaked in sweat. Taylor glares at the woman curled on his chest; the woman smiles blearily up at him, “You got me sick, woman.”
Wash smirks, rolls them, brushes fingers through his hair, “Damn straight I did, sir.”
Character/Pairing: Taylor/Wash
Word Count: 5,011
Genre: Romance/Fluff/Humor
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Alert: None
Summary: She isn't sick; she can function perfectly well and she's damn well going to prove it.
Author’s Note: Gift Fic for makesometime. Originally, she was going to get something else, but it was similar (and far less sexy) then something she wrote. Oddly, the replacement topic was...also something she wrote, in the same set of fics. Oh well. Remembered you saying you wanted some domestic BAMF so...hopefully you enjoy this at least a little, lovely! ItmightbesugaryenoughtomakeyouvomitI'mnotsure....
Sick Day
The general consensus around the colony for the first four years or so is that their leaders are something more than human. Guzman starts it, laughing, giving Taylor a clap on the shoulder as the duo soldier on, weather the tumultuous start of Terra Nova. It’s a joke at first but as the years wear on it’s said with more conviction, something bordering on suspicion. By year four any laughter is mostly nervous because, as far as anyone can tell, neither Taylor nor Washington is human. They don’t ever seem to sleep, they eat infrequently at best, and they are never, ever, sick. Ever. It’s strange and disquieting.
Around year six, the rumor finally dies. Both the Commander and his second take ill. Nothing serious but it's enough to lay them up for a few days; it’s a rare occasion at best but a decent portion of the colony is relieved when they catch whatever bug is making its rounds. It’s rather sadistic, but seeing the practically invincible duo struggling with a drippy nose helps…humanize them. Reminds the populace that they are simply mortals as well.
That it also tends to precede an always amusing row between the two is neither here nor there.
So, no, they don’t fall ill often. Hell, it’s still practically an urban legend.
Which serves only to further the good Lieutenant's irritation as she makes an inelegant pass at her nose, growling low in her throat as her body turns on her. This is not happening. This doesn’t happen. Not to her. She fists hands in her sheets, glares up at the ceiling. Her head feels like it's swimming, her senses thick and hazy. The very idea of moving only serves to incite a warning spike of nausea. Her body, with the dull, bone deep, ache spreading through it, makes itself very clear. It wants to stay precisely where it is, fall back into a dreamless, feverish sleep. Wash grits her teeth, fights her way up into a sitting position. It sends her vision swirling around her in sickening, unnatural, angles.
She isn’t going to lie in bed all day. She doesn’t give a damn what her body wants; it’s a filthy traitor that’s suddenly decided to succumb to this illness. It’s nothing life threatening, simply a nuisance. A hand through her matted hair, another to pull the sweat soaked sheets from where they’re plastered against her skin. With her jaw set, the woman makes her way to the shower, intent on getting on with her day.
She isn’t sick. She doesn’t get sick and she’s going to work and that’s all there is.
__
There are very few things in the universe that cause a man like Nathaniel Taylor to pause. Fewer still that intimidate or even begin to frighten him (he can count them on one hand); this may just be one of those things. The Commander leans back in his chair, hands linked, resting on his abdomen, as Wash moves about Command, her pristine hair in slight disarray, her skin having adopted a subtly more greenish hue. The omnipresent sheen of sweat on her skin is a less than understated hint as to her condition; her more measured movements dictating her discomfort. His Lieutenant is, he knows for a fact, sick as a dog. That she is faring slightly better than she was during the night is hardly inspiring.
He knows better, however, than to suggest she take the day off.
He’d made the mistake of doing it once before, early in their tenure here, and had nearly received a broken jaw for his efforts (as it turns out, flu’s of all varieties are not terribly conducive to her self control). When she’d fallen into bed halfway delirious last night, shedding her clothes as she went, clutching him to her as she suffered through some impossible combination of sweating and shivering, he’d thought she’d come around enough to accept the offered leave. His ever rational, ever sane, ever stoic, Lieutenant had favored him with a glare hard enough to dent steel and shoved him away (overcame her irritation about five minutes later, intent on leeching his body heat as punishment).
