All's Fair...
Title: All's Fair....
Character/Pairing: Wash/Taylor, Jim
Word Count: 2718
Genre: Friendship, Humor, Crack
Rating: PG
Summary: ...in love, war, and mock hostage situations.
Author’s Note: Fill for losthaven’s “war” and makesometime's "disobey."
Have some goofy crack, hmm?
All's Fair....
"C’mon, scream.”
There is no response, simply a dark brow arched in dubious curiosity.
“At least make an effort.”
The woman in question shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest, “I am, sir. As you can see, I haven’t moved from the position you instructed me to hold.” She makes an idle motion with her hands, indicating the empty drill room around her. It’s all Taylor can do not to sigh, shaking his head in a mixture of amusement and something like exasperation. She’s a reasonable woman, such a reasonable woman, performs her duty to the letter in every respect. Wash is nothing if not sensible and he holds her in astoundingly high regard, allows her to function as his touchstone, his voice of reason. He respects her for her honesty, her rationality. She is reasonable.
In most matters; in this regard, he’d rather be having a conversation with a raging carno.
Taylor runs a hand through his hair before sighing again, indicating her with an idle motion of his hand, “And that makes you a proper hostage?”
“Haven’t escaped. Not sure what else you’re looking for.”
“Wash...”
It’s an argument they’ve had at least twenty times over the course of their time in Terra Nova. For whatever ass backward reason, Wash is fundamentally incapable of running the drill. At first, he’d believed it a matter of pride. She’d been afraid to play the damsel due to her reputation. There is little to no reason for her to feel affronted by it; the drills are run in rotation, with ranking members alternating between running point and acting as hostages. He’s played the part once or twice; Guz has at least triple that. It’s just Wash....she’ll run it, she’ll follow her orders...
But she’s escaped at least twice...she’s slipped her rescuers instructions more than that ...hacked into allied comms more than a few times to call out the rotation of enemy patrols...
….she’s a god awful hostage. He’s come to this conclusion. It’s only reinforced as she smirks at him, slipping free of her bonds easily enough. If she were anyone else, he’d suspect she’d have waggled her eyebrows at him. With that particular little half smile that is so singularly her, she extends her hands to him again, letting the cuffs dangle from her index finger, “Might want to try a little harder this time, sir.”
He sighs again, smoothing a thumb over material, still warm from contact with her skin. Taylor is left alone, frowning to himself as he watches her depart. With a final squeeze, he tucks the cuffs in the band of his fatigues, looping his arms easily behind his back. It take's only a second to come to his decision and another from the other man to pick up his comm.
"Shannon, need you to do me a favor..."
____
While attacks on the colony are hardly commonplace, after the Phoenix assault drills like this become the norm. Taylor insists that they keep the troops on their toes. In Wash’s humble opinion, they are very little more than a nuisance.
The woman in question watches as she is (once again) relegated to a less active role (also commonplace since her return to the colony), shaking her head. The Commander wants them prepared in case they ever come up against another hostage situation. It just so happens that she is, almost without fail, placed in this role.
“Shannon, I want you heading up the opposing force.”
The Sheriff, rather than smile at the pronouncement, had nearly groaned, shooting her a dark look as if to ask why he was being punished for her insubordination. While the entirety of the drill is rather mundane (boring), playing the role of enemy commander is perhaps the worst. There's a lot of waiting around and little else. Shannon had glared a final time before nodding.
That had been nearly an hour ago and now here they are. Sitting in the basement of Command, eerily silent. Her friend is leaning casually against the wall nearest to her, making a show of ignoring her as she attempts (yet again) to free herself.
“Shannon.”
There is no response. Wash growls to herself, giving the cuffs another experimental tug. They’ve finally wised up; they material is looped in alternating patterns around a steel bar, effectively ensuring she’d can’t simply slip loose. She reaches out with her foot, just barely managing to twinge the man’s pant leg. It is only then that he glances up, smirking at her, unrepentant, “I’m sorry, Wash, did you say something?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones but you're still chained to a radiator in the basement.”
