Routine Patrol
She’s fairly certain the phrase “routine patrol” has taken on an entirely different meaning since she last checked. Where at one point in time (a few years back, she’s fairly certain) the suggestion had been met with little more than a nod, whichever soldier she commandeered running off to prepare a Rover, now it’s different. Now her orders are followed (to the letter, with the same efficiency she demands of her soldiers) but there’s something else. Sometimes, she thinks she catches them smirking. Sometimes, the soldiers off to the side (eavesdropping, undoubtedly) will lapse into quite chuckles, their bodies shaking as they try and contain the noise, hide their lapse from their strict Lieutenant.
What’s worse is she’s fairly certain she’s aware of the genesis of this particular bit of phrase defilement.
There are certain traditions that have been upheld since the formation of the colony. The Harvest Festival, though it was perhaps less elaborate in its earlier renditions, a few other holidays. She and Taylor have a few of their own. A night, once a year, where they get together, drink to the memory of the friends they’ve lost, the memories they’ve shared. Every morning (save for the rare occasions where one is laid up or OTG) they walk the perimeter together. And once a week, the two of them go for the afore mentioned routine patrol. Investigate the welfare of their outposts. As Commander and Lieutenant, dear friends, this had never been questioned. A routine patrol was nothing more than it was stated as being.
Now that they are lovers, it’s evidently some strange, irritating, codeword.
If she hadn’t been aware of it before, Shannon is good enough to clear up any misconceptions. Left in charge during the duration of their absence, he approaches her, sack of rations dangling lazily from his hand by a strap. The Sheriff turned acting commander gives her what can only be a knowing smirk, half of his lips tugged up in amusement, blue eyes dancing. She fights the urge to sigh, rests hands on her hips and motions he turn over her pack. While he does extend his hand to her, the moment her fingers close around the fabric he gives a delicate tug back, maintaining his hold on the item.
Jim has never been particularly adept at hiding his feelings, especially strong ones, and, at the moment, doesn’t seem to give enough of a damn to even bother hiding his amusement at their situation, “How long you think you’re going to be out there?”
“Couple of hours, till sundown most likely,” she gives a light tug, smirks, “Not enough time for you to sabotage the colony if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“You are obviously underestimating my skills. I deal in minutes, not hours, when it comes to ruining these sorts of things,” it’s little more than teasing (colored, she is aware from his dealings with Malcolm, no small measure of truth); Jim is surprisingly well suited to running things, makes certain everything is smooth when they return, “But I’ll forgive you for the momentary lapse in faith.”
Wash finally manages to wrest the supplies out of his hand, shoves them behind the seat (to join other emergency supplies and their rifles), “Oh, yeah? And what’ll that cost me?”
She knows, only just after the words have left her mouth, that it’s the wrong thing to say, leaves her entirely too open to his barbs. With a roll of her eyes, she leans against the vehicle, motions that he get on with it. He shrugs, almost as if this is not something he’s planned, “Nothing much. Just you know, was hoping you’d let Taylor lead on this one. Take point.”
“Very clever, Shannon.”
“In all seriousness, Wash,” and the Sheriff only uses such a phrase to indicate he is far from serious, “You two have fun; be safe…” he smirks, inclines his head lightly to the side, waggles his eyebrows suggestively, “What was the phrase Taylor used? Humping it through the jungle?”
“That phrase was used in conjunction with a little girl, wasn’t it?”
Jim flashes a mock scowl, “Don’t try and tell me which words I can and cannot twist, Wash.”
She opens her mouth to respond when the Commander descends the steps, clad in his field armor, rifle slung over his shoulder. There’s something to the image that just…she clamps down on the sensation immediately, throws Shannon a glare when she notes him staring at her a bit more smugly. Taylor nods at Shannon, gives her shoulder a friendly clasp, “Everything in order, Wash?”
“Ready to roll out, sir.”
She jabs Shannon none to subtly in the ribs to keep him from snickering. It earns them a curious look from their Commander, but he shrugs, writes it off as little more than a new facet in their odd friendship. The man walks around to the opposite side of the Rover, slides into the passenger seat. Wash quickly follows suit, takes her position behind the wheel. To no one’s surprise, Shannon leans over to her, “Don’t make it too rough a ride for him, Wash.”
“Shannon.”
