Title: Long Enough To Bloom

Author: kali

Fandom: QOS

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Not mine. Title from "Seven Days in Sunny June" by Jamiroquai

Notes: Idea came from thinking about lyrics: "seven days in sunny June, long enough to bloom." Written some time ago, so I know better than to think this works in any way, but I want to post it anyway.

Summary: Seven days in sunny June.

Day 1: June 7th, 1817

In which the hero laments the ill-laid plan.

It's an awful day. There's sunshine and fucking butterflies and smiling people. People who would've been dead—okay, so that's an okay thing—and worst of all, a colonel who would've been dead if not for a: a meddling snot-nosed doctor and b: a meddling, uptight, sword-wielding whore of a Queen. Goddamn meddlers. Always meddling like they do.

He squints through the obscenely bright sunlight and weaves his way around the washerwomen at the fountain, around the little boys playing with their red-white-and-blue toy boat. Right now, he just wants to get some sleep—goddamn midnight-to-four and six-to-ten shifts, why the hell couldn't he get someone else to cover for him—and soak in that delicious sort of late afternoon half-light like a tepid bath. And then he wants food, beer, sex, and more sleep.

Yep. That's his plan for the day. Outrageously productive, Captain Grisham is.

Colonel Grisham would've been damn productive. First, he would've gotten rid of these overlapping shifts. Then he would've started drills-or-death, the way things ought to be done around here. Soldiers didn't learn unless they were about to die. That's just the way the brain worked. But goddamn Montoya—

"Peralta!" he barks, rounding the corner to the garrison plaza. He stomps over to the dozing sentry by the well and hoists him up by the jacket, dangles him over the stone lip of the well. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sleeping, Capitan."

Goddamn lip on these goddamn lackeys. "You're an idiot, Peralta. You're on duty, stand at attention and awake!" Peralta makes the mistake of rolling his eyes. This is something Grisham can't understand—when someone has you hanging in mid-air, you're really going to try and piss them off? "And now, you're on duty until midnight. Right here. If you sleep again, you will be on duty until tomorrow at midnight. It'll just keep ramping up until you learn to stay awake, understand?"

Peralta now looks appropriately pissed/chagrined. It's a weird combination on such a round face. Grisham lets him drop to the sand, without warning, and Peralta's knees give out. "Get up," he spits, and turns to stalk into his quarters, slam the door and punch the wall.

No. No use getting angry, not over the idiots he commands, not over the failed plan. It had failed, and now he had to maneuver from whatever lowly place he'd dropped to. Whatever place that was, he's still Captain; no one else can be expected to do the job with any semblance of competence. Not that Marcus is competent, but it's intentional incompetence; the other morons just don't get it.

Sighing heavily, he turns and ambles—slowly, steadily, getting his breathing back under control—to his table, pours himself some water. He drinks about half of it when he notices the folded piece of paper with his name in precise, narrow letters, next to his ink.

He plunks down the tin mug, draws his pistol and spins, does a quick recon of the room. No, no one here. But damn, does he need to invest in a better lock. He uncocks the gun and sets it down on the table, picks up the paper. It's not just paper, it's fine, heavy stationery, light blue, tinged so faintly it looks pure white. The handwriting—on the outside, at least—is feminine, for all its masculine pretense. Too many loops.

Well, that makes "Who is this from?" easy. Now he just has to guess "What'd she say?" There are two options for that. A: You poor baby, coming down sick like that. Want me to love you better? B: You fucking creep. I heard what you did and I hope you rot in hell with Satan.

Given the circumstances, and that she gossiped with both Vera and Doctor Helm on a regular basis, he's willing to go all in on option B.

Ah, Christ. She didn't even bother with an actual greeting, just a terse sort of "Capitan Grisham." He was so fucked.

Capitan Grisham,

I hope this note finds you in better health than you were yesterday. I understand that Doctor Helm managed to recover the medicine; if you are suffering from the same fever that the rest of the town is, please do take care to see him and obtain some of the medicine for yourself.

I thank you for your company yesterday afternoon and hope for your quick recovery.

T. Alvarado

Damn. He didn't get a "Dear" or even a "Sincerely." Or even a full name! This was the official kiss-my-ass-you-jerk.

He's pretty calm; he puts the note down, finishes his water, then scrambles to read the note again. Did she actually mention Helm in the second fucking sentence!? Did she really just slap him in the face like that? "I understand that Doctor Helm…" Son of a bitch probably got the fucking medicine, cured all the fucking people and went straight to fucking gloat to the gorgeous girl who would simper and fuss over his obnoxious English ass.

Goddamn. Goddamn. His life officially sucks.

Angry now, infuriated, really, and still exhausted, he strips off his jacket and rummages through his wardrobe for that pair of black pants that sits loose enough for him to really move, to dodge and duck and cross step and fight. He struggles out of his uniform pants, and fuck those suspenders, pulls on the fight pants and bursts out his door. "Peralta!"

Peralta is perfectly awake, flirting like a moron with Juliana. He snaps to attention and Juliana rushes away. "Yes, Capitan Grisham, sir!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up. You're off sentry duty."

Peralta hesitates. "What am I on?"

"Arena. Now. You've got five minutes to be ready."

"Fuck."

"Shut up. And go."

Peralta runs off, probably still cursing under his breath. Grisham slowly makes his way into the garrison quarters, weaves his way around the bunks and trunks and comes out to the sand pit of the yard. The Arena is the great equalizer, where Corporal Cruz beats the shit out of his Captain, on occasion, and Captain Grisham beats the shit out of everyone else. Ramirez and Murrieta are wrestling; the off-duty grunts are watching, betting, rooting. "I take winner," he mutters to Cruz, "and Peralta."

Cruz looks up and gives a questioning grunt. Cruz never questions unless absolutely necessary. "Simultaneously."

Cruz shakes his head, grunts again, writes it down. Murrieta spits out a tooth and slams Ramirez into the yard wall. Ramirez flops to the sand, stays down for the five counts. Two grunts drag him out. Grisham steps up.