She growls, “Just give me the key, Shannon.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“It’s your best bet that I won’t break your legs.”
“That really doesn’t give me much incentive to let you free, Wash.”
The Lieutenant frowns again, turning the full force of her glare on the man. With so many women in his family, Shannon has become frustratingly immune to such things, simply shrugging before going back to ignoring her.
“Jim...” she sighs, fighting the urge to whine. She will not be set that low. She will not give in. She just needs to think. The Lieutenant worries her lower lip between her teeth, “You can’t be enjoying this.”
“It’s boring as hell, Wash.”
That’s all he says but she doesn’t miss the way his eyes seem to linger on her cuffed hands. Or the smirk that seems to follow it. Nothing good has ever come of her friend wearing that expression.
_____
It’s exactly one hour before Shannon finally speaks again, sitting across from her. With deliberate slowness and far too much concentration, the man finally says, “I think Taylor’s been approaching this the wrong way...” he nods to himself before standing.
She isn’t certain she likes that smirk or the way he’s coming towards her, all mischief, “Is that so?”
The Sheriff kneels beside her, reaching for the key, pointedly ignoring her questioning glance, “How do you feel about disobeying your orders, Wash?” He’s already uncuffing her, confident in her response. She’s only able to manage a quick roll of the eyes and a shrug. Shannon stands, offering her a hand again.
For a moment, she remains seated where she is, listening to the comm across the room. Taylor is, as per usual, walking the unit through their task. It’s fairly routine and she’s heard his speech enough to know it by heart. In a few minutes he’ll be explaining enemy positioning, how to extract her, a thousand other things they’ve done a thousand other times. It’s routine and it’s nothing that will ultimately aid them.
And then there’s Shannon, smirking at her in that particular way that had absolutely grated against her nerves when he’d first shown up in the colony, too cocky and screaming that he’d buck orders at a moments notice. With a self deprecating little chuckle, she takes the offered hand, allows him to pull her to her feet.
“You have something in mind?” Jim raises a brow as if to ask whether that is even a question, “Of course you do.”
“Just trust me, Wash.”
“Is there a more dangerous phrase then that?”
The Sheriff shrugs, giving her hand another tug as he begins to move, slipping out the back door or their makeshift fortress, “You’d be hard pressed to find one. That’s why it’s fun.”
As he leads her winding through the colony streets she finds herself agreeing with him, amused despite herself. Shannon’s a terrible influence (a thing they are both painfully aware of) and it had been a tactical mistake to think the Sheriff would choose loyalty to his Commanding Officer over a chance to cause mischief. She shakes her head, given Shannon’s hand another squeeze as they duck into Boylan’s.
The Sheriff pulls up short, giving her a cursory once over, eyes coming to rest on the leather strip hanging between her breasts. She arches a brow (and there’s that smirk again), “Taylor uses those to track you right?”
“Yeah...”
For the second time in less than an hour, she finds she isn’t entirely certain she likes the way he’s looking at her. It passes in record time, her bemused half smile replaced with a shit eating grin that threatens to split her face.
__________
“Sir....”
Dunham’s worried voice calls him away from his previous task, the young man shaking his head in confusion as he double checks the monitor in front of him. The device is little more than a glorified GPS unit, useful for monitoring the location of the members of their squad and, in this case, their hostage. It is that blip, the Commander notes with no small amount of exasperation, that is concerning the kid.
“I have to be reading this wrong,” for whatever reason, he already knows what the young man is going to say before he’s saying it. He drums his fingers expectantly against the railing, just waiting for the news as the other soldiers shift, “It’s saying that Lieutenant Washington is on the move...”
He’s not reading it wrong. Taylor shakes his head, fights the urge to heave a particularly withering sigh before clicking on his Comm unit. There is only one way she could have gotten out this time (and he really should have known better; leaving them alone together is never wise), “Shannon, this is Taylor. Do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Commander.”