“Don’t grind your gears,” she rolls her eyes, “And remember not to clutch the stick so tightly.” That one does earn him a bemused brow raise from the Commander. The Sheriff quickly finishes the thought with a clumsy, “It’s likely the reason you’ve been having more difficulty maintaining the proper amount of traction.”
“Nice save, Shannon.”
Jim shrugs, gives her arms a squeeze, one final grin (as if they’re somehow in conspiracy), “Have fun, Lieutenant.” Almost sing-songy.
She returns with an equally pitched, “You know it isn’t like that, Shannon,” guns the engine to life. His expression very clearly says it matters little to him and that he’ll continue believing whatever he damn well pleases. And if it irritates her, even better. She simply shakes her head; the man gives the hood of their vehicle a goodbye pat, moves away.
Very shortly after dawn, Wash and Taylor begin their Routine Patrol.
And she means that in the classical sense of the phrase.
_____
“Something on your mind, Wash?”
It effectively breaks the silence between them, his voice echoing in her ear over their com units despite the roar of air as it whooshes past them. They are not often overly chatty on their little excursions (comfortable enough with each other’s mere presence, realizing that the noise makes any potential conversation awkward at best) but this is something else entirely. Usually, he would simply let her stew but she has that particular expression on her face (nose scrunched up ever so slightly, lips pursed into a thin line) that warns him it’s likely for the best that he distracts her. The last time he’d allowed one those looks to go unchecked he’d ended up confining her to the brig for an evening (which he cannot say he regrets…) for very nearly putting a hole in one of Boylan’s walls. Not a problem in of itself, save for the fact she’d decided to use a very drunk (and very handsy) patron as the instrument with which to craft it.
As he is the only individual within arm’s length, it seems something like self preservation to divine her thoughts.
The woman simply shakes her head, picks up speed (terrifying in of itself. Wash is a notoriously fast driver on the best of days; on her worst she’s both fast and something akin to reckless. Today is not one of her best days); the vehicle gains air as they fly over a dip in the road, lands with a loud thud, the metal physically protest the force.
“This about the way Shannon was behaving back there?”
“Not just Shannon, sir,” she mutters, scowling a little. An unfortunate log falls prey to her tires, wheels groaning as she makes short work of it. Sighs, slows the vehicle. She’s unsure at first but eventually it comes to a stop. Tightens her grip on the wheel momentarily, shifts slightly to regard him, “You know people talk about our little excursions?”
Taylor shrugs, “Let them; it never bothered you before.”
It hadn’t. And, for the life of her, she isn’t entirely certain why it’s bothering her now (not entirely true; she is well aware of why this has been eating at her). The woman sighs, brushes a stray bang from her forehead, “Sir, they’re convinced we just come out here to have sex.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
It earns him a glare, her dark eye narrowing (though he does not miss the hint of intrigue that flashes in her eyes at the suggestion), “Nathaniel, if the colony believes our relationship is affecting our abilities to carry out our duties…”
“They don’t believe that, Wash. No one will ever doubt your devotion to Terra Nova.”
It seems to bring her some comfort; she nods, turns her attention back to the path in front of them. They are not, after all, behaving untoward out here. It’s a routine patrol, plain and simple. Her thoughts back in order, she turns the ignition again. Is stilled by the hand suddenly on her knee. For a long moment, Wash simply stares at it, as if confused as to how the appendage possibly made the journey from his side of the Rover to hers, brow arched as if it’s one of her disobedient soldiers. With a smirk, he slides it higher, slowly, just barely applying pressure.
He’s halfway up her thigh when he receives an amused, “Sir?”
From her tone it’s fairly obvious she’s far from offended; from the delicate twitch of her lips it’s fairly obvious the notion is, at least in its basest form, intriguing. Liking his odds, he leans nearer to her, unfastens his belt. She continues to regard him with that quizzical look, still bemused when he presses lips to the side of her throat, tongue tracing a thin line of dirt there. His Lieutenant shudders against him, struggles to keep her hands on the wheel. The hand slinks ominously higher, squeezes lightly.
Nuzzles her ear with his nose, a kiss to her jaw, “You had something to say, Wash?”
“Just curious as to your intentions.”
“All good rumors, Lieutenant,” the man very nearly purrs, inclining her head lightly to the side. The pause is intentional, captures her lips instead of finishes his sentence. In contrast to their normally frenzied encounters, he is slow, lips working over hers with purpose. “Have a semblance of truth at their core.”
