A/N: And finally, we have reached the end. This piece was originally conceived as a quick three-shot piece with about 1K for each story. We can clearly see how that worked out. I hope that this last part satisfies. In the end, I just couldn't. As always, thank you for your kind words all throughout.


It's a fairly crisp morning about five days later, (four since he'd been released from the Infirmary and cleared to resume his duties as he head of Terra Nova) and considering the almost obscenely early hour, by all rights, Commander Nathaniel Taylor should still be sound asleep in his bed (well as sound asleep as he ever gets, which truly isn't much).

And yet here he is, standing outside of his house, dressed in little more than his typical attire of cargos and a simple black shirt. His cobalt eyes are locked on the blanket of stars twinkling brightly above him.

He's had a hell of a time time focusing his mind over the last few days. Too many thoughts of life and death. Pain and loss.

When he really thinks about it, these things have been unwanted companions all of his life – almost faithfully so.

He thinks about being a boy of fifteen, considered tough by his friends, but blissfully unaware of the cold realties of the world around him. To the arrogant teenaged version of him, the word loss was only used when your bike got stolen or when you misplaced a large wad of cash.

He thinks about the day that had all changed. His father had pulled him out of school and taken him out fishing. After they'd caught a couple large beauties, his dad had told him (with tears in his eyes, Nathaniel will never forget that detail for as long as he lives) that his mother had been diagnosed with an incurable type of cancer. He remembers his old man telling him to be strong.

Since that day, he's had to weather more notices of impending loss than he can remember. Sometimes there are no notices. Sometimes, things and people are just taken from you, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

He remembers holding his mothers' hand as she had died, a distant strange smile upon her face, like she'd been staring at something incredible in front of her. He remembers watching as Ayani had passed away, her normally bright and warm eyes fading away to a sightless hazy gleam.

Two women he had loved dearly. Two women he'd lost too soon, their losses ripping a hole out of his soul that could never be filled.

He thanks whatever deity there might be (it's hard for him to completely believe in one after all the pain that he has witnessed, caused, and endured) that he didn't have to go through that again.

He's simply not sure he could have.


She finally comes to six days after Elizabeth Shannon had injected a cure laced with Nathaniel Taylor's blood into her veins. During the extended time that she has been unconscious – and still listed as being in serious condition – everyone else who had been exposed to the pathogen has been released from the Infirmary. Some of the survivors are still on home bed-rest, but most of them have bounced back extremely well. Most are already back to their normal lives.

Everyone except her.

When she opens her eyes, the first thing that Alicia Washington realizes is that there's a breathing mask over her mouth and nose. It's pumping pure oxygen into her, which makes her feel just a little bit light-headed, kind of like she's floating.

Slowly, after first yanking off the breathing mask, she sits up on the bio-bed, her painfully stiff muscles crying out in protest. Every part of her aches, and feels almost alien to her. She can feel a strange kind of – she's loathe to call it weakness - fatigue deep in her very sore bones.

She looks around, noticing that she's in a private room. "He..hello?" she calls out, amazed by the rawness she hears in her own voice. She coughs a couple of times to clear her throat, wincing as she does so. She's about to push herself up and off the bed when the door opens.

"Lieutenant," she hears as the door opens. Elizabeth Shannon enters, smiling widely. There are bags under her eyes suggestion that even though she, too, had been infected, she's been pretty much working around the clock for the last week. "Welcome back." She approaches and lightly lays a hand on Wash's shoulder, gently pushing her back down onto the bio-bed.

"Back?" Wash places a hand over her chest, feeling a deep ache there. If she didn't know better, she'd think it was her heart, but that's preposterous.

"How much do you remember?" Elizabeth asks as she starts tapping keys on the see-through screen that had suddenly appeared in the middle of the air. Vitals fly up on it. She frowns slightly as she takes in the blood pressure reading. It's clear that the lieutenant is agitated.

"Uh…remind me…"

"You remember getting sick?" Elizabeth asks, stepping over to Wash's side. She pulls out a stethoscope, and going completely old school just for the hell of it, she takes a listen at the lieutenant's heart. " After going out to the bar?" she prompts.

Wash thinks about that for a moment. What does she remember? Mark. The bar. Right. She'd joined him and several of the boys for a live music show and some drinks following a long shift. She recalls crawling into bed afterwards, slightly buzzed (not drunk, though, she'd never allow herself to get really drunk while out with the men that she commands – that's a very basic Nathaniel Taylor rule). And then she remembers waking up, her body already shaking thanks to fever.

"What did I get?" Wash asks, bringing a hand to her forehead.

