From the moment he woke, Hudson's thoughts were of Vasquez.
Pushing past a dehydration headache from the cheap whiskey he had consumed to help him sleep, he rubbed his eyes, one arm extending towards Vasquez's side of the bed to make sure she was alright. But when his hand touched her trembling frame, his eyes opened wide, and he sat up in fear.
Vasquez had her arms up over her face, covering her eyes. He could see she was biting her bottom lip and he knew she was awake.
"Vaz?" he asked, touching her arm. He saw her throat swallow hard, but she stayed as she was, concealing her face. "Are you feeling bad? Can I get you somethin'?"
Her head shook, side to side, beneath her arms.
Hudson moved one of her arms away so he could see her face, and she reluctantly lowered the other arm as well. He thought he might see tears on her face, but there were none. Still, she looked exhausted, her eyebrows tilted upward in a look of sorrow.
He could tell the difference between the expression she currently wore and one of physical pain, but he suddenly felt stupid that his first reaction had been relief when he saw she wasn't crying—he knew there was no difference to her sadness whether tears flowed or not.
His heart felt pained. "Oh Vaz. Come on, baby, talk to me," he said, instantly hoping she wouldn't notice that he had chosen that moment to use the term of endearment for the first time. "Just tell me what you're feelin'."
She gave a weary shrug, a hand rubbing her eyes and her troubled brows as she appeared to search for some words to say. Hudson waited helplessly in silence until she spoke. "Everything feels different now. I feel like… like nothing makes sense, I don't know who I am anymore."
"What are you talking about?" he asked sadly. "You're Jenette Vasquez! The coolest and toughest and most badass human in the universe! You're you, nothing has changed."
"How can you say that?! Everything has changed!" she replied with a look of distress. "Most of our teammates are dead... we're no longer marines… and I'm a fucking immobile—" Vasquez grunted in pain suddenly, clutching her leg.
"What can I do?!" he offered desperately.
"Nothing… I want to feel it," she said through gritted teeth. "I've caused so many people so much pain and grief… I deserve to feel this way. I deserve way worse than this."
Hudson stared at her, the words causing a surge of panic inside him. "Vasquez, stop! Why are you saying these things?"
"Because it's the truth." She kept her eyes closed as she spoke, as if looking at him might keep her from saying more. "I know I've pushed these feelings down for so long, but now it's like… I have nowhere to hide from them anymore." She drew a sharp breath and gave a long wince, her head dropping.
"That's it, I can't take much more of this," Hudson responded, reaching for her medications. He grasped the vial and the syringe of the strong medication meant to subdue the phantom pains.
"I said I don't want the drugs."
"Why?"
Vasquez hung her head, shaking it slowly in despair. "What are you still even doing here, man?" she asked, weary, her hands still making a grasping movement at the part of her leg that was no longer there. Eventually, her hands closed in futility, shaking. "Why are you staying here with me?"
"You know why," replied Hudson sadly. "Because I care about you."
Her eyes were cast downward, her head shaking again in disagreement. "I'm just gonna hurt you too," she said, her voice amplifying as she spoke, sounding more and more desperate. "You just wait, I'll ruin your life, just like I ruined so many others... My mother and Carmen… and, and Drake!" She was heaving breaths now, almost hyperventilating. She let out a groan of discomfort, her hands still unconsciously reaching for the part of her leg that was now gone. "It's inevitable—we're both fucked up and it'll never last!"
Hudson acted on impulse, taking advantage of her distraction, injecting the syringe into her leg. Right away, her eyes went to the syringe, then to his face, and he could see her surprise, her disbelief at his betrayal. Immediately, he questioned his decision.
"I'm so sorry Vaz, but this will help you. Please, trust me. Everything will be okay."
Her expression of shock faded as her eyelids drooped, head down as she swayed a bit. Her lips were trying to speak, and she seemed to be focusing, working up her remaining energy to say one final thing: "Pendejo."
The word sounded bitter, forced out between her lips with such determined effort that he knew she needed him to hear it, to feel the guilt for his own disloyalty.
Pendejo, not to be taken in its lighthearted meaning of idiot, but in the way she sometimes used it, more insultingly, to mean coward.
As Vasquez slumped forward into his chest, unconscious, he knew she was right: he was too much of a coward to watch her feel through her pain and grief. He had opted to tranquilize her instead.
.