The man is almost despicably chipper sounding; if he didn’t know better he’d say Reynold’s sighs at that, recognizing that particular tone just as well, “Did I not make it clear that you were to supervise the Lieutenant for the duration of this exercise?”
“No, you made that clear, sir.”
“Mind telling me why she’s halfway across the field?”
“You know Wash, sir. She’s a free spirit. Has to be out there with her hair billowing in the wind or some shit,” at his continued silence, the Sheriff sighs, over dramatic and full of mock exasperation, “Or she can tell you her reasons, sir.”
There is a rustling sound on the other end of the line as if the Sheriff is passing her the device in the middle of their run. It’s followed by a very unladylike snort from his traditionally reserved second and he fights the urge (again) to express his displeasure, “Lieutenant Washington, reading you, sir.”
“Thought we talked about your little escape attempts, Wash.”
There is another snort, something like Shannon’s chuckle and he knows, he knows, this is no accident. Her tone is as laced with superiority as she can managed while remaining properly subordinate, “We did, sir. You’ll be pleased to know I have not escaped.”
“That so?’
“Yes, sir. This time I’ve defected.”
Considering the man he left her with this should not be overly surprising. It should not shock him that she’s found yet another way to subtly shirk her duties in this respect, as near to teasing him as she will dare come (so openly). Taylor runs a hand through his hair, torn between laughing, offering her the begrudging respect her tenacity deserves and reaming her ass out.
In the end, he settles for some awkward middle ground, “You heard the lady, boys. Count the good Lieutenant as a hostile and move out.” Wash hums in agreement on the opposite side of the line and he chuckles, “Suggest you get ready to run, Lieutenant.”
“All due respect, sir, but those kids aren’t going to catch us.”
This time he does laugh. It’s as near as the woman will come to saying, “Come get me.”
And damn if he’s even been able to ignore that order.
_______
It doesn’t take a genius to see that they’ve been well and truly played. The movements on their tracker are far too erratic to pass as the Lieutenant (or Shannon), the two blips weaving between the market stalls, back towards command and finally towards the housing sector, continue to flicker, teasing him. It’s been maybe twenty minutes since his call to the woman and it’s finally coming to an end.
He’s fairly well impressed that they’ve managed to hold out this long but that’s coming to an end. They’d made a tactical misstep, essentially cornered themselves in one of the half-finished units. He makes a quick motion with his hand, directly Reynold’s and Dunham to swing around back even as Reilly falls into step behind him. He’s never been more proud of the kids, each playing their roles perfectly. With a curt nod to the younger woman, he braces, ready for whatever fight the Sheriff and Lieutenant intend to put up.
Only there is no fight and he’s left staring in open confusion as he steps into the room. Neither Shannon or Wash are present.
What there are, however, are two extremely winded teenagers. Skye is doubled over, clutching her knees and attempting to wrestle her composure back. Josh is faring little better, breath coming in shallow wheezes.
The Commander sighs, shaking his head, “Always on the wrong side of the conflict, aren’t you, son?” Shannon’s son smirks (and god, he doesn’t need two of those smirks in his colony).
“Yes, sir.”
With a growl, he reaches out, snatching the familiar leather strap from around the young man’s neck. Wash’s tags, without a sliver of a doubt. And while he is not an official member of their security force, Shannon’s newly commissioned tags are hanging around Skye’s neck. She flashes him a (mock) hesitant sort of smile, holding them out without delay, “You looking for these, Commander?”
They’re going to turn him prematurely gray(er).
________
They are on drink three (or was it five) by the time Taylor strides into the bar, those blue eyes of his scanning over the crowd with purpose, determination. For whatever reason, it has her snickering in her drink, exchanging a blithe look with Shannon. The younger man is trying (and failing) to keep a straight face, blend in with the sea of faces around them.
They could run again. They could lose him here and keep the chase going...