"A pathogen that was brought back by one of Malcolm's researchers. He infected everyone at the club. There were….fatalities. Eighteen of them."

"And me? Did I nearly died?" Wash asks.

"You did die, Alicia," Elizabeth says gently. "Your heart stopped, but we brought you back. You're going to be all right."

Wash shrugs her shoulders, like what she's hearing doesn't bother her at all. She even tosses in half a smile. "Wouldn't be the first time my heart stopped."

"So the Commander told me," Elizabeth chuckles. "I understand it happened on the med evacuation out of Somalia as well, yes?"

"Yeah, it did." Then, looking up sharply, alarm and fear in her dark eyes. "Wait a minute. "Nathaniel…he…touched me. He…I…did I infect him? Is…is he okay?"

"Relax, Alicia, he's just fine. In fact, it was his blood that helped us cure this."

"What?"

"It's fairly complicated, and if you want, I'll explain everything later. Right now, I want you to rest."

"Haven't I been?"

"I wouldn't call being in a coma resting."

"No, I suppose not," Wash replies, reaching up with one of her hands to anxiously rub at the back of her neck. What she's hearing from Elizabeth explains the fatigue she feels, and why her body feels so odd to her, but it doesn't explain the strange melancholy that had suddenly swept over her.

It almost feels like fear, but no, that can't possibly be right. Must just be anxiety or something like that.

"Besides, you're going to want to conserve your energy. I'm sure the Commander will be by soon – he's been in for several hours every day."

Wash doesn't allow herself more than a small smile on that. She appreciates his worry all while hating that it's directed towards her. She can't really stand the idea of him seeing her weak. So, changing the subject as quickly as she can manage, "When can I go back to my quarters?"

"You're…you're joking right?" Elizabeth asks, genuinely stunned. She's been the chief medical officer as it were for Terra Nova for going on a year now, and has thus gotten used to dealing with the stubbornness of soldiers, but having one of them ask to be released less than five minutes after waking up from a six-day-long coma that had been brought on by heart failure…well that amazes even her.

"No. I want to get back to my own bed. I assume my place has been cleaned?"

"It has," a deep voice says. She looks up to see her CO enter the room, his eyebrow lifted in amusement. There's something else there, too, but what it is, she can't quite place. "I had it scrubbed top to bottom, and it's testing completely negative for the pathogen. Good to see you awake, Wash."

"Sir. I was just telling the doctor that I'm ready to be released."

"Are you now?"

"Yes, sir."

He laughs, then turns to Elizabeth, who has an expression of confusion on her face. "The lieutenant," he explains, "has something of a reputation for doing this. After she got shot, and despite the fact that anytime she moved she ripped open the wounds, she tried to leave the hospital as soon as she was able to sit up."

Wash rolls her eyes, but doesn't correct him.

"This was after your life-threatening shooting? The other time your heart stopped?" Elizabeth queries, frowning slightly.

"Yes," Wash admits. There's something in her eyes, something distant and bothered, like she, too, is thinking about the past. Her hand drifts back up to her chest, her palm settling gently over where her heart is.

"I heard all of that from the doctor who treated her," Taylor says. "Who was utterly exasperated with her."

"He was also an utter jackass," Wash informs them.

"Didn't you date him for three months?" Taylor asks.

"I was going through a lot," Wash drawls, refocusing herself on the conversation at hand. "And he kept forcing painkillers on me. Screwed up my judgment."

"That's what it was?"

"Yes. And it wasn't really 'dating', sir. It was a couple lunches in the arboretum of the VA hospital together." She looks up at Elizabeth. "Doc, can I go?"

"Absolutely not," Elizabeth huffs. "You just woke up. I'm not releasing you until I'm sure you're completely out of the roads and on your way to a full recovery, and that's the end of this discussion, am I understood, Lieutenant?"

"Yes ma'am," Wash grits out.

"Good. Commander, I'll leave you with the lieutenant for now, but I expect you to let her rest as soon as possible. No matter what she says, she's exhausted."

"Understood, Doc. And uh, perhaps you should do the same?"

"Sir?"

"I mean go home and get some rest, Doc. You need it. She's awake. You've done a great job," Taylor prods gently. He and Elizabeth lock eyes, having their own small battle of wills. Finally, Elizabeth nods sharply, then exits the room.

"I don't remember anything," Wash says once Elizabeth is gone. "Nothing beyond you helping me to the Infirmary."

"That's probably a good thing. It wasn't any fun."

