A/N: Heh, sorry Terra Novans. It is angst time again. Pleasedon'thurtme. Why, you ask, don't you hate writing angst, Sky? Yes, yes I do. But I've been challenged. Inu and I are having an angst off. You may blame the angst on her.
Only it's more bittersweet and not really angst ridden at all. In any way, really. Does that disqualify me? :D
This happens…sometime before Somalia. And my Ayani is borrowed heavily from a character from another show (If I wrote her right xD). And frankly, a part of me is very much convinced that I hate the entirety of this story. Past fics are HARD.
Duality
Wash hates hospitals.
It's irrational really, but she can't help the thought as she navigates the impossibly white halls, her rebreather hanging about her neck. Everything is sterile, cold. Lifeless, hopeless. Perhaps it's simply a reaction to her career, her training as a medic. She deals with death, day in, day out. She's had kids die in her arms, choke on their own blood, she's watched friends bleed to death, knowing all the while that despite all her talents there are some she'll never manage to save.
A hospital is that feeling incarnate as far as she's concerned. It's not a place one goes for treatment so much as it is a place to die. As she walks through the doors she's struck by the all too familiar scent. Heavy air, tinged with death and surrender, a sort of hopelessness she prefers not being reminded of during her off hours.
Yet here she is.
She takes a steadying breath, cursing inwardly. Her first day of leave in months and she's spending it in a damn hospital.
Only for Taylor would she do such a thing. Only for her (frantic, worried) commander, his collected tone showing signs of wear, some manner of desperation seeping through. His blue eyes had fixated on her, clung to her with a mad light, imploring her silently.
Ayani is sick. His beloved Ayani is sick.
He asks (not orders; he approaches her as a friend rather than a commander, twisting the dagger in her ribs more fully) her to go see to his wife. To make certain she is well. It's an unspeakably simple request in the grand scheme of things that bespeaks a trust neither will put to words. They are both well aware that it takes all of Taylor's carefully schooled military control not to run to his wife's side. They are both aware the only way he can bear being apart from her at such a time is if Wash is with her.
He trusts Wash with that most precious to him. It warms her heart even as it tears it.
Wash hates hospitals, yet here she is. One day of leave, and here she is. She doesn't regret it.
She gathers her courage and steps into the room.
Ayani is alone. Various data pads scattered across the desk assure her Lucas has been by to visit, leaving his mother's side only recently. Wash glances at the woman's chart. She running a dangerously high fever, its origin as of yet unknown. Something in her heart twinges painfully at the sight of her, her hair plastered to her lovely, if aged, face.
If she dies, it will break Taylor. It runs through Wash's mind at an impossible speed, dizzying in its intensity, undeniable it its truth.
The older woman manages to open her eyes, a weary smile immediately turning her lips. It's warm, despite the effort it obviously takes, fond and positively open; something Wash has never been able to manage. She doesn't share her feelings, her true emotions, lightly. Unsteadily, she allows herself to return the gesture.
Ayani extends a hand and Wash moves to accept it almost immediately. Her tone is unmistakably amused, a striking contrast to the rasping quality of her voice, "I see my husband guilted you into coming, Sergeant. Don't tell me he's worrying over me again?"
"He's always worried about you." And it's true. Always.
She shakes her head sadly, "Of course. But you shouldn't have to deal with his…" she pauses, looking for the appropriate word. Settles on, "Paranoia. I'm more than capable of handling myself." And maybe she is. But they are both well aware that Taylor would never risk leaving her alone. They've done this dance often enough, occasionally with their positions reversed.
"How are you?"
It's a stupid, pointless question. She looks, and undoubtedly feels, like hell. But the smile never leaves her face and Ayani shrugs as best as she's able, "I can't complain."
"You sure as hell can."
Her answer is a simple, "Maybe."
A moment of silence passes between them. Wash takes a seat not far away from the bed, carefully setting Lucas' work aside. Neither is entirely certain what to say so they settle for the comfortable stillness. When they do speak it's about nothing in particular. How Taylor is doing (fine), how Lucas is doing (fine), the state of Wash's love-life (nonexistent). The last has Ayani chuckling.