….but the idea of expanding such energy is not an enjoyable one and so she finishes her drink instead, fighting the urge to smile as he takes long strides towards their table. Without pretense, he slides into the booth beside her, saying nothing for long minute. He takes her glass, refills it, finishes the amber liquid. He leans back in the booth, fixing the man across from him with a dark look.
“We found these,” he let’s Wash’s tags dangle from his fingers by the leather band, the things swinging back and forth with a teasing lightness completely at odds with the woman who owns them, “around your boy’s neck, Shannon.”
“Josh seemed like a more effective damsel...”
Taylor hums, the sound noncommittal and not quite readable. Wash has come to recognize it as an amalgamation of amusement and irritation, smirks at the halfway predatory glint in his eyes. With a small smile, she reaches over to give his hand a pat. He stares at the contact before shaking his head again, “You had us chasing the little bastard over half the colony.”
“See, Wash, he’s got legs.”
“He does, Shannon,” said in that matter of fact way as if everything happening is part of the ordinary. Like her little act of betrayal and insubordination had never happened and that he is not fuming (however slightly) beside her. Taylor arches a brow at their easy conversation, both pouring themselves another drink.
“You realize, Lieutenant,” she smirk at his tone, her free hand coming to rest high on his knee, “That I’ll have to make an example of you for this.”
“I am aware, Commander.” But she isn’t concerned. If anything, she only smirk, left corner of her mouth turning up despite her efforts to clamp down on it. On that note, Shannon stands, shaking his head.
Jim presses the cuffs into her waiting hand, winking, “Use these responsibly.”
She watches the Sheriff until he’s safely away at the foot of the stairs before turning her attention to the man beside her. Taylor is watching her carefully, that feral light in his eyes only highlighted by evening sun trickling in the bar, “Are you going to sit there all day, sir?”
It’s as close as she’s going to come to saying “come get me.”
She fights the urge to laugh as he takes the cuffs from her, rising and pulling her from the booth in one smooth motion. He’s never been able to resist an order like that, certainly doesn’t now as he drags her towards their home.
Character/Pairing: Wash/Taylor, Jim
Word Count: 2718
Genre: Friendship, Humor, Crack
Rating: PG
Summary: ...in love, war, and mock hostage situations.
Author’s Note: Fill for losthaven’s “war” and makesometime's "disobey."
Have some goofy crack, hmm?
All's Fair....
"C’mon, scream.”
There is no response, simply a dark brow arched in dubious curiosity.
“At least make an effort.”
The woman in question shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest, “I am, sir. As you can see, I haven’t moved from the position you instructed me to hold.” She makes an idle motion with her hands, indicating the empty drill room around her. It’s all Taylor can do not to sigh, shaking his head in a mixture of amusement and something like exasperation. She’s a reasonable woman, such a reasonable woman, performs her duty to the letter in every respect. Wash is nothing if not sensible and he holds her in astoundingly high regard, allows her to function as his touchstone, his voice of reason. He respects her for her honesty, her rationality. She is reasonable.
In most matters; in this regard, he’d rather be having a conversation with a raging carno.
Taylor runs a hand through his hair before sighing again, indicating her with an idle motion of his hand, “And that makes you a proper hostage?”
“Haven’t escaped. Not sure what else you’re looking for.”
“Wash...”
It’s an argument they’ve had at least twenty times over the course of their time in Terra Nova. For whatever ass backward reason, Wash is fundamentally incapable of running the drill. At first, he’d believed it a matter of pride. She’d been afraid to play the damsel due to her reputation. There is little to no reason for her to feel affronted by it; the drills are run in rotation, with ranking members alternating between running point and acting as hostages. He’s played the part once or twice; Guz has at least triple that. It’s just Wash....she’ll run it, she’ll follow her orders...
But she’s escaped at least twice...she’s slipped her rescuers instructions more than that ...hacked into allied comms more than a few times to call out the rotation of enemy patrols...