"No, doesn't seem like it was," Wash answers, her fingers lightly rubbing against her chest. Then, when it looks like Nathaniel is about to say something, she smiles at him (he doesn't miss that the expression doesn't come close to reaching her eyes), "I think maybe the Doc is right. I am tired."

"You want me to leave so you can sleep?"

"Please."

"All right." And then, before she stop him (or he can think better of the action and stop himself), he leans down and kisses her lightly on the top of the hair, an arm gently reaching around her to give her a squeezing half-hug.

It's an utterly un-Nathaniel Taylor thing to do. It says everything about just how afraid of losing her he'd been. And how terrifyingly close he'd come.


Elizabeth finally releases her back to her own quarters exactly a week later. She provides the lieutenant with several different pill bottles (take this one once a day, this one twice, this one after a full meal) – all of them meant to help along her recovery, and help her regain her strength.

Taylor, who has been by every evening to see her for a few minutes (just a few before she inevitably sends him away pleading exhaustion) comes to pick her up, and bring her back to her place. That alone annoys her, but she says nothing about it. It's either that or a medical accompaniment, and she sure as hell isn't about to get walked across the grounds of Terra Nova by two nurses.

Just as they're leaving, Elizabeth comes up to Taylor, and gently touches his arm. "Might I have a word in private before you go, Commander?"

"Certainly. Give us just a minute, Wash."

The lieutenant waves her hand absently, pretty sure that the conversation they're about to have is about her. It's obnoxious, but not at all unexpected.

"What's up, Doc?" Taylor asks once they're in her office. He leans against the wall, his eyes quickly flittering around the room, taking in all of the pictures. He smiles a bit at the many photos of her children in various stages of aging.

"I wanted to talk to you about Alicia's…state of mind."

"Something wrong?" Taylor asks, frowning.

"I think there is. Look, I know you're going to blow off what I'm about to say, but please at least pretend to listen, all right? I think the lieutenant is taking what happened to her – her heart stopping – much harder than you would think she would. I think it's unnerved her quite a bit."

"That doesn't make any sense, Doc. This time doesn't even begin to compare to what happened to her in Somalia," Taylor answers. "She's tired and not quite herself yet, but she's not full of holes like she was then."

"I understand that, but over the last week, surely you've noticed how withdrawn she's been. Even when you're here."

"She's been exhausted."

"Certainly. I'm just saying, Commander, I don't think she's all right, and I think pretending otherwise does her no favors."

"I appreciate your concern, Doc, but she's a soldier. She'll get through this. It's what we do." He steps towards her, then reaches out and very lightly touches her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her."

"That's all I ask."

He nods, then steps back out to where Wash is waiting. She's an impatient woman by nature – something she has always fought to control using the uniform of a soldier. Now, though, dressed in civilian clothes and absent her trusty firearm, she's having a hard time masking her fidgety annoyance.

"Ready to get the hell out of here, Wash?"

"More than ready, sir." They step outside the glass doors of the Infirmary together, Wash wincing as sunlight beams down on her. It's not terribly bright out on this day, but to her, with her eyes as sensitive as they still are, it feels a bit like she's staring directly into the sun. "What was that about?" she asks.

"Doc's worried about you."

"Isn't that what they do? Worry, I mean?"

"It is. And we pretend we're fine. That's what we do."

"No pretending here, sir. I am fine."

He reaches out and takes her arm, turning her slightly towards him. "You are?"

He meets her eyes, tries to get her to make a connection with him. And for half a second, she does. What he sees there, he doesn't like. It looks like fear, and that frankly scares the shit out of him because Alicia Washington is scared of nothing.

She breaks the connection almost immediately, retreating a step before crossing her arms over her chest and nodding, "I'm fine, sir. Just very tired."

"You know you're off duty until that's not the case, right?"

"Sir…"

"Wash, I'm not having you out there until you're fully charged again. What we do is insane enough. I'm not having you half-assed out there."

She wonders for a moment if he's playing a game – she's been using the exhaustion excuse to get him to leave her alone for the last week. It was only a matter of time before he used it against her.

"Fine," she reluctantly agrees. "As you say, sir." Then she continues walking towards her house, which they're just a few yards away from now.

"I'll come by tonight?" he calls after her.

She turns back towards him. "You don't need to."

"What if I want to?"

"You're hovering, Nathaniel." Her tone is almost gentle when she says this.

"Turnaround is fair play," he smirks.

It works; she chuckles. But then, quickly growing entirely too serious, she replies with, "Honestly, sir, I'm fine. I just want a few days to do nothing but sleep in my own bed, and as you said, recharge. So I can get back to duty."