Wash smirks, parts his lips with her tongue, “As Commander it’s your duty to justify such things?”
“Would hate to be spreading false information around the colony.”
She makes a low humming noise of approval, indulges the kiss for a long moment. Then removes one of her hands from the wheel, places it on his shoulder, and shoves. Surprised by the movement, her intrepid Commander is forced away from her, blue eyes surprised. If she were more like Shannon, she’d favor him with a wink, “Selfless as your goal is, sir, we’ve got a job to do.”
And while he settles back into his seat, the smirk turning his features is more than enough to assure her she hasn’t heard the last of their little game.
_______
Taylor is, she knows from years of experience, a determined sort of man. If he desires to win a war, he will win it. If he desires to keep living, you damn well better believe he’s going to keep holding on. At the moment, she can only assume she is his goal. And while it’s slightly offensive being reduced to little more than a conquest, she won’t deny that it carries with it a certain level of intrigue. It is, in her head, less of a matter of playing the prize and more a matter of some form of mental bout. He chases, she resists. Her military reserve pitted against his. Which would be perfectly fine…
If he played fair.
Taylor is also, she know this from years of experience as well, a filthy cheat when he sets his mind to it. He has, she is assured beyond any doubt, set his mind to it today.
Alicia Washington focuses on the scenery zooming past them. It’s mostly open here, something like a plain and while the grass is remarkably tall the Rover makes short work of it. It’s a clear day, not overly warm, the sun shining merrily in the sky. Perfect for this sort of excursion, peaceful, almost; not far in the distance a pair of brachiosaur graze, one nipping playfully at the other as it snatches a particularly tasty leaf from its mate. All things of beauty, all things she might revel in.
All things considered, it’s terribly hard to focus on when Taylor is back to trailing his hand up her thigh. Sometimes its feather light touches just on the outside of her knee, easy to block out. And sometimes (usually when she’s approaching a particularly difficult turn) he moves higher, very nearly to the junction of her hip and leg and squeezes. At one point, his fingers dig through the fabric of her fatigues, caressing her in a most distracting manner. She isn’t properly prepared for the intrusion, vision momentarily goes hazy.
It very nearly ends with her crashing them into a particularly unyielding rock face. She turns at the last possible minute, hears him snicker from his side of the transport, “Eyes on the road, Wash.” She wishes, more than anything that she could tell the bastard to keep his hands to himself. Which would, she is also aware, only encourage him; he’d shrug, stare at her with those pale blue eyes, retract his hand.
Not ten minutes later she’d find it back in her lap.
It has her growling in frustration (at his antics, at herself for being so damn bothered by them). After nearly an hour of such torment, she’s draws the line. The good Lieutenant brings the vehicle to an abrupt stop (one that has him bracing a hand desperately against the dash to keep from going sprawling). With a determined look on her face, she unbuckles herself, shoves his shoulders back and clambers over onto his lap. The vehicle is small, hardly designed for such encounters, but there is more room on the passenger side and she’s fairly certain they’ll manage (they’ve done more with less). Taylor looks momentarily surprised by the abrupt change before settling back into a self satisfied grin.
“Thought we had a job to do, Lieutenant?”
She’s of half a mind to wipe the smug look off his face but finds a similar one tugging at her own. Nimble hands make quick work of his belt, lifts her hips (the bastard follows suit, thrusts more than lifts, groans at the contact but manages to keep her expression neutral), tugs his fatigues down to his knees, “And I’m not ever going to get that done with your wandering hands.”
“I was exploring. We out here to explore,” he manages to keep his tone flat, as if it’s a simple statement of fact that she cannot hold against him. It earns him an arched brow.
“Fairly certain you’ve travelled that particular path before, sir.”
“And I never get tired of the scenery.”
Wash snorts at his words, kicks off her shoes (knows he’s done the same) manages to shimmy out of her own trousers. They are thrown somewhere outside the vehicle (a fortunate or unfortunate thing about Rovers; no side doors; at the moment it’s responsible for a majority of their freedom of movement), the dull thud of material on the metallic floor of the vehicle assuring her he’s made just as rapid work of his clothing.
It is, in every sense of the word, every definition or imagining of the phrase, a bad, horrible, irresponsible, immature idea. They are trained soldiers, damn it, age and experience rending them upon all this nonsense. Simple logic states they should be entirely capable of keeping their hands to themselves for an evening. This sort of behavior better suits a pair of horny teenagers than a battle hardened Commander and his stoic second.
