Perfect Situation
Title: Perfect Situation
Character/Pairing: Jim/Wash bromance, Jim/Elizabeth, one sided Wash/Taylor
Word Count: 2560
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort?
Rating: PG at most
Spoiler alert: None
Summary: Shannon finds her alone at Boylan’s on a Friday night, drowning herself in liquor. It’s an anniversary, she says, and he knows anniversaries should never be celebrated alone.
Authors Note: Done for Shawn’s bromance prompt: Would love to see a piece where the two of them are - for whatever reason - getting smashed together.
I apologize, I had a decent portion of a humorous one done for the two of them that fit the prompt a bit better. And then got bit by the hurt/comfort bug.
Perfect Situation
It’s a strangely quiet night at Boylan’s, the typically rowdy atmosphere peculiarly subdued. It’s as busy as ever, but everyone seems content to keep to themselves, huddled together in their booths, conversing silently over their drinks. For whatever reason, the colony seems to have decided it is date night. The warm air is well suited to such endeavors and the pinkish orange light of the sunset outside pours down the stairs to the bar. A cursory glance over the place yields at least seven different couples. Some are curled against each other, whispering pleasantly, others are a little more subdued in their affections, their hands clasped together between them. It’s strangely…romantic.
In the midst of such behavior, Lieutenant Alicia Washington looks particularly odd, alone in her booth, a bottle of scotch her companion, her features almost sad. Stoic and typically restrained to anyone passing by, sad to anyone who knows her. She gives a delicate tug on her tags, runs the chain idly between her fingers, stares at nothing in particularly before bringing her glass to her lips. Frowns at the liquid as it burns all the way down her throat. Clad all in black in a scene full of pinks and oranges, so dour in the face of others love. It’s a striking contrast and one Shannon finds himself staring at momentarily before crossing to the woman.
She glances up when he slides in across from her, half of her lips quirking up in a smile. It takes effort, he knows, and the sentiment dies somewhere along the way, mirth never reaching her amber eyes. He plucks the bottle from the table, gives a low whistle. It’s actual scotch, not the cheap imitation the colony makes. 2139, a pretty damn good year if he remembers correctly, “Alright, Wash, you have to tell me. What did you charge Boylan with to get him to serve you this?”
The Lieutenant shakes her head, the smile a little more real this time as she tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear, “It’s a gift. For our anniversary.” The word, for whatever reason, causes her to chuckle, the sound surprisingly bitter.
“Your anniversary? Jesus, Wash, that’s a relationship I don’t want to think about.”
“What? Oh, god, Shannon, no,” she rolls her eyes, “My units anniversary, Shannon. My units. Ten years to the day since my last serious brush with death. And here’s to the boys less lucky.” She holds up her glass in cheer, finishes her shot. Not the scotch yet. That’s untouched. Some of the swill they brew. He takes one of them from in front of her, sniffs, frowns. For whatever reason, Terra Nova has yet to properly duplicate the taste of any alcoholic beverage and so it’s only their best approximation. Jim tends to categorize this particular beverage as, “sort of like tequila mixed with bad rum.”
“So is this how you usually celebrate?”
Wash shrugs, obviously well on her way to being properly drunk. She’s looser, her emotions less guarded, and it’s a strangely refreshing (charming) change. Almost as if for the first time in years she’s perfectly alright with letting her hair down, willing to behave as best befits her and not simply how others need to see her. Shame, then, that it coincides with such a morbid holiday. “Sometimes this sometimes that. Taylor usually joins me for a drink or two but,” another shrug, this time more forced, as if the words disappoint her more than she’s letting on, “Nothing to be done for it.” Their intrepid Commander had left the morning previous, wouldn’t return until sometime tomorrow. “Not going to waste the one day of the year I’m allowed to pity myself and get shit-faced.”
She raises her glass; Shannon reaches over and takes it from her, downs the liquid (and frowns at the taste) before she can rally an effective protest. He motions for her to hand him another.
“What are you doing, Shannon?”
“Drinking?”
The good Lieutenant frowns, scowls at him when he takes another one of her shots. For whatever reason, she refrains from protesting more verbally, sighs heavily, “I can see that. I’m curious as to why.”
“Because Liz is working late and I’ve got nowhere to be. And I haven’t been married so long that I’ve forgotten that a beautiful woman drinking alone is some sort of sin.”