"Fair enough, Lieutenant. I'll give you through the weekend – three days, and then I'm coming over to see you. Those are my terms. Take 'em or leave 'em."

She rolls her eyes. "I guess then I'll take them, sir." Then she turns and heads into her house, shutting the door behind her.

As she disappears from sight – his oldest friend, best lieutenant and so very much more - he stares after her, his expression now one of deep concern.

Maybe Doc Shannon had been right.

Then again, who knows Wash better than he does? She just needs a few days.

She'll be fine.

Just fine.


It's ultimately Jim Shannon who – after two days and several conversations with Elizabeth - decides that Wash isn't fine, and she's not going to get there all on her own like all of the soldiers around here seem to think. He's a cop; he full-on understands the unspoken rules about being strong and tough and never showing weakness. He knows what's expected of those in command.

He also knows that almost dying fucks up even the toughest of souls. Especially when you're someone like Wash, and you almost give up the ghost while lying flat on your back while attached to several beeping machines.

He knocks on her door the second night after she's been released from the Infirmary. It's only about eight in the evening, but it's fairly quiet about – mostly owing to the fact that it's pretty cold out. When there's no answer, he knocks again. And keeps doing it until the door rips open revealing the lieutenant.

The very clearly drunk lieutenant.

"Shannon," she snorts. She's standing in front of him, her long black hair down around her shoulders, wearing light gray sweatpants and a charcoal colored tank. Her clothing is entirely too little and too light for this weather, but he's guessing all the alcohol she's been consuming has warmed her up just fine.

"Wash," he greets. "Been drinking alone?" He glances over her shoulder, taking in the row of tall empty bottles sitting on her coffee table.

She stares back at him. Okay then, so she's not a happy drunk for sure. But she doesn't quite seem mean either so maybe more…belligerent?

"Mind if I come in?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Great." He pushes past her, and into her house. He's surprised to see it messy and unkept, a stark difference from the last time he'd been in here. Normally, this place is a model of military cleanliness, never anything out of place, rarely a spot of dust to be found anywhere. Right now, it's a bloody pigsty.

"Shannon, I'm not in the mood for your bullshit tonight," she growls. Considering the rank smell of liquor practically pouring off of her, he's amazed that she can talk at all. Or walk for that matter. But she's doing both more than capably.

"Okay then I'll try to keep it to a minimum. Wash, I've been where you are."

"Where I am? Where's that?"

"Scared."

She's on him before he can even think about, fisting his shirt with both hands, and slamming him roughly against the wall. His back collides solidly, painfully. "I'm not scared," she hisses. Her eyes are wide with fury.

All right then, so maybe a mean drunk is what she is. Wonderful.

"Okay. Well I am, Wash," he says, a slight nervous chuckle in his tone. "So if you could let go so we could talk maybe? That'd be…real nice, huh?" He slides a hand up and places it over hers, giving it a gentle nudge.

As if suddenly realizing what she's doing, she lets go and steps back quickly. The fury is gone now, replaces by some strange cocktail of shame and self-loathing. It's bizarre on her, and he finds that he hates even the thought of it.

"Wash…"

"Leave. Please."

He straightens his shirt out, then lifts his eyes to her, adopting the gaze he uses when he's trying to get through to one of his children. "What you're going through right now, we can help you. Me, the Commander. Liz. Talk to us."

"I'm fine, Shannon. I'm not going through anything."

"So this is just for kicks?"

"I was thirsty."

"Uh huh. You died, Wash."

She shakes her head. "I'm here."

"Yes, you are, but that doesn't mean…"

"It means everything. Now leave or I'll throw you out, and don't think for a minute I can't do it. I'm pretty strong when I'm…like this."

"You're pretty strong when you're not," he answers with a slightly amused smile. "But all right, I'll go. For now. But you need anything, Wash…we're friends. I'm here…there…wherever you need me, okay?"

For a moment, he thinks he sees her eyes soften, but as quickly as the frightening vulnerability appears, it disappears, and she's got him by the arm. She pulls him to the door, and pushes him out. "Goodnight, Shannon."

"Goodnight, Lieutenant," he answers as the door slams in his face. Then, his lips setting into a grim line and his jaw setting hard as determination overtakes him, he heads off towards the Command Tower.


The Commander is finishing up a meeting with Guzman when Jim enters. Both men take immediate notice of the urgency on the sheriff's face.

"Shannon?" Taylor asks, stepping towards him. "What's wrong?"

"We need to talk," Jim answers. "About…Wash. Sir."