Then again, she’d never had the pleasure of those frenzied encounters in the back seat of a borrowed car (or Rover, as it were), and so maybe this is little more than making up for lost time. It’s the idea she clings to as she unzips his field armor (suddenly loathes all the fastenings, the material meant to protect them suddenly an immeasurable pain the ass), shoves it down his arms. Noting her haste, Taylor slows, inches the zipper down while applying pressure, makes certain she feels the cool of the metal as it makes its way down her side, a line his fingers have followed hundreds of times in the past.
She cannot say the change in pace surprises her. The man is a mercurial sort of creature in this regard, takes a morbid sort of delight in keeping her on her toes, off balance. If she adjusts to a certain pace he sets, he is all the more likely to charge it. She lets out a please hum as his fingers slide inside the restrictive armor; trace the underside of her breast. Almost gentle, lips working slowly over hers as her nails leave light abrasions across the skin of his abdomen, dragging the fabric of his shirt up with her roving hands.
He finally leans her back, tugs the material down her arms and tosses it outside to join their ever growing pile of discarded gear. She lets out a sharp hiss of breath at the feel of his hands on her, nerves singing, inclines her head to the side to grant him better access to the column of her throat, “Told Shannon we’d be back around dusk.” She means it as a warning, that their time is limited, that he better hurry things up if they intend to finish this and their patrol.
If his low chuckle is anything to go by, he interprets it as an invitation, “You know as well as I that patrol can be completed in half that time. Were you expecting something to happen, Lieutenant?”
“Obviously, Commander, hence my initial reaction to your advances.”
“Playing hard to get, hmm? I almost feel used,” but there’s something so openly mischievous in his eyes and tone that she can’t, even for a second, buy into the sentiment. She rolls her eyes (and her hips, just to wipe that smirk off his face, replace it with a grunt of surprise), tugs the dark material of his shirt up to his shoulders.
“You’ll get over it.”
“Sounds like an invitation….”
Amber eyes widen at that, horror briefly flitting across her features. She presses a hand flat against his chest, opens her mouth to protest, “No, sir, I didn’t mean…” Somehow (and she will never be entirely certain how), he manages to reverse their positions. Hands gripping her thighs to hold her in place through the movement, her back now pressed against the seat. Nathaniel smirks at her and she finishes with a lame, “For you take it literally.”
“Should be more clear in the future, Lieutenant.”
As strongly as she considers growling an appropriately displeased response, she finds it’s impossible with him settled between her legs. To add insult to injury, he makes a little thrust, jars her against the seat to test the range of his mobility. It’s restricted (and the clothing still between them makes her groan); finishes removing his shirt, struggles out of her own. Still too many layers; she bucks lightly beneath him to create the appropriate amount of space to remove their remaining articles (when he reaches for her bra, she favors him with a dark look, smacks his hand away and tends to it herself. She needs something to wear back, damn it), a pleased hum when they’re back to mere flesh on flesh. She’ll never grow tired of him, of this, the feel of his muscles contracting, coiling, beneath her hand. The very heat of him.
His right arm slides behind her, hauling her up in a sitting position. Lips trailing down her neck, teeth tracing the line there, just barely rasping across the skin. The fleeting sensation is an interesting counterbalance to the hand he moves between them, down her abdomen, to cup her sex, fingers teasing her. Knowing it will only edge him on, feed his insufferable ego, Wash attempts to tamp down on her moan, very nearly manages it. He’s good at this, too good at it, curls a finger at precisely the correct angle and all the reserve in the world couldn’t save her.
The sound is all it takes. A wide smirk curves his features, the hand removed; he enters her with a quick thrust, has her head lolling against the seat.
How he does it in the confined space she’ll never know. She’s isn’t particularly sure she needs to as long as he continues. His hand grips the metal bar on the side of the Rover for support, right arm sliding around her torso to hold her flush against him. The cramped confines do little for their mobility and she finds herself very nearly bent in half, her Commander pinning her between the seat (uncomfortable, she can feel the metal beneath biting at her shoulders; doesn’t much care) and his figure. Denied purchase, she slides her arms beneath his, clutches shoulders to drive him deeper within her.