Hudson walked through the entrance of Gateway Station's walk-in medical clinic and asked for Trudy. For a moment, he wondered if the nurse would remember him from the hospital and the offer she made to upgrade his cast if he came in that Thursday.
But after several minutes, Trudy came out of one of the back rooms and greeted him warmly. "Ah! William Hudson. I was wondering if I would see you today!"
"Yeah," said Hudson. "Thing is... I don't really have a ton of time this morning. I was actually just coming to see if I could ask you a few questions instead."
"Of course!" she replied, looking at him curiously. "But surely we can change out your cast while we talk? Have you got twenty minutes?"
Hudson hesitated, thinking back to the last time he had given Vasquez the injection—she had been out cold for at least a couple hours afterward. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"Well, okay then!" Trudy said with a smile. "Come on in and follow me."
When he sat down on the chair in the small medical office, Trudy promptly began gathering supplies, wasting no time in getting things organized.
"Do you prefer William or Private Hudson?" she asked as she worked.
"Oh," Hudson shrugged, "William's fine. Or Will."
"I always liked the name William," Trudy said and there was a bit of a sparkle in her eye. "I named my son William."
"Huh. No kidding!" said Hudson. "Is he here on the station with you?"
"Ah, no, just me up here." She paused, "You know, he'd be about your age. He married and had two beautiful kids. Oh, I miss them when I'm here! You have any?"
"Kids?" Hudson asked in amusement. "Nah. Not that I know of, anyway."
Trudy gave a chuckle, "I just thought because of the lovely artwork on here," she took his cast in her hand and turned it over to see the full scope of Newt's permanent marker drawings.
"These were from Newt." Hudson replied, looking down at the drawings fondly. "She was the only survivor of Hadley's Hope."
"Of course, they said a child was rescued… Poor thing, losing her entire family. It's always heartbreaking to see a child get dealt a rough hand in life." Trudy stared at the pictures on the cast, shaking her head. "Well, I can't in good conscience cut through these. Hold your arm like this, we'll cut around them."
With determination, she took a firm hold of his cast and began cutting away at the plaster with a pair of electric cutters and it wasn't long before the cast felt loose, and she hinged it open so he could extract his arm.
It felt amazing to finally have his arm free again and he was about to flex his wrist and stretch it when Trudy said, "Now, don't be moving it all around! We're replacing the cast, not removing it, remember?"
"Right," said Hudson bashfully and he settled on keeping the arm straight and giving it a long, much-needed scratch.
Trudy was already soaking the material for the new cast in a shallow tray of solution, a black resin mesh in a wide weave. When she took it out of the tray, he could see it had grown flexible, stretchy like a gelatinous fishnet stocking. She peeled it open and slid the sticky netting over his arm, working it into place.
Once she was satisfied with the positioning, she placed his arm under a special heat lamp and Hudson could feel the material slowly curing, form-fitting around his wrist and hand as it hardened.
"Now," said Trudy, "what are these burning questions that are causing you so much worry today? Is it about Jenette, honey? How's she doin'?"
"She's alright," Hudson responded tentatively. "I mean, she's recovering, she's sleeping a lot…" He sighed, knowing that his voice didn't sound convincing. "To be honest, she's not doing so well."
The nurse's brown eyes looked back at him sympathetically.
"She gets these really bad phantom pains, and the medication makes her sick… and this morning I really saw how everything's taking a toll on her, and it's not good."
"It's not an easy thing to recover from," Trudy said solemnly, "A lot of the recovery can be psychological. Getting accustomed to the change."
He nodded. "She's been hit so hard by so many things in her life, and they all seem to be catchin' up with her now. Seeing her this morning… in so much pain, feeling so much sadness... refusing her pain medication because she said she wanted to feel it… I basically had to drug her this morning. She blames herself for all these shitty things that happened in her life, and I don't know how to convince her she shouldn't feel that way."
"Ah, but that's how she feels. You can't tell her how not to feel."
"But how do I protect her from all that pain and guilt? How do I convince her to take the painkillers when she doesn't want to?"
"You might not be able to. The best thing you can do is to listen to her. Hear what she's going through and try to understand it."
Hudson sighed. "If you knew Vaz, you'd know that's easier said than done. She's not really one to talk about her feelings."
"It can be a challenge at times, I know. But over the years, I've learned that there are always ways to get through to people. Especially the people you love."
"How?"