….she’s a god awful hostage. He’s come to this conclusion. It’s only reinforced as she smirks at him, slipping free of her bonds easily enough. If she were anyone else, he’d suspect she’d have waggled her eyebrows at him. With that particular little half smile that is so singularly her, she extends her hands to him again, letting the cuffs dangle from her index finger, “Might want to try a little harder this time, sir.”
He sighs again, smoothing a thumb over material, still warm from contact with her skin. Taylor is left alone, frowning to himself as he watches her depart. With a final squeeze, he tucks the cuffs in the band of his fatigues, looping his arms easily behind his back. It take's only a second to come to his decision and another from the other man to pick up his comm.
"Shannon, need you to do me a favor..."
____
While attacks on the colony are hardly commonplace, after the Phoenix assault drills like this become the norm. Taylor insists that they keep the troops on their toes. In Wash’s humble opinion, they are very little more than a nuisance.
The woman in question watches as she is (once again) relegated to a less active role (also commonplace since her return to the colony), shaking her head. The Commander wants them prepared in case they ever come up against another hostage situation. It just so happens that she is, almost without fail, placed in this role.
“Shannon, I want you heading up the opposing force.”
The Sheriff, rather than smile at the pronouncement, had nearly groaned, shooting her a dark look as if to ask why he was being punished for her insubordination. While the entirety of the drill is rather mundane (boring), playing the role of enemy commander is perhaps the worst. There's a lot of waiting around and little else. Shannon had glared a final time before nodding.
That had been nearly an hour ago and now here they are. Sitting in the basement of Command, eerily silent. Her friend is leaning casually against the wall nearest to her, making a show of ignoring her as she attempts (yet again) to free herself.
“Shannon.”
There is no response. Wash growls to herself, giving the cuffs another experimental tug. They’ve finally wised up; they material is looped in alternating patterns around a steel bar, effectively ensuring she’d can’t simply slip loose. She reaches out with her foot, just barely managing to twinge the man’s pant leg. It is only then that he glances up, smirking at her, unrepentant, “I’m sorry, Wash, did you say something?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones but you're still chained to a radiator in the basement.”
She growls, “Just give me the key, Shannon.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“It’s your best bet that I won’t break your legs.”
“That really doesn’t give me much incentive to let you free, Wash.”
The Lieutenant frowns again, turning the full force of her glare on the man. With so many women in his family, Shannon has become frustratingly immune to such things, simply shrugging before going back to ignoring her.
“Jim...” she sighs, fighting the urge to whine. She will not be set that low. She will not give in. She just needs to think. The Lieutenant worries her lower lip between her teeth, “You can’t be enjoying this.”
“It’s boring as hell, Wash.”
That’s all he says but she doesn’t miss the way his eyes seem to linger on her cuffed hands. Or the smirk that seems to follow it. Nothing good has ever come of her friend wearing that expression.
_____
It’s exactly one hour before Shannon finally speaks again, sitting across from her. With deliberate slowness and far too much concentration, the man finally says, “I think Taylor’s been approaching this the wrong way...” he nods to himself before standing.
She isn’t certain she likes that smirk or the way he’s coming towards her, all mischief, “Is that so?”
The Sheriff kneels beside her, reaching for the key, pointedly ignoring her questioning glance, “How do you feel about disobeying your orders, Wash?” He’s already uncuffing her, confident in her response. She’s only able to manage a quick roll of the eyes and a shrug. Shannon stands, offering her a hand again.
For a moment, she remains seated where she is, listening to the comm across the room. Taylor is, as per usual, walking the unit through their task. It’s fairly routine and she’s heard his speech enough to know it by heart. In a few minutes he’ll be explaining enemy positioning, how to extract her, a thousand other things they’ve done a thousand other times. It’s routine and it’s nothing that will ultimately aid them.
And then there’s Shannon, smirking at her in that particular way that had absolutely grated against her nerves when he’d first shown up in the colony, too cocky and screaming that he’d buck orders at a moments notice. With a self deprecating little chuckle, she takes the offered hand, allows him to pull her to her feet.
