Disclaimer: I do not own Terra Nova. I wish I did. But I don't. It's very sad, but true...
This was inspired by the song Letters From War by Mark Shultz. There was also some references to another fic of mine called Letters From Home. You can read this as a standalone, but you'll better understand the references if you read that first.
Please excuse any and all mistakes. I hope you enjoy reading it.
It had been going so well at first. They'd sneaked into the enemy camp, Martinez had hacked into the main computer and downloaded the files needed-military operations, attack plans, all sorts of intel. They'd even done it in record time. And then someone tripped up the security system and the sirens started wailing.
But that's not when everything went to hell.
Everything went to hell when Taylor had been shot down.
For the first few moments, none of them had even realized what had happened. The sirens were wailing, shouting was coming from every direction, and bullets were reigning down on them like bats from the underworld.
Then Wash realized she wasn't following behind anyone. Being one of the lightest and nimblest of the unit, Sargent Morrison aside, Wash could easily run ahead of most of her fellow soldiers, but she didn't. It was her job to ensure they made it out alive and patch them up on the way, she couldn't do that if she was ahead of them all. Taylor was always near her, about two steps ahead and to her left. He would never dream of leaving a man-or woman-behind.
She skidded to a stop. Even in the dark (granted, they had night vision goggles) he was like a road flare to her, impossible to miss. He was a several yards back, struggling to stand on his bullet-riddled left leg.
She took off, training kicking into action. Stop the bleeding. Support his weight Get him the hell out of here. Perhaps not necessarily in that order (typically it was more like support his weight, get him the hell out of here, stop the bleeding), but she knew what to do.
"Wash-" he growled. "Get out of here!"
Wash ignored him, use to his hero complex by now. He might be angry with her later for disobeying an order, but at least he'll be alive then. She ducked under his arm, ignored his huff, and helped him forward. They went at a sort of odd walk-run, trying to run with three legs and a bleeding one. She could feel the leg against her own leg, could tell that it was wasn't bleeding too terribly (it could wait until they got out of immediate danger, he'd been through worse). Chances are, a bone had cracked.
A whoosh sounded past her ear and she automatically ducked. Ahead of them, their unit was firing back, covering them, and Payton was rushing toward them.
He was so close when the first bullet hit her. It lodged itself into her arm and she hissed. A second one hit her only moments later, slamming into her shoulder. She gasped, the pain burning as skin and muscle tore apart.
"Wash?" Taylor said. "How bad are you hurt?"
"Not bad-" Wash gritted her teeth as another bullet whooshed close-by.. Beside her, Taylor grunted and Wash felt something warm and wet hit her face. It smelled of copper and salt. "Sir? Commander?"
"Just grazed my head." Taylor answered. A wave of anxiety coursed through her. If he was describing it as 'just', then he was more than likely understating it. Chances are, he had a bullet in his cheek.
Payton, bloody and dripping sweat like the rest of them, finally reached them.
"Take Wash-she's hurt." Taylor ordered. Immediately, Payton reached for her.
It was like a horror movie, but without the slow motion drama. It was simply Taylor giving out orders, Payton obeying, and then-burning pain, tearing flesh, falling.
She couldn't breath. She couldn't see. She could feel though. Goddamn, she could feel. Every vibration of the earth as grenades went off, every breath catching in her throat, and shift of her body as she was removed from the ground and jostled as someone ran.
She could hear. Sort of. There were no words, but there were explosions. Gunfire she could make out most easily, it had been the soundtrack of her life for years now.
She's trying to say something. Move her mouth, get the words out. Wash really isn't sure if she succeeded in this endeavor or not.
It was simultaneously too much and too little. No color, no words. All booms and shrieks.
And the cold. Beyond the burning inside her chest, there's a sense of coldness.
She's simultaneously burning and freezing to death.
But she's has to keep fighting. Someone told her...they told her to keep fighting.
Wash is a soldier. She obeys orders (usually).
Fight. Sounds like a good order to her.
##
Taylor is talented with words. He knows this, understands how powerful words are, the effect they can have.
But staring down at the paper before him, pen in his hand, he finds himself suddenly at a lost for words. This baffles him, infuriates him to no end. While he's always preferred actions to words, he's always had the option to speak. Besides, he ought to know what to say, he owed it to Wash.
That night was still fresh in his mind three days later.
Grandfather...tell him...write and tell Grandfather...
I will, I swear. Stay with me, Wash. You hear me? Don't die on me, Corporal!
Hearing his medic's words, usually so even and strong, so chopped and desperate...he can't deny it'd hit a nerve he didn't know existed.
He couldn't wait until she woke up-not that that would be for a while yet. One bullet to the arm, one to the shoulder, two to the chest, one to the stomach. He wasn't sure how she was alive, but she was. She was alive and resting in the room down the hall from his.
Damn, he wanted her to wake up. And recover. Because after she recovered, he was going to drive home the lesson in obeying orders. He told her to keep going, he would have been fine.
Right?
Taylor sat back and rested against the pillows behind him. Honestly, would he have been fine? Would he have made it out alive if Wash hadn't come back for him? He knew the answer, but he didn't like it.
No. He would be dead. His leg had slowed him down, Taylor had already been preparing himself to die, silently saying goodbye to Ayani and Lucas when Wash turned back for him.
He needed to talk to her. Just calm down and talk to her.
But she had asked him to do this. She saved his life (again).
And he'd be damned if he couldn't find these words.
Hesitantly, he put the pen to the paper and carefully started writing.
Dear Emory Washington...