And so he knows better than to suggest she leave, simply gives her the wide berth she requires to function. The majority of her Kids have caught on to this. Guz knows better; Malcolm knows better. In short order, the woman has narrowed the list of individuals willing to associate with her down to two (himself, for obvious reasons, and Shannon, who manages to hang on through sheer pig headed stubbornness). Wash settles herself across from him and he inclines his head to the side, arches a brow. She looks simply…
He knows from experience, fact, and constant comment, that he is a protective man. Some would say overly protective but it comes with the job and he’s never let it concern him much. He feels that urge flaring to life now, a desperate desire to get her out of here, back home, resting. To borrow a cliché, the woman looks like death warmed over. The simple fact of the matter is she isn’t doing anyone any favors being here. He leans back a little further, watches as she scrolls through a particularly tedious requisition form (nothing that can’t wait until she’s feeling better), attempts, as stealthily as she is able, to clear her throat, fights valiantly against her runny nose. The image is fairly ridiculous and he has half a mind to chuckle at it (values his shins and decides against the idea).
With a frown, she runs a hand over her face, sets the forms aside, “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’m going to step outside for a moment.”
“Take your time, Wash, no rush.” Blue eyes catch hers, as near to pleading as he’ll come. Go home, Lieutenant. Just take the day off, make yourself something to eat, curl up in bed and wait for this to pass.
She gives him her answer with a harsh scowl, shakes her head, “I’ll be back in a minute.” She isn’t going anywhere.
Shannon slides past her as she’s taking her leave and the man does a double take at her condition, is prudent enough to keep his mouth shut about it. The Sheriff shoots him a pitying look, nods in understanding. When the door is safely shut and its obvious the woman is not simply waiting outside to ambush him, Jim sighs, “She has it too, huh?”
“It’s been a while since I saw her like this.”
“And she won’t stay home?” Taylor raises a brow, as if asking whether or not that is even a question. They are both more than aware of the answer. Shannon nods in agreement, “Liz has the same thing.” A long, heavy, sigh, “Doctors make the worst patients. Doesn’t matter whether or not you’re trying to talk some logic into them; they will argue, and argue, and then when you get something through their stubborn heads they insist they’re the doctor and know better.”
“Take it you’re speaking from personal experience?”
“Nearly twenty years of marriage and three kids; personal experience doesn’t even begin to cover it.” The younger man sighs, settles across from him. He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, “You’d think those years of medical training would help them come to term with things.”
A shake of the head, “It doesn’t.”
“No. No, it does not.”
The two men exchange a glance, an understanding passing between them. Their women are not so different, both strong, opinionated, powerful. And a damn nuisance when their oft lauded control and self reliance is stolen away from them. Shannon sighs again, rises and goes about preparing a coffee for himself. Sugary, an indulgence if ever there was one; considering the morning he’s been having, he figures he deserves one. Taylor plucks the discarded requisition form from the table, runs a finger idly over the edge. It really isn’t important, nothing for her to kill herself over. With some concern, he can hear the woman coughing outside, the sound muffled as she attempts to keep it under whatever semblance of her control remains.
The older man crosses his arms over his chest, “Don’t suppose you happen to know how to deal with this?”
“You just have to fight it…” Jim shrugs, as if it’s something simple.
Not really the best answer anyone has ever offered him. Hell, it’s barely an answer at all. With a scowl, he repeats, “Fight it? And how would I go about doing that, Shannon?”
“No idea; was honestly hoping you might know.”
Somehow it does not surprise him that the man is supremely unhelpful. The hacking subsists somewhat and, having collected herself, Wash returns, settles herself down beside Shannon (who edges, not so subtly, away). The woman favors him with an arch look, crosses arms defiantly over her chest, before turning to the Commander, extends her hand for the plex. When he refuses to pass it to her, she frowns. She reaches across the desk a bit, stills immediately, screws her eyes shut. Shannon sets his glass on the desk, reaches over to clasp her shoulder. It’s a mistake (they are all away of that) and she bats his hand away half heartedly, speaks slowly as if through gritted teeth (the muscles in her torso tightening, contracting, as she fights off another spasm of coughs), “My files, sir.”