"I think you're lying to me, Sergeant."
"Am I?" She isn't, not really.
"You just have that look about you. Like someone in love," and she smiles, a beautiful smile even if she's half wasted away, covered in sweat. "It suits you."
The wave of guilt that crashes over her is impossible in its strength, threatening to crush and drown her. Perhaps she is in love (she is), as desperately as she denies it, tries to crush the emotion. She wonders, absently, if her commander's perfect woman could find it in her heart to forgive her if she confessed to being in love with her husband. She wonders if it would effectively shatter the trust between them.
And sometimes she doesn't wonder if the woman doesn't already know, at least on some level. It's there, in the occasionally sad gaze she turns upon the young soldier. It's not pity, not quite, because Wash would never accept pity. It's something else entirely; empathy, perhaps.
She doesn't get the chance to respond. Before she can open her mouth, Ayani lets out a sharp hiss of pain, her fingers clenching at the sheets. "Sergeant, I know you undoubtedly have places to be and tasks to perform for my husband but…" the older woman's breath hitches for a second, her face contorting in pain. Perhaps it's her training, perhaps something else, but Wash is on her feet instantly, checking her pulse, checking her meds. In a moment the pain evidently passes, leaving the soldier fretting over nothing. It doesn't really matter. Wash is excellent at fussing and without an enemy to combat, without a clear problem in sight, it leaves her shifting uncomfortably (uselessly, she thinks, gritting her teeth) by the woman's bedside. Ayani favors her with a smile, placing a tired hand on her cheek, chuckling despite herself, "You're just like him; far too protective for your own good."
Wash doesn't dispute this (or ask who he is, there is no other man where either of them are concerned), turns the woman's head gently to the side, "Your eyes are dilated. Are you feeling alright?"
Another wave of pain wracks her, causing her to visibly wince. It leaves the soldier feeling impossibly helpless, torn. A gasp, she struggles, taking raspy breathes, "Fine. I'm fine." Dark eyes narrow, green ones soften. "I'm so sorry to worry you." There is no trace of sarcasm in the words. Only Taylor's wife could apologize for her own pain. It's only when the woman brushes the back of her fingers across Wash's cheek she notices the anxiety pooling in her own gut. For whatever reason, she is worried.
Because a part of her knows, in her heart of hearts, that if anything should happen to this woman her commander would never recover. Knows that while some selfish part of her envies the woman (because she has the one thing Wash can never hope to capture, to conquer) she can never wish her harm; she loves more fully than she loathes. Loves because there is no other woman more capable of bringing a smile to Taylor's face, of satisfying him, completing him, loving him; loathes for exactly those reasons. She ignores the sharp jolt of pain that tears through her heart at the confession, choosing instead to adjust the pillows, make her commander's (soul mate, her treacherous heart insists, cutting her anew) wife comfortable.
She can't be the better woman but she can damn well resist making a jealous fool of herself.
"I wonder if you won't do me a favor, Sergeant," Ayani finally manages, her voice unsteady, fingers trembling as they cling desperately to the younger woman, seeking purchase, comfort, through the feverish haze.
"Anything, ma'am," and she means it, from the depths of her heart, with every fiber of her being. It matters little that this woman is perfection incarnate (to Nathaniel, at least, and why should anything else matter but that), a physical representation of everything she is not and will never be, or that she has the heart of the man Alicia herself has (unwillingly) come to love. The older woman squeezes her hand lightly, chuckling at the moniker (she hates it, as she's told Alicia a thousand times. She doesn't need help feeling older.).
"Will you sit with me a while longer?"
The omnipresent ache that always flares to life in the other woman's presence sends a warning jolt of pain throughout her body, tells her to make her escape. She's done her duty to her commanding officer. There's no further reason for her to stay.