He edges her knees up, slowly at first. He allows one to stay nearer to his waist. The angle is not precisely correct however, leaves his movements stunted. With a growl and a hiss of breath, he jerks her leg up. Air leaves her in an inelegant whoosh as her knees rest beneath his arms, fetch against his shoulders.
A small (decidedly unbecoming for a woman of her rank and disposition) yelp escapes her as he begins to move, the new angle adding the most delicious sort of friction to the whole of the endeavor. He barely even leaves her, each thrust amplified by his death grip on the railing, adding force and momentum behind each of his movements. She is aware, absently, of precisely how pleased he is with himself. She’s knows, as well as she knows the back of her hand, that if she opens her eyes she’ll find him smirking down at her, mouth opened slightly but undoubtedly curved up in a grin. She knows blue eyes will twinkle with something beyond mischief.
This, she supposes, is a very good reason not to open her eyes…even if she could manage it.
Her breath catches in her throat, nails digging at the exposed skin of his shoulders as he moves, knees clutching him far more tightly to her. It’s been a long time, too long, since they did something like this. She feels his hand move to clutch at her hair, fists beneath the tail she’s bound it back in, forcibly drag her head back. Wash’s mouth opens, very nearly lets out a moan, but it dies in her throat, every nerve in her body suddenly humming, alive with pleasure. Another tug (harder this time, in conjunction with a particularly deep thrust and his tongue caressing the hollow of her throat), and while the burning sensation it elicits should cause her discomfort, should cause her scalp to scream in pain, it only adds an extra layer to the feelings coursing through her.
She doesn’t last long; the combination is designed (she knows this beyond any measure of doubt) to undo her. The Lieutenant lets out a breathy gasp, a second as he manages to drive himself impossibly deep within her, inner muscles spasming in an attempt to draw him with her. The grunt of protest is all she receives in return, arm tightening about her waist. Her knee jars his shoulder, chin very nearly does as well as she throws her head back. She’s always been a vocal woman but this seems, even to her own ears, extreme. Her breath continues to leave her in ragged gasps as he continues to move, lengthening her release, leaving pleasant aftershocks of pleasure dancing across her system. He lets out a sound of protest as she digs her heels into his torso, nails at his shoulder, lips at his ear instructing him to come for her.
He’s never been able to resist her voice. He most certainly cannot now.
Taylor leans his head against her shoulder, snickers against her heated skin. They remain entwined that way for a moment, both catching their breath before he detangles himself from her, steps out of the vehicle to begin gathering their things. She isn’t entirely certain her legs will hold her weight, but she’s willing to try, smirks at him as she moves to stand, gloriously nude, in the midday sunlight. Desire darkens his eyes and she laughs, rolls her eyes. His want of her will never cease being flattering, of this she is certain.
Her amusement earns her a glare. Taylor gives her a none too delicate shove, her backside connecting with the metal of the vehicle. Bends her over the hood, a bruising kiss stealing whatever oxygen she’d managed to coerce back into her lungs. Hands fumble momentarily before clasping behind his neck, interested in exploring this new positioning.
He pulls away from her with a smirk, shoves her armor into her hands.
“Come on, Wash, got work to do. Can’t have the colony gossiping.”
Wide eyed, she stares after him, down at the armor. Back at him. He shrugs lightly, tugs his fatigues back on.
After so long, she’s come to the conclusion that it’s best not to question him when he’s in such playful moods. Hot and bothered she may be, but she’ll undoubtedly get him back in the near future.
In fact, they’re both counting on it.
_______
They return, much as she predicted, not long after dusk, the Rover coming to a smooth stop within the gates. She’s aware of the sound of the gate closing behind them. Taylor gives her should a quick pat before motioning up towards Command. There are some things he needs to work out before he returns homes. Wash nods, begins unloading the vehicle.
To no one’s surprise, Shannon is behind her almost immediately, quickly takes a satchel from her hands. From the look on his face there’s also no mistaking the intention behind his visit. She has half a mind to roll her eyes. Refrains, because he’s evidently feeling too damn happy about their return, “Welcome back, Wash. You look…pleased. Everything go alright out there?”
She woman smirks, gives his arm and affectionate pat, “Just perfect, Shannon. I took your advice.”
That particular turn of phrase stops him. He pulls a face, narrows his eyes, “I don’t want to hear this, do I…?”
“Turns out the Commander was very eager to head up this particular mission…”
The Sheriff barely contains his laugh at the woman’s words, shakes his head, “That’s my girl.”