“You have something in mind?” Jim raises a brow as if to ask whether that is even a question, “Of course you do.”
“Just trust me, Wash.”
“Is there a more dangerous phrase then that?”
The Sheriff shrugs, giving her hand another tug as he begins to move, slipping out the back door or their makeshift fortress, “You’d be hard pressed to find one. That’s why it’s fun.”
As he leads her winding through the colony streets she finds herself agreeing with him, amused despite herself. Shannon’s a terrible influence (a thing they are both painfully aware of) and it had been a tactical mistake to think the Sheriff would choose loyalty to his Commanding Officer over a chance to cause mischief. She shakes her head, given Shannon’s hand another squeeze as they duck into Boylan’s.
The Sheriff pulls up short, giving her a cursory once over, eyes coming to rest on the leather strip hanging between her breasts. She arches a brow (and there’s that smirk again), “Taylor uses those to track you right?”
“Yeah...”
For the second time in less than an hour, she finds she isn’t entirely certain she likes the way he’s looking at her. It passes in record time, her bemused half smile replaced with a shit eating grin that threatens to split her face.
__________
“Sir....”
Dunham’s worried voice calls him away from his previous task, the young man shaking his head in confusion as he double checks the monitor in front of him. The device is little more than a glorified GPS unit, useful for monitoring the location of the members of their squad and, in this case, their hostage. It is that blip, the Commander notes with no small amount of exasperation, that is concerning the kid.
“I have to be reading this wrong,” for whatever reason, he already knows what the young man is going to say before he’s saying it. He drums his fingers expectantly against the railing, just waiting for the news as the other soldiers shift, “It’s saying that Lieutenant Washington is on the move...”
He’s not reading it wrong. Taylor shakes his head, fights the urge to heave a particularly withering sigh before clicking on his Comm unit. There is only one way she could have gotten out this time (and he really should have known better; leaving them alone together is never wise), “Shannon, this is Taylor. Do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Commander.”
The man is almost despicably chipper sounding; if he didn’t know better he’d say Reynold’s sighs at that, recognizing that particular tone just as well, “Did I not make it clear that you were to supervise the Lieutenant for the duration of this exercise?”
“No, you made that clear, sir.”
“Mind telling me why she’s halfway across the field?”
“You know Wash, sir. She’s a free spirit. Has to be out there with her hair billowing in the wind or some shit,” at his continued silence, the Sheriff sighs, over dramatic and full of mock exasperation, “Or she can tell you her reasons, sir.”
There is a rustling sound on the other end of the line as if the Sheriff is passing her the device in the middle of their run. It’s followed by a very unladylike snort from his traditionally reserved second and he fights the urge (again) to express his displeasure, “Lieutenant Washington, reading you, sir.”
“Thought we talked about your little escape attempts, Wash.”
There is another snort, something like Shannon’s chuckle and he knows, he knows, this is no accident. Her tone is as laced with superiority as she can managed while remaining properly subordinate, “We did, sir. You’ll be pleased to know I have not escaped.”
“That so?’
“Yes, sir. This time I’ve defected.”
Considering the man he left her with this should not be overly surprising. It should not shock him that she’s found yet another way to subtly shirk her duties in this respect, as near to teasing him as she will dare come (so openly). Taylor runs a hand through his hair, torn between laughing, offering her the begrudging respect her tenacity deserves and reaming her ass out.
In the end, he settles for some awkward middle ground, “You heard the lady, boys. Count the good Lieutenant as a hostile and move out.” Wash hums in agreement on the opposite side of the line and he chuckles, “Suggest you get ready to run, Lieutenant.”
“All due respect, sir, but those kids aren’t going to catch us.”
This time he does laugh. It’s as near as the woman will come to saying, “Come get me.”
And damn if he’s even been able to ignore that order.