A look at Taylor, and Guzman quickly gets the hint that this a conversation that he probably shouldn't be part of. "I, uh, need to be getting home, sir. Unless you need me for…anything else, sir?"

Taylor looks at Jim as if asking if whatever is going on with Wash will require the assistance of his other lieutenant. Jim shakes his head in the negative.

"No, go ahead, Guz."

Once he's gone, Taylor quickly reduces the distance between he and Jim down to about two feet. If not for the fact that Jim has become somewhat used to soldiers around here having absolutely no respect for personal space, he'd be a bit unsettled by the aggressive move. As it is, he takes little notice of it.

"What's going on?"

"I stopped by her place, sir. She's uh…smashed."

"Smashed?"

"Drunk, Commander."

"I know what smashed means, Shannon." He sighs, one of his hands lifting to gently rub at his beard. "Your wife said she was taking this hard."

"I think she was right."

"Doesn't make sense. She came just as close to dying in Somalia."

"All due respect, sir, if I understand right, you weren't there for the immediate aftermath. Maybe she went through this back then, too."

"No. She was busy with recovery and that doctor fellow she was sort of seeing. I don't think she was never really alone long enough to be allowed to go through this. Besides, this isn't really about almost dying."

"It's not?"

"No. It's the how. And I should have seen this coming."

Jim nods. "You mean she's having trouble with having almost died from a virus or whatever that was instead of a bullet?"

"We're men of action, Shannon. Women in her case. We expect to die on our feet, fighting the good fight. Protecting people. It's what she's come to peace with. When the time comes…" he stops for a minute, amazed by how much the thought of that burns at him especially after having just narrowly escaped such, "…when the time comes, she'll accept that kind of death. It's worthy. But this…"

"Are you all right, Commander?"

"I need to see her."

"That's kind of why I came here. I figured maybe you could get through to her. I sure as hell couldn't."

"She belligerent?"

"I'd say so. She threw me against a wall."

"Typical. When Wash drinks a little, she lightens up. When she drinks a lot, she becomes a real ass. I've seen her clear out an entire bar that way."

"Awesome."

"Not really. Only time she's ever punched me in fifteen years of knowing her was when she was drunk. Damn near broke my nose." Taylor says as he reaches into his desk drawer, picks something up, and slides it into his pocket.

"Sounds like a hell of a story."

"It is, but I'll let her tell you it when this is all over."

"I look forward to it."

"As do I. Thanks, Shannon," Taylor nods as he moves past the cop.

"Anytime, Commander."


Even as drunk as she is (though far from hammered – that's still a good ways down the road, she figures), she's not one bit surprised to see Nathaniel arrive on her doorstep less than twenty minutes after Shannon had left. She knows the cop by now, knows that he's just not the type to leave well enough alone. Damn man wouldn't last three days in the military before someone kicked his ass but good for being an obnoxious meddler.

Don't they all understand that right now, she just doesn't want to think about what almost happened? She wants to forget, not dream at all. She wants to allow her mind to shut down. Don't they get that the alcohol does that? Why is that so damned hard?

"Wash," Nathaniel calls as out he enters her house, using his private key.

"I didn't invite you in," she growls from the couch. She's got a glass of whiskey – or what passes for it around here – in her hand.

"And I'll apologize for that in the morning. You look like hell, Lieutenant."

"I'm not on duty, sir."

"You're my second in command. It's part of your job to always be respectable."

"Oh, no, no, no. I'm on medical leave. Right now I don't have a job." She stands up and crosses over to him, sliding close enough for him to smell the alcohol. It doesn't mix well with her normally earthy clean smell. "Right now," she continues, laughing humorlessly, "I don't have to listen you. You, sir, are just an intruder in my house." She puts a hand on his chest, and gives him a bit of a push.

Oh, yeah, belligerent.

He sighs. She's in no state to reason with right now so it's time to take a different approach on this.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She blinks. "For what?"

"For this."

In less time than it takes for her to blink, he's behind her, executing a perfect chokehold. He doesn't apply much pressure – he doesn't need to. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a hypo and presses it against her neck. Less than a second later, she collapses into his arms, dead unconscious.

As gently as possible, he lifts her up into his arms, brings her into her bedroom, and lays her down on the bed. He pulls a blanket up over her. For a moment, he just watches her. Studies her, takes in her sleeping form.

She's going through something right now, but she's alive.

Dear God, she's alive.

He lies his body down next to hers, and slides an arm over her, pulling her against his chest. She'd probably protest if she was in her right mind, but since she's not, he allows himself to indulge in the sensation of holding her.

Strangely enough, he doesn't feel the least bit bad about it.