“They can wait.” Tone firm.
Shannon gives her arm a squeeze, “Go home; you look like hell, Wash. You’re not doing yourself any favors coming in today.”
“I’m not sick, Shannon.”
“You’re kidding, right?” the man scoffs, shakes his head, “You’re the poster child for sick. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us. Every minute you spend in here you risk infecting us with your…disease.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Washington,” she stills at the use of her full name. It’s strange, coming from Taylor, terribly formal and serious. It says, she is well aware, that this is not an issue up for debate. She will listen and she will yield and that is simply all there is to it. The woman’s squares her shoulders, tenses, coming as near to glaring as she can manage without inciting insubordination. “I realize your feelings on the matter. But Shannon’s right. You’re not helping anyone.” A long sigh, a sympathetic glance, “Take the remainder of the day off; get some rest, take care of yourself. That’s an order.” The last is added quickly, sharply, as she opens her mouth to protest.
Something dark passes over her features, something he isn’t the least bit comfortable with. It’s dangerously close to an idea, some horrible plot running through her keen mind at a nearly dizzying speed. All he knows is it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, the entirety of her disposition nearly transforming. A sort of peace overtakes her and she nods, rises. “Very well, Commander. I suppose I’ll see you at home.”
“I’ll see you at home.”
With a smirk, she plucks Shannon’s mug from the desk. The man lets out a low groan as she brings the rim to her lips, runs her tongue around the edge. If he didn’t know her better, he’d almost wager she winks at the unfortunate man; with a final nod, she departs, the sound of her booted feet heavy as she descends the stairs.
For a long moment, the two men sit in silence, not entirely certain how to react. She hadn’t fought; she hadn’t protested. It was entirely too easy. That is immediately suspicious. Shannon purses his lips, raises a brow, “You know you’re going to regret that later, right?”
“I am aware, Shannon.”
“Good, just checking,” the man chuckles to himself, leans forward to collect his sullied mug from the table. Takes a drink and allows the lukewarm sugary beverage to wash over his palette.
Oh yes, Taylor is most certainly going to regret this.
__
She’s in a sour mood. The walk home does nothing for her temper. If anything it only gives her time to fume. Admittedly, her vision is very nearly swimming and her temperature has, for reasons she cannot place, decided to goddamn skyrocket (she’s boiling under her jacket and fatigues, absolutely dying) but she’s still fit to work. She can fill out paperwork. She isn’t some civilian or invalid in need of protection. That’s he’s behaving in such a manner is…
Endearing….
…Infuriating. Wash runs a hand through her mussed hair, angrily tucks the rebellious strands that have managed to escape the tail behind her ear. There’s no reason she should be so angry over this. In her head, the rational part of her she is so staunchly ignoring, she realizes there’s no reason for her hostility. She is sick, however desperately she’d like to deny it. Medically, spending the day resting is best for everyone. There is no reason for her to feel sore over this.
It doesn’t stop her from feeling pissed.
She leans heavily against the frame of her unit, uses it to stabilize herself as a nearly debilitating wave of nausea sweeps over her. The metal is cool, entirely welcome against her overheated skin. Ultimately, it has little to do with him sending him home, and only slightly more to do with her own illness. She hates being sick, this is true, hates feeling weak like this but, ultimately, is capable of dealing with it. Recognizes it as a side effect of being human. But she’ll never adjust to him fretting over her in such a way, thinking she needs his protection. That he’d ordered her home as if it was nothing is…
She doesn’t really know. Things are almost nonsensical in her head, thoughts flowing together, meshing where they really shouldn’t. She doesn’t need his protection; she doesn’t need him hovering over her. It’d been one thing when they were Commander and Soldier. Now that they are something more it seems…stifling. There is very little resembling logic in the feeling and she writes it off as a byproduct of her fever. Possession she can handle, recognizes, understands. Whatever the hell he’s doing now is…odd.