“Right up there with murder and adultery, huh?”
“You’d be surprised how often those three are mixed together,” he winks and the composed woman shakes her head, chuckles to herself. But her smile is real this time. “Come on, Wash. Let me stick around. I’ll do my best Taylor impression; you can tell me all your darkest secre….war stories,” another snort of laughter, and it has him smiling, “And we’ll both get good and drunk. I’ll even walk you home after.”
“I’ve seen you drunk, Shannon. You aren’t walking me anywhere.”
“Fine. I’ll let you walk me home. If you promise to be a gentleman.”
She arches a brow over the rim over of her glass, almost manages to repress her smile at his expression. The man’s tucked himself back against the corner of their booth, one arm thrown lazily over the back of the seats, the other resting on the table between them, idly flicking at his empty glass. There’s something almost childish, entirely too relaxed in the whole of the image that demands her spirits lighten and she shakes her head, “I’ll try and restrain myself.”
He shrugs, flashes that trademark grin (so miserably disarming; Wash holds no doubts that it had melted more than its share of hearts; personally, it only irritates her, reminds her that the wily bastard is trying his hand at manipulation. What’s worse, he’s aware of her feelings towards “the grin” and only makes a point of doing it more often), a flippant, dismissive gesture with his hand, “Then it’s decided. Next round’s on me.”
Josh gives him an odd look when he brings them the alcohol (or something vaguely alcohol like) but makes no comment. They drink in silence for a bit (she gives him ample opportunity to catch up) and when both are pleasantly tipsy, the conversation turns more to general things. The well being of the colony, gun preference, the others day; safe ground, things that are simple and far from personal.
Boylan brings them the next round (the good stuff) and sets a hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder, flashes her a smile. It’s sad, strangely out of character for the man in question, and there’s no underlying motive. She returns the expression, suddenly more dour as she sips her drink. Sips, she’s done shooting. The change is noted immediately by her companion. Notes how her hand immediately moves back to her tags, back to toying with them, a strangely nervous gesture for the composed woman.
“So what happened….”
She frowns, “Everything that could go wrong, did. That’s all.”
It’s not an answer, but he doesn’t expect to get a better one. He simply nods, leans forward to rest his hands on the table between them. The movement has her arching a brow though she refrains from commenting. Leans forward as if they’re in conspiracy, voice surprisingly soft, serious, “Tell me about them. Your unit.”
An oddly sentimental expression graces her features, eyes closing momentarily, and she nods, motions him to join her on her side of the booth. In short order he’s settled in beside her. The woman removes her tags, holds them in her right hand (the one between them), switches the thing on. Shannon clucks his tongue, “The high and mighty Alicia Washington, hacking her tags. For shame.”
“I’m not perfect, Shannon. Damn close, but not perfect.” The self deprecating curve of her lips has him chuckling and he reaches for the unopened bottle of scotch. Holds it out to her, smirks when she uses her left hand to open it. In short order, both are nursing a drink. He almost lets out a noise of approval at the burn; so much better than what they usually serve.
Wash searches through the images she has stored (not many, he counts perhaps six), selects one. For the first time, her smile lacks anything resembling guilt, remorse. She gives the interface a delicate tap, enlarges the picture enough for them to see. There, forever frozen in time, is a very young, very dirty, very pleased Alicia Washington, surrounded by men, their ages varying between eighteen and forty something. She’s laughing, seated on a crate, her left leg over one man’s right shoulder, her right doing the same over another guys left. One guy is trying to kiss her cheek, despite the hand she has over his face. It’s much the same everywhere, the other soldiers crowding in on her. And for the life of him, Jim can’t remember seeing anyone looking so damn happy. Taylor’s somewhere off to the side, shaking his head at his boys antics.
She bites her lip, switches to another without explanation. This one is more serious, everyone lined up, saluting. She looks almost comically small next to the larger men but there’s a strength in her posture that renders her every bit as formidable. The Lieutenant indicates the man on her left, a handsome sort of guy, blond hair, “This was Jensen. And this,” the one on her left, “Was Adams.” Past tense; it sends a wave of sympathy through him. She chuckles, “They were two of the surliest bastards you ever met.” But there’s something so fond about her tone that he can’t bring himself to believe her. She finishes the rest of her drink quickly, takes the bottle from his hand and pours herself another.