But Wash finds herself nodding, glancing between their entwined fingers (the contrast between them only more jarring with physical contact) and Ayani's warm smile. She nods again and squeezes back. Soldiers live with pain every day; this is no different. And with time and exposure perhaps she may deaden herself to it. Her eyes never leave the other woman as she reaches out, fingers finding the chair Lucas had occupied until recently. They do not leave her as she takes her seat, making herself as comfortable as can be expected.
Ayani closes her eyes (she isn't weak, not really, and hates being such a worry to her loved ones), focuses on suppressing the pain wracking her body to a dull throb. Tries to remain calm; she finds solace in the Sergeants presence, focuses on her husband. And there she finds peace.
Wash closes her eyes (she isn't weak, not ever, and hates the inability to protect her loved ones), focuses on the hand in hers. Tries to remain calm; she finds solace in her ties to both the woman and her husband, in friendship rather than a fanciful infatuation that can never be (and damn if admitting it doesn't hurt). Focuses on her loyalty to her commanding officer, on the smile that only ever turns his features at the mention of his wife. And there she finds, if not peace, contentment.
The older woman drifts off into a troubled sleep nearly an hour later. Wash remains, justifies her continued presence. She'll stay only until she's confident Ayani's fever's broken, that she'll remain asleep. She'll stay only a little longer.
Sometime near midnight she feels her hold on consciousness growing weak, sleep overcoming her tired mind. Through her own exhaustion she feels the hand still clutching her own tighten its grip. She manages to squeeze back. Just a little while longer, a little while longer and then she'll take her leave.
Wash stays the remainder of the night, her heart aching in her chest in time with the other woman's pain.
Taylor can't help but pause in the doorway of his wife's hospital suite, his brow arched. The war, everything else, fades to a dull thrum momentarily. It's peaceful, standing here. It's silly and impossible, but a part of him can't help but be in awe of the sight presented him. If asked, he'll never be capable of explaining precisely what he finds so striking about it. It is simply strength, beauty. It resonates through him, holds him motionless momentarily, if only to admire it.
His wife, his Ayani, lies immobile in her hospital bed, hauntingly pale, beautiful despite it all. With the sun cutting through the window at such an angle her features are softened. She is simply light, warmth and delicate hope. Striking, perhaps, but not enough to hold him.
It is Wash, curled in the chair beside the bed, her hand still clasped in his wife's that completes the image. There's something fascinating about it, thought he can't place why. Her dark hair frames her face, the light casting her features into stark relief. The entirety of her figure is clothed in black, from her hair to her boots. Black to contrast Ayani's pallor, strength to contrast frailty.
The disparity between them is positively arresting. Both are undeniably beautiful (though he admits to being heavily biased), his bride impossibly pale and slender, her expression open. Her fingers bend gently in the others hand, seeking warmth and comfort. Wash is strength, her posture significantly more guarded. Her fingers clasp around the other woman's wrist, protecting, guarding.
They remain sleeping, so he does not wake them. He glances down at the flowers (roses, Ayani loves roses. As, he notes absently, does Wash) in his hand, plucks one from the rest.
He settles down in an available chair, waits for them to wake, enjoying the image a little longer.
Alicia awakens to the sight of her Commander embracing his (goddamn perfect) wife, the sound of the woman's shaky laughter wresting her from her sleep. A bouquet of roses is being crushed between them, a gift from Taylor, undoubtedly.
She allows herself to smile at the situation, despite the selfish, idiotic hurt she tries to suppress. He's happy, really, truly, impossibly happy and that is enough for her. Ayani is happy, and that is enough for her.
So she smiles, though she has no real place in the moment. Smiles despite the stupidity of her feelings, despite the ache in her chest that refuses to succumb to her reason and restraint, to their joy.
When she looks down, she finds one of those roses resting in her lap, beautiful and unmarred. She stares at it for a long moment.
And smiles.
A/N: I am in no way implying Taylor had romantic feelings for Wash during their war days. I really don't think he did. She was his friend though and friends deserve pretty flowers, damn it!