She is not used to being looked after, cared for, finds the sensation both strange and unwelcome.
The woman winces, brings a hand to her forehead. Goddamn. She’s had hangovers that hurt less. Runs her tongue over chapped lips, snarls to herself and forces her legs to move, straggles inside. As a medic, she’s well aware what’s happening to her, what she’s needs to alleviate her condition. Fluids, rest, time; her beleaguered immune system needs time.
She’s fine, her mind stubbornly insists, rationality shoved aside anew, replaced with wounded pride, so unsure. She can function perfectly well; can take care of herself. Runs another hand through her bangs, glances around the place; her feet carry her to the bedroom almost immediately. She frowns immediately. The bed remains in the same state of disarray as she’d left it, sheets and blankets thrown aside, some pooled near the foot of the bed. It’s all hopelessly rumpled, torn from the corners, crumpled in the middle. Nothing fun about it, simply a fitful sleep, her miserably, sweaty, hellish night; with a sigh, she drags them back into a state resembling presentable. Stares down at them longingly; if she’s being entirely honest with herself (and she rarely is), she’d like nothing better than to curl up beneath those sheets, sleep away the remainder of her evening. She refuses to give in, refuses to let him be right. She’s fine. She can function perfectly well and she’s entirely capable of proving it.
The progression of the idea is not entirely clear in her addled head; it simply strikes her. But she’s snickering to herself and, before she can think better of it, has called Elisabeth on her comm. The doctor sounds about as chipper as she feels, practically groaning her greeting. Wash can sympathize, “Elisabeth, sorry to bother you.”
“No bother, Lieutenant. My family has instituted some strange sort of general quarantine until this,” not sick; she isn’t sick, “passes. It’s quite pleasant hearing your voice, actually.” There’s a shuffling sound as the woman shifts, coughs rather violently into the crook of her arm. “Now, how may I help you?”
Wash braces herself against the counter, wills herself through the grating scratching sensation that seems to have taken up residency in her throat (she isn’t sick). “Just,” she manages, breath hissing through her teeth as her body tenses, desperate to cough, “Curious if I could borrow something.”
There’s something like understanding in the other woman’s voice as she replies and Wash feels a grim smile turning her features. She isn’t sick; she can function perfectly well and she’s damn well going to prove it.
__
He returns early from his shift (certainly not because he’s worried); something resembling soup tucked under his arm (it had sounded good; that was the only reason he’d asked Skye to whip some up). The sun is setting on the colony, most of its members already home, suffering through their own illness. Her home comes into view and he braces himself. He’s known her long enough to know her earlier dismissal has not simply been passed over in these past few hours. It simply isn’t how she functions. The encounter will have been run over in her head, dissected. The supposed quiet is not something he trusts; steels himself as he steps over the threshold, “Wash?” He’s greeted with continued silence as he toes off his boots, sets the soup on the counter.
Taylor also isn’t foolish (or idealistic) enough to believe her silence stems from her following orders and getting some rest like a normal human being. The atmosphere does cause him to hesitate. The overheard lights have been completely shut down, replaced with the lower, softer, chem. lights, a replication of something like candlelight. It’s remarkably soothing; a cinnamon sort of flavor drifts on the air. It’s all rather peaceful; certainly intriguing. He isn’t unfamiliar with any of these things (they’re some of Wash’s favorites) but seeing them used now is….odd.
There’s the soft sound of someone’s feet padding lightly across the floor. The Lieutenant clear’s her throat from where she’s learning against the hall doorway. Almost on instinct, he turns. Contrary to every one of his instincts, a frown turns his lips at her outfit. “Wash.” It’s almost a question. Blue eyes regarding her, bemused in the low light.
“Commander,” she replies evenly, learning back to brace against the jam.
He makes a vague gesture to her, “So…this your new sick day outfit?”
The Lieutenant simply shrugs, shifts, a motion with her shoulders that somehow carries through the whole of her, becomes an entire body movement. The result is certainly…captivating.