##
It had become a part of his routine to go out and check the mail after taking a short nap (he was getting old, he needed a nap sometimes, give him a break). The mailbox at the end of the street was beat up and rusty, graffiti-ed and generally abused. One of these days, he was going to paint the thing, make it look respectable enough to belong to a soldier.
He unlocked the box and opened it-carefully, because Alicia wasn't around to fix it if it fell off again-and glanced inside. He would never, ever admit it to anyone, not even to Dave or Earl, that whenever a letter appeared in his mail box, his heart rejoiced. It meant that Alicia hadn't left the land of the living yet. She was alive, fighting and-excuse his language-kicking ass.
While he would have liked to have ripped open the dirty envelope (honestly, that girl. Didn't she own any clean paper?) as soon as his hand held it, he kept himself composed. He had a reputation in this neighborhood (the grumpy old man with an intimidating granddaughter), he couldn't afford to lose it. He took strong, measured steps back to the house, carefully closed the door behind him (locked it, too. There were psychopaths in this part of town, he wasn't about to be their next victim) and sat down.
He read through it carefully. And everything but his heart stopped as he finished the contents of the letter.
Dear Emory Washington,
I don't know how much you know of me, but I'm Commander Nathaniel Taylor. Three days ago, my unit, your granddaughter's unit, was sent on a mission. I cannot tell you what kind of mission, and I apologize for that. At first things were going according to plan, but then the enemy found us. We had to escape.
I was shot in the leg three times. I want to be completely honest with you, sir: I had fallen behind and was, for lack of a better word, terrified. The enemy was right behind us, and I was alone. I thought I was going to die or be captured.
But, despite the danger of the situation, I was saved by a woman; she came back for me. It's because of her I'm alive today. That woman was your granddaughter. Alicia asked me to write to you and I swore to her I would.
You granddaughter is alive and in recovery. I wont lie, she was seriously injured saving me. The most dangerous of the wounds were to her chest, but she is expected to recover fine.
I am grateful to your granddaughter and I wont forget what she did for me, as well as what she has done all these years for her fellow soldiers. Without her, so many of us would no longer be here.
Sincerely, Commander Nathaniel Taylor
Mother of god, Alicia had nearly left the land of the living. Died. Alicia had nearly died.
He thought of his last letter, how he told her he was sorry (at least, told her in his own way) for not writing more often.
She was in a hospital now. And if his memory was still correct (it was), he knew she hated hospitals (she had been one of the worst children to take to the doctors to get her shots. All the crying and resistance...even her father hadn't hated needles that much at so young an age.). Maybe, just maybe, she would like something to cheer her up.
Forcing himself to his feet with a grunt he sought out a piece of paper and a pen. He grabbed a tray and sat himself back down.
Dear Alicia,
Let me tell you something. You are brave. A little stupid, but good and brave...
##
"How you doing there, Sargent Wash?" Taylor asked, emphasizing her new rank.
Wash gave him a look that would wilt a lesser man. Everyone in her unit had been repeating her new title, almost to he point of wearing it out (almost. She sort of liked hearing her new rank, but she wasn't going to encourage them). That, and they'd been constantly asking her if she was okay during the flight back to the States. Over, and over, and over, and over.
"Same as I was five minutes ago, Commander Taylor." Wash said. "Sir." she added quickly.
"Good to know." he said. "Now, march."
Wash simply shook her head and bite back a smile, and proceeded to do as asked.
She looked down at the crowd of people below, some civilians just trying to catch their flight, and others were military families waiting for their loved ones. She searched for a familiar face, skin wrinkled but expression stern...a man who towered above everyone at an astounding height of six feet and six inches...neatly trimmed gray hair...
He was staring up at her, his amber eyes conveying their greeting.
Welcome home, they said. Or maybe that was the pain meds talking. Either way, it brought her a sense of comfort.
She descended the stairs, refusing to let the ache in her chest slow her down. She'd exchanged letters with her grandfather all throughout her recovery, she wanted to let him see in person that she was well and still someone he could be proud of.
He was standing nearby Ayani and the young Lucas Taylor that her Commander talked about so often. She quickly said hello to them before meeting her grandfather.
For a second, they stood there. To the outside observer, it would probably appear as though they were sizing each other up. In truth, they were letting the silence speak for them, because neither of them were talented with words.
"I'm glad your alive, Sargent." he finally said. Wash wondered briefly if he was teasing her, stressing her new title, before dismissing the notion. Emory Washington did not tease.
"Well, sir, I had orders."
"Oh?"
"Orders to fight, sir. So I did." Wash answered.
The corners of his lips quirked at her reference to his letter last year, the one where he finally told her that she made him proud. The letter where he told her to keep fighting.
Over her shoulder, he made eye contact with what could only be Commander Taylor. Their eyes locked, familiar amber with ghostly blue. With a barely imperceptible nod, Emory looked away. But the message was clear: he understood. Things happened in war, he'd experienced it himself. He wasn't happy Alicia had gotten hurt, he hated it. But it happened. And she been brought home. Time to heal and move on.
"I'll take your pack." he said to her.
Wash shrugged. "No, thanks. I got it."
"I'll take your pack." he repeated.
"Thanks, but-"
"Good grief, child. Don't argue and give me your pack." he ordered. Wash sighed and handed him her pack. "Thank you. Now, make yourself useful, wont you? Help an old man to his car."
"Yes, sir." Wash answered.
He held his arm out and she took hold of it.
To the outside observer, it would appear as though she was helping an old man.
In truth, this was as close as these two were ever going to get to giving each other a hug.
"Welcome home." he whispered.