She wakes up about two hours later (the sedative in the hypo is light – she's actually out for longer than most people are), and seeming completely ignorant of his presence, she jumps from the bed, and stumbles to the bathroom. He's not a bit surprised to hear her throwing up a few seconds later.

Slowly, taking care not to startle her, he comes behind her, kneeling behind her, and pulling her hair out of the way with one hand. With the other, he lightly kneads her neck muscles, feeling the tension there.

"Nathaniel?" she whispers weakly.

"I'm right here," he assures her. "I got you."

She half turns towards him, her left hand reaching out to aggressively clutch at his shirt. "Don't leave me. Please…"

He puts his hand over hers. "I'd never do that, Wash. Never."

She doesn't reply to that, just falls backwards into his arms again.


When he comes to just before daybreak, he's not at all surprised to find that she's already left the bed. After listening for a moment or two, he can hear her shower running in the bathroom. He allows himself a moment to dwell on the reality that he'd spent the night in her bed, holding her in his arms.

And she'd let him.

Then again, she'd been drunk and exhausted so he's not sure he should allow his mind to make too much of that.

And yet, it does. And not just because he'd enjoyed the feel of her in his arms (though that's there, too, for sure) but because holding her had meant that she'd still been with him.

Still alive. And really, nothing matters more than that.

Not even the strange and decidedly non-platonic feelings for her that have suddenly surged to the surface for him. It'd be a lie to call them completely new (there's been something for awhile, he knows) but the sudden strength of them is a bit of a revelation.

Rising, he makes his way out to the front room, and after a quick bit of neatening up (which includes tossing out several bottles – he figures she had gotten most of these from Boylan, who will need to be spoken to, clearly), he moves on to making breakfast in her kitchen.

She emerges from her bedroom about ten minutes later, in loose non-uniform khakis and a light gray pullover. She's clearly not thrilled to see him still around.

"Nathaniel," she says softly.

"Morning, Wash, how was the shower?"

"Fine, sir."

"Good. Go on and sit down. Breakfast will be up in just a minute. Egg and cheese omelet work for you?"

"I'm not really hungry."

He nods as if he'd expected that, but if she thinks that means he's about to let her off the hook, she has another thing coming. "Well, it's either eat breakfast with me, Lieutenant, or I let the Doc know you've been existing on nothing but alcohol since she released you. I'm guessing she won't be pleased."

"You think Shannon hasn't already told her that?" Wash growls as she drops herself down into one of the chairs next to the kitchen table. She picks at the tablecloth there, rubbing the fabric between her fingers absently.

"Probably has so I'd expect a drop-by by the Doc sometime today for sure. But honestly, Wash, that doesn't concern me. You concern me."

"Sir…"

He steps away from the stove, and towards her. As he comes over to her, she sees that he has a glass of orange juice in one hand and two aspirin in the other. When he gives them to her, neither of them makes a comment about them (or the raging headache she's pretending not to have). Instead, he presses forward.

"You and me, Wash, we've almost died a hundred times. You actually have twice. And we're both fools if we don't realize how badly that can screw us up."

"I'm fine, sir."

"You can that as many times as you'd like, Lieutenant, but no, you're not. So, because we're old friends, I'm going to give you a choice: you can either talk to me and work this out with me or I'll put your ass on the bench until you do."

"Sir…"

"Don't test me, Wash. You know I'll do it."

"It's stupid," she mutters.

"Of course it is, but that doesn't make it any less valid." He sits down next to her.

"The food is going to burn, sir."

"I turned the stove off, Wash. Talk."

"Would you?"

He shrugs.

"Didn't think so."

"Well, then I guess it's a really good that I'm the Commander and you're the Lieutenant. You have to follow my orders."

"I'm still off-duty."

He chuckles. "Well I see we've come full circle – from stubborn to belligerent to petulant." He meets her eyes, waits for her to smile just a bit, then, when it's clear that she's not in the mood to be joked into submission, he says softly. "Please."

The stark honesty and almost frantic need she hears in his voice melts her. She glances down at her hands for a minute before finally looking up and meeting his eyes. "I never saw it coming."

"Getting sick?"

She nods. "When I'm out in the jungle, I might as well be back in Somalia. I'm on edge. There's not a moment that goes by where I don't expect to get shot or attacked. Every second, I'm checking every angle, listening to every sound. If someone gets me, it's going to be because they're better than me or because there are more of them than me. I'm never going to get caught unaware."

He nods his head in agreement of her words, but says nothing.