There’s Wash, all confidence, her pace light and graceful, as she strides into the room, head held high. He’s become fairly accustomed to seeing her in her fatigues, her combat armor, occasionally a loose pair of sweats and, more frequently, nothing at all, around the house. This new iteration causes him to pause. A flimsy, entirely too feminine, slip of a garment hugs her figure, obviously borrowed (the fit is an excellent one but he knows for a fact that his straight laced second would never permit something like that in her wardrobe), likely from Elisabeth. The pale cream sets her darker skin off beautifully, the golden glow only highlighted by the low light, material caressing each of her curves, the disparity in height between the Doctor and herself creating some intriguing adjustments. The lower hem rides just a bit higher, a flash of inner thigh with each step. The fabric is stretched just a bit more form fittingly around her breasts. Dark hair usually pulled back in a rigid tail now hangs loosely about her shoulders, teases the skin of her neck, her shoulder blades, frames her face. It’s an impressive image; coupled with her smoky eyes it’s one that will be burned into his brain for months, perhaps years.
Wash is beautiful even when she isn’t particularly trying for it. This is more than that; so much more. It’s more than simply an attractive image, a fresh coat of paint. It’s an entire transformation, building already impressive qualities, elevating them to dangerous levels. She is sex. She is everything seductive and perfect. The smirk that turns her lips is positively wicked, enough to bring a lesser man to his knees.
It’s particularly jarring, then, when his first thought is less about throwing her to the floor and ravishing her and more about how damn cold she looks. He very nearly winces as she makes her way to him, can see the goose bumps on her arms from halfway across the kitchen; knows she’s about ten seconds away from shivering. It can’t be particularly good for her health…
He is well aware how nonsensical that sounds.
Still, he cannot help but raise an amused brow when she closes the distance between them, stares up at him through hooded eyes (is undoubtedly aiming for seductive), hands pressing flush against his abdomen. Her nails scratch lightly at the muscle through the fabric of his shirt, smoothing their way upwards to rest on either side of his shoulders, trailing down his arms. Both biceps are squeezed lightly; almost out of habit, his arms encircle her waist, pull her to him. The woman comes eagerly (a mixture of her game and a more real, and pressing, need for added warmth), twines her arms about his neck. Almost immediately, she’s leading him down to meet her, lips parted as she presses against him, silk sliding over cotton, nails scratching delicately through his hair.
Wash is perfectly well aware of what she’s doing, a small moan escaping her as she catches his lips. It’s nearly gentle at first, carefully measuring how much she can manage, before she throws herself into it, the pace changed to nearly frenetic. She surges up, impossibly closer to him as her arms tighten, forces his lips to part as her tongue traces a line over his teeth. He indulges it for a moment, allows her to wrest the control from him momentarily. She smirks against his lips, hands moving to rest on his hips as she begins moving him backwards. It’s almost easy to forget his previous misgivings when she grinds against him, a throaty chuckle escaping her as she flicks his tongue with her own. His fingers dig in the silk material, will undoubtedly leave bruises in the morning; the notion that he has marked her in such a way is as intoxicating as ever. Fists a hand in her hair, leverage to hold her to him as he explores her, drags her lip between his teeth.
It’s altogether too easy to forget.
Until she’s goes positively rigid in his arms, her motions stilling immediately. It leaves him puzzled for a moment, staring at her as she nearly convulses, pulls away from him with an expression bespeaking severe nausea. He brushes hands down her back, soothing, and she scowls at him, eyes screwed shut as she tries to keep from coughing, “Wash…”
“Give me a minute.”
Taylor smirks, ghosting his lips over her cheek, a knee between hers. A moment earlier, she would have arched into the touch. Now, she barely opens her eyes to glare at him. He punctuates his sentence with brushes across her skin, a drag of his lips over the rise of her cheek, a nip to her ear, “You need to cough, Lieutenant…?”