_______
It doesn’t take a genius to see that they’ve been well and truly played. The movements on their tracker are far too erratic to pass as the Lieutenant (or Shannon), the two blips weaving between the market stalls, back towards command and finally towards the housing sector, continue to flicker, teasing him. It’s been maybe twenty minutes since his call to the woman and it’s finally coming to an end.
He’s fairly well impressed that they’ve managed to hold out this long but that’s coming to an end. They’d made a tactical misstep, essentially cornered themselves in one of the half-finished units. He makes a quick motion with his hand, directly Reynold’s and Dunham to swing around back even as Reilly falls into step behind him. He’s never been more proud of the kids, each playing their roles perfectly. With a curt nod to the younger woman, he braces, ready for whatever fight the Sheriff and Lieutenant intend to put up.
Only there is no fight and he’s left staring in open confusion as he steps into the room. Neither Shannon or Wash are present.
What there are, however, are two extremely winded teenagers. Skye is doubled over, clutching her knees and attempting to wrestle her composure back. Josh is faring little better, breath coming in shallow wheezes.
The Commander sighs, shaking his head, “Always on the wrong side of the conflict, aren’t you, son?” Shannon’s son smirks (and god, he doesn’t need two of those smirks in his colony).
“Yes, sir.”
With a growl, he reaches out, snatching the familiar leather strap from around the young man’s neck. Wash’s tags, without a sliver of a doubt. And while he is not an official member of their security force, Shannon’s newly commissioned tags are hanging around Skye’s neck. She flashes him a (mock) hesitant sort of smile, holding them out without delay, “You looking for these, Commander?”
They’re going to turn him prematurely gray(er).
________
They are on drink three (or was it five) by the time Taylor strides into the bar, those blue eyes of his scanning over the crowd with purpose, determination. For whatever reason, it has her snickering in her drink, exchanging a blithe look with Shannon. The younger man is trying (and failing) to keep a straight face, blend in with the sea of faces around them.
They could run again. They could lose him here and keep the chase going...
….but the idea of expanding such energy is not an enjoyable one and so she finishes her drink instead, fighting the urge to smile as he takes long strides towards their table. Without pretense, he slides into the booth beside her, saying nothing for long minute. He takes her glass, refills it, finishes the amber liquid. He leans back in the booth, fixing the man across from him with a dark look.
“We found these,” he let’s Wash’s tags dangle from his fingers by the leather band, the things swinging back and forth with a teasing lightness completely at odds with the woman who owns them, “around your boy’s neck, Shannon.”
“Josh seemed like a more effective damsel...”
Taylor hums, the sound noncommittal and not quite readable. Wash has come to recognize it as an amalgamation of amusement and irritation, smirks at the halfway predatory glint in his eyes. With a small smile, she reaches over to give his hand a pat. He stares at the contact before shaking his head again, “You had us chasing the little bastard over half the colony.”
“See, Wash, he’s got legs.”
“He does, Shannon,” said in that matter of fact way as if everything happening is part of the ordinary. Like her little act of betrayal and insubordination had never happened and that he is not fuming (however slightly) beside her. Taylor arches a brow at their easy conversation, both pouring themselves another drink.
“You realize, Lieutenant,” she smirk at his tone, her free hand coming to rest high on his knee, “That I’ll have to make an example of you for this.”
“I am aware, Commander.” But she isn’t concerned. If anything, she only smirk, left corner of her mouth turning up despite her efforts to clamp down on it. On that note, Shannon stands, shaking his head.
Jim presses the cuffs into her waiting hand, winking, “Use these responsibly.”
She watches the Sheriff until he’s safely away at the foot of the stairs before turning her attention to the man beside her. Taylor is watching her carefully, that feral light in his eyes only highlighted by evening sun trickling in the bar, “Are you going to sit there all day, sir?”
It’s as close as she’s going to come to saying “come get me.”
She fights the urge to laugh as he takes the cuffs from her, rising and pulling her from the booth in one smooth motion. He’s never been able to resist an order like that, certainly doesn’t now as he drags her towards their home.