“And who was this?” He indicates a young man about three spaces to her right. The one that had tried to kiss her in the previous photo. The fond expression that immediately takes her is about all the answer he needs and he nods. “Ah.”
Alicia Washington is not an open woman by nature. But she’s a little drunk, and she’s feeling damn nostalgic, and Shannon’s a surprisingly good listener, “Erik. His name was Erik.”
“Good friend?”
“My best,” at his arched brow, she gives his shoulder a gentle shove, “Don’t get that look on your face, Shannon. It wasn’t anything like that.”
“Come on, it wouldn’t be a proper evening if I didn’t hear about at least one of your torrid love affairs.”
Her laugh is surprising and all the better for it. She relaxes, he lifts his arm, settles it over the back of their seat, she scoots a little closer to him. Perfectly friendly, relaxed. It’s the first time he’s seen her like this in too long and it brings with it a comforting swell of emotion. She holds her tags up again, cycles through to one that meets his request. It looks like it was taken on one of their leaves. Perhaps years after the other two. Everyone looks older, Wash’s hair is longer, some of the youthful vigor gone and replaced with an impressive determination. There are more medals pinned on her collar, less of the squad behind her. Adams is gone. Some of the others are missing as well. Taylor is in the center, an impressive gash marring his forehead, Wash at his side, staring up at him as if she’d much rather be treating the damn thing than posing for the brass.
Another is her and Erik, the man smirking as Wash clutches his chin, presses a kiss to his cheek. It’s surprising to see the woman behaving so easily, so openly. She remains on the picture a moment longer than she intended. Jim throws his friend a sidelong glance, notes the bittersweet expression she’s adopted. Smiling, but not truly happy.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Wash, either you can talk or I’ll start making things up,” when she simply pours herself a drink (although she doesn’t for a second think he’s bluffing. She knows him too well for that) leans back against his shoulder. “Alright then. You were secret lovers.” She scoffs, “You didn’t want to get involved but that Erik was a charming bastard and wormed his way into your heart. And before you knew it, you were in love. Did you like being in love, Wash?”
“It’s your story, Shannon.”
“Then you damn well enjoyed it. You were happier then you’d ever been, and this picture, well, that was just a lucky little snapshot. Caught somewhere between all the death you’d both been dealing with.” He looks down at her, notices the smile hasn’t faded at all. If anything it’s amused, fond. “That sound about right, Lieutenant?”
Wash nods, “About perfect, Shannon.”
“So where did Erik end up?”
“Married, two kids,” she holds up a hand quickly before he can say anything, “Not mine.” There’s a long moment of silence; they both drink. She goes quickly through the rest of her photos. Stops on one of her and Taylor, both looking happier than all the world, despite the fact that both are covered in mud, too thin and undoubtedly on deaths door. His arm is swung over her shoulder, both bracing against the other. “He took this one.”
“You look happy.”
She pauses, takes a long breath, “I think I was.” Something about the image, the easy camaraderie holds her attention. A look at Shannon, sad. They’re both more than a little drunk, and so she doesn’t mind sharing, “Your story was fairly close to the truth, you know.”
Jim chuckles, gives her shoulder a squeeze, “I know.”
“Wasn’t with Erik.”
“I know that too.”
“And we weren’t lovers.”
“And you still aren’t.” She pulls back, stares at him, expression caught between horror and something else. Jim flashes her a comforting smile, holds his glass up in salute. “For what it’s worth, you’re exactly what he needs.” The woman looks suspicious but drinks as well. Stiffens when he pulls her back to him, scowls at his chuckle.
She lets out a huff of breath, “You’re an ass, Shannon.” But she relaxes against him, continues to flick through her pictures, settles on the one of Taylor and herself and smiles.
He presses a friendly kiss to her forehead, “Love you too, Wash.”
The bar’s long since grown silent, most of the patrons having long since retired. The sun has long since set, the midnight hours have rolled around. The Lieutenant and Sheriff remain precisely as they are for a very long while, nursing their drinks, reminisce over old times, memories. Experiences from the past, times they’ve passed together (and find their retellings remarkably different). Boylan leaves them another bottle of scotch (the good stuff) before he leaves.
True to her word, just before dawn, Wash walks Shannon home.