“Go to hell, sir,” practically growled as she attempts to shift away from him. Even the small movements incite another powerful wave of nausea and she stills immediately, groaning. She shakes her head, holds up a hand. Taking a steadying breath, she smiles, “There. Just fine.” From the amused expression on his face it’s fairly obvious she’s lost all the ground she gained. She leans forward, brushes lips across his jaw only for him to lean back, catching her questing hands before they can make for his belt.
“You’re shivering.”
“I want you.”
“You’re sweating.”
She frowns, looks like she finds the words distasteful, “I’m hot for you?”
“You’re nauseous.” That one, she won’t deny, is a bit off putting. Regardless, she leans in to catch his lips again. He indulges her; it’s little more than a ghost of a touch before he pulls away, runs a hand through her hair. He presses a kiss to her forehead, “You should be resting.”
“For the last time, I am not sick,” it comes out particularly childish, muffled against the fabric of his shirt as she buries her head in the crook of his neck; the woman shivers against him. Every muscle in her body tightens again, fingers digging at the fabric of his shirt as she braces herself. The man can only sigh. Gives her back a reassuring pat.
Neither of them is in the habit of surrendering; compromise is thought of as a weakness. But she’s practically shivering (sweating again, her temperature spiking in a manner he finds worrisome) and so it’s easier to subvert his pride a bit. Rubbing hands up her arms, he leans back, “Didn’t say you were. But…” he smiles, coughs dramatically into his hand, “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Must have got something from Shannon.”
“Did you now?”
“You know it,” His smirk leaves little to imagination as he shrugs, bends to wrap an arm under her knees, the other around her waist. It’s a lie, plain and simple, but she isn’t in the mood to fight him. That she isn’t protesting his carrying her is perhaps more telling. He grins down at her as he makes his way to their bedroom, “I’ve come down with this fever and just don’t think I can stay on my feet.”
Wash smirks, nuzzles under his chin, “You need to man up, Taylor.”
“Watch it, Wash.”
“Turning me down just because you’re feeling a little under the weather…”
“You’re going to be walking to bed if you aren't careful, woman…”
The Lieutenant nods, falling surprisingly silent. It doesn’t take him a long time to figure out why. She’s halfway asleep by the time he’s made it to the bedroom, exhausted from the day’s labors, the illness wracking her body and an unfulfilling sleep. He shifts her to rest comfortably in one arm as he tugs the sheets down. Wash lets out a small huff of breath, a low moan as he maneuvers her into bed. When he makes to pull away she tightens her arms around his neck. A pause, waits, tries again; the same happens. He arches a brow, finds her smirking up at him. “You’re sick, sir.”
“What of it?”
Wash flashes him a wicked look, arms sliding lower to wrap about his torso. He isn’t feeling particularly keen on fighting her; the woman gives a hard yank, pulls him over and on top of her. Despite his best efforts to spare her the majority of his weight, he isn't able to spare her the entirety of it. She lets out a long groan, goes perfectly still as she attempts to fight back her nausea. “Need,” she hisses, nails digging hard at his shoulders, “To get some rest.” The man lets out a long sigh, presses a kiss to her forehead before rolling away from her. It takes a moment, but the woman eventually makes her way back to him, throws an arm over his chest, a leg over his. They aren’t particularly keen on such contact when they sleep and when he shoots her a curious look, she chuckles, “You looked cold.”
There’s almost something endearing in the way she continues to insist on her health, playing up this ruse. He rubs a hand over her arm, “Know me too well.” Wash nods, dark hair spilling across his chest as she shifts beside him. At the moment, she’s almost worryingly hot. In an hour, she’ll be frigidly cold. He wraps an arm around her waist, content. The woman lets out a pleased sound, falling off into a much needed sleep. There’s something strangely intimate, comforting, about the whole of it. Regardless of her coughing, her sweat, and fluctuating temperature, he’s content, entirely willing to indulge her.
He is, perhaps, less willing to indulge her the next morning when his own vision is swimming, his own temperature is in a constant state of flux, and he’s soaked in sweat. Taylor glares at the woman curled on his chest; the woman smiles blearily up at him, “You got me sick, woman.”
Wash smirks, rolls them, brushes fingers through his hair, “Damn straight I did, sir.”