"But that's exactly what happened here isn't it? When this thing got…infected me, I was sitting at a bar drinking beer with the boys. I honestly don't remember anything past you helping me to the Infirmary. There's just nothing there. I never saw it coming. I couldn't fight it."

"Sometimes we can't know everything coming our way. This one…Wash, no one – not even you - could have seen it coming. It's a risk we run being out here. That doesn't mean we let ourselves fall apart."

"I didn't."

"You slammed Shannon up against a wall last night."

She winces at the foggy memory of that.

"Exactly. Now he's a big boy, and can more than handle it, but that's not you, Wash. You don't lose control like that."

"But I did. I had no control."

He smiles sadly at that. "Neither did I. For the second time since I've known you, I just had to sit there and watch you die."

It's an astonishing confession from him, one said so plainly and simply that it just about robs her of air as well as her ability to speak.

"When we're in the field and you get shot out, I can try to draw fire away from you," he continues, unable to conceal the painful emotion in his tone. "When a Slasher is coming in, I can distract him. But when you're on a cot coughing up blood, all I can do is…hold your hand."

As if to show her, he reaches out and takes her hand. The touch is warm and strong, and immediately, she feels like a lifeline has been thrown out to her.

"Look at me, Wash."

She does as ordered, meeting his light eyes with her much darker ones.

"You may not remember much of what happened in the Infirmary, but I damn well do. I remember every moment. And it was hell. But we got lucky again." He reaches up and touches her face. "You're right here. You made it. We both did."

"I feel like such an idiot."

He chuckles at that. "Join the club of not being perfect all the time, Wash."

"You deserve better than that."

"From you or from the people who serve under me?"

"Both."

"Well I guess I'll have to make do with the finest officer I've ever had the pleasure of fighting in the trenches with as well as the best damn friend I've ever had."

His words hit her hard, and she has no reply to that. Instead, she blinks her eyes furiously, then dips her head away from him.

"Wash…"

"You saved me," she says, looking up at him. He sees the way her eyes are glistening, but in true Wash fashion, she hasn't let a single tear escape.

He tilts his head. "You mean my blood?" He knows that she'd been informed of what exactly the cure had contained within it.

"That, too, but no, you saved me…as a person. If I'd never met you…"

He cuts her off. "But you did. And maybe, Wash, maybe it goes both ways."

"Sir?"

"I just mean, we've been pretty good for each other in the long run."

"Yes, sir, I suppose we have."

"Glad to hear it," he chirps. "So now that that's settled, I'm going to go ahead and finish up breakfast. I want you to eat as much of it as you can. You're going to need the energy for when you have to deal with the Shannons."

"Both of them?"

"Well, the Doc is going to be by to hound you about getting drunk while recovering, and you know you pretty owe him an apology."

She groans.

"And Wash?"

"Sir?"

"I meant what I said last night. I'd never leave you. You and me, Lieutenant, we're pretty much stuck together."

And then suddenly, without warning, he leans across and kisses her on the lips. It's a decidedly chaste kiss, but not at all without heat or passion. It seems to be offering more without demanding it. Offering a choice with no strings attached.

Her reply is simply to reach up, place a hand on either cheek and hold the kiss for a long moment, enjoying the feel of his lips against hers. She's far from ready to make the choice yet, but it's sure nice to have it finally on the table.

After a bit, he breaks away and heads back over to the stove. For her part, she settles back against the chair, sips her orange juice, and watches him cook.


Turns out that it's actually easier to deal with Elizabeth Shannon than it is to deal with Jim. When the Doc drops by halfway through the day, she brings with her only a lot of well meaning concern and a semi-stern lecture about taking better care of herself. She offers to be there for the lieutenant should she ever feel the need to speak to someone who isn't in the business of trying to act tough.

That makes Wash laugh even though it probably shouldn't.

Later that evening, though, she tackles the harder of the two – the Shannon that she can usually control with a hard glare or a quick icy glance.

He's in the marketplace, frowning at different varieties of vegetables when she approaches from behind him. She watches for a moment as picks a pink one up, turns it over in his hands, then sets it back down with an expression of disgust.

"Tastes like squash," the lieutenant says as she moves to stand next to him.

He turns his head, lifts an eyebrow, and says with entirely too much mirth, "So you're saying this thing tastes like squash? Wash?"

"Hysterical, Shannon."

"You know, considering I think you're probably here to apologize for manhandling me last night, I think you have to laugh at my jokes."

"Okay. Make a joke and I'll laugh at it."

He chuckles. Then, "Feeling better?"

"I am."

"Good. You had me worried." His brow is furrowed, and he's not joking around even a little bit now. It's a tad bit unsettling.

"I had a bad night," she tells him, hoping he'll drop the subject. She knows better.

"I'm not just talking about last night."

She shifts anxiously at that.

"You don't really handle the idea of people caring about you very well do you?"

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"Yeah, you do. You're so used to worrying about everyone else: Taylor, the kids on your squad, the colony. You have no idea what it's like for someone else to care about you. And if they try to tell you they do, you retreat."

"Look, Shannon, I didn't come for…this. I just wanted to apologize for how I was last night. I was out of control, and there was no excuse. I'm sorry."

"No excuse? Hey, I get it."

"Please don't make this difficult just because you can, Shannon."

He grins at that. "I think you just said the magic words, Wash. Because I can."

She sighs. "Fine. Tell me what I have to say to end this conversation."

"Really?"

"Shannon."

Seeing her on-edge as she's suddenly become, he decides to let her off the hook. "Okay, fine, I'll leave you alone if you tell me one thing."

"What?"

"The story of you punching out the Commander."

She lifts an eyebrow. "He told you about that?"

"Told me you clean broke his nose."

"I was a bit stressed. And it was years ago. The man never forgets anything."

"Can't blame him; hard to forget you coming at someone like you do, Wash. You're pretty damned intimidating."

She glares at him.

"See? Intimidating. Now, tell me the story."

"It was during one of our leaves. I was drinking at a bar, a bartender friend of his who knew I was one of his people called him, he came to collect me, I told him I didn't want to go, he insisted we leave, and I decked him. End of story."

"Nuh uh. I don't think so. That…uh…that kind of sounds life the cliff notes version of the story. I want all the details. All of them."

"And then I can go home?"

"And then we're all forgiven."

"Fine. Walk with me."

He grins. "Glad to, Wash."

She simply rolls her eyes at that.


She returns to duty almost a month after the day she'd nearly died for the second time. By then, she's at pretty much full strength again, but Taylor makes it almost immediately clear to her that until she's absolutely one hundred percent, there's no way she's going outside of the gates.

She argues with him, but it's pointless.

Besides, she knows that he's just using her light duty downtime to get a few more OTG missions for himself before she grabs them back from him.

When he returns after a long three-day venture to one of the outposts, she's waiting for him behind his desk, a plexpad in her hand.

"You're up late," he says to her as he enters, a bag over his shoulder.

She looks up, and offers him a small smile. "No, you're late, sir. You were due back three hours ago."

"Shannon was driving."

"So you got lost?"

"That's about right," Nathaniel chuckles. "What are you looking over?"

"Requisition forms. I didn't miss these."

"I'd imagine not. Why don't you wrap up for the night and head home."

"Sounds like a good idea."

She stands up, wincing slightly as her knee first connects with the bony underside of his desk. When she looks up at him, he's smirking at her.

They walk down the steps together, then almost all the way to the fork that leads to their homes, which are in opposite directions (the idea had been not to group the senior officers' homes too close in case something – like maybe an explosion - had taken out one part of the colony) before either one of them says a word.

"You know I couldn't do this without you, right?" he asks, turning towards her.

"Yes, you could, sir, but I appreciate you –"

"You're not hearing me, Wash. I need you at my side. If what happened that day has taught me anything, it's that you and I are stronger fighting together."

She can't argue that so she doesn't. Instead, she tilts her head. "What are you saying?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, honestly. I just know…

This time, she's the one who acts before she can talk herself out of it. While he's trying to find the right words, she leans up and kisses him. She feels his arms slide around her as he holds her to him.

When they finally break away from each other, he's as confused as she is, but neither of them is the least bit displeased.

"You realize these feelings we're both having could just be fear of what almost happened?" she says to him. She's lying to herself, of course – she's had feelings for him for a very long time. But maybe, she rationalizes, the fact that he suddenly appears to be reciprocating, that's where the fear comes in.

He nods. "Possible."

"I don't want something built on that."

"Then maybe we should slow down. Figure out if there's anything there before we jump down that road."

"Are you saying you're going to try to court me?" she teases.

He laughs. "Is that such a bad idea?"

"No, but it doesn't really fit us."

"No, it doesn't. So we just…"

"See what happens."

"I think I can do that."

She considers inviting him, but instead nods. Slow it down. Make it real.

"See you in the morning, Nathaniel."

"You, too, Wash." And then he leans over and kisses her again. Gentle, sweet.

He's gone a moment later, his footfalls disappearing down the rocky walk, leaving behind nothing but the sound of silence.

Quiet and full of hope and promise for once.

-Fin