"Gently. By being patient. By asking the right questions. Letting them know they're not wrong for what they feel. Not trying to make it better, but just being there to listen." Trudy placed her hand on his. "Part of that means trusting her to know what she needs… and being open to what she decides."
.
Hudson practically ran back to the room, fearing that Vasquez had woken up while he was gone and was now sick or struggling. He was relieved to open the door to the apartment and find her still asleep on the bed where he left her.
When he shut the door, she stirred, so he went over and sat on the bed beside her. She exhaled a breath and opened her eyes a crack, groaning when she saw him.
"Getting ready to finish the job?" she asked spitefully, her voice a bit hoarse.
"What?" asked Hudson in confusion.
"You heard me. I'm awake now, so you better get ready to knock me out again. Give me a double dose, maybe I won't wake up at all. That'll make things real easy for you."
Hudson's heart dropped at her words, the bitterness in her voice. "Vaz," he began, but she was sitting up, her hand going to her mouth. He pushed the empty garbage pail towards her, which he had purposely set by her bedside in case she needed to be sick.
To his surprise, she shoved the pail back at him forcefully and instead, reached for her crutches, thrusting herself up into a standing position.
"Here," he said, going to her side. "Let me—"
She pushed his arm away and moved past him with resolve.
"Vasquez," Hudson protested. He watched as she swayed a bit on her crutches, but she steadied herself, the color leaving her face, her complexion pallid, save for the darkened shadows beneath her eyes, her brows lowered in determination.
He thought back to what Trudy had told him about trusting Vasquez and being supportive to her needs, so he stood back, resisting the desire to intervene, leaving her to her unsteady gait. When she reached the bathroom, he heard her heaving and then the clumsy hit of her crutch to the door to shut herself in and keep him out.
.
Hudson poured a glass of whiskey and sat down at the counter, staring at the bathroom door. It was only 11am, and he hadn't eaten anything yet that day, so the whiskey delivered an almost instant buzz, beginning to relax some of the tension in his body.
He considered knocking on the door to the bathroom, asking Vasquez if she was alright, but something told him to give her space.
As he waited, sipping his whiskey in a haze, a specific memory came to mind: sitting in his eighth-grade biology class with a head-splitting hangover, the day after John left home.
His father's bottle of rum had been sitting on the kitchen counter the night before. It wasn't an unusual occurrence—bottles of alcohol had often sat indiscriminately around his father's house. But that night had been different. It was late, and John had still not returned after walking out the front door in a fit of anger. Hudson couldn't blame him for doing so. For nearly four years, John had absorbed the brunt of their father's anger. It had taken its toll on him, and Hudson knew it was unlikely that John would ever be coming back.
Still, the thought of facing the rest of his time in that house without his brother felt overwhelming and he already missed him, wished he could have rewound time and taken some action to keep his brother from storming out. The heaviness of that regret gnawed at him like a raw, open wound.
Knowing his father would be asleep until morning, Hudson poured the rum into a glass, taking as much as he thought would go unnoticed, which, as it turned out, was more than enough to get him sufficiently drunk.
And so, he sat in biology class the following morning, laying his head on the cool desk to keep it from spinning.
"Yo, Will, you alright, man?" his friend Ian had asked during the lesson. "You look like death. What's up?"
Hudson rolled his head toward Ian. "I'll tell ya later."
Their biology teacher, Mr. Nasser looked towards the back of the class where they sat and shot them both a look. 'William, sit up please, this is a classroom. And Ian! Can you repeat what I was just saying?"
Ian paused, put on the spot. "Uh, something about… butterflies and things?"
Mr. Nasser stared at them for a moment before addressing the rest of the class. "The struggle is real," he said theatrically, and some kids in the class laughed, privy to a joke both Hudson and Ian had missed.
Nasser continued his lesson, "As I was saying, winged insects emerging from cocoons—yes, Ian, butterflies and things—they all have something in common. The struggle. They must fight to free themselves from their confines in order to make it out into the world."
Hudson sat up a bit, the words of his biology teacher suddenly catching his attention.
"When their instincts tell them it's time to leave, they begin their fight, disrupting their surroundings until the chrysalis eventually breaks open—a small hole that they must continue to wrestle through until they finally get to breathe the fresh air; get that first taste of freedom."
The thought of John came to mind and Hudson pictured his brother in the passenger seat of someone's pickup, the windows down and the wind on his face, heading far away from Fort Worth.
"Early scientists who studied these creatures conducted an experiment: they decided to assist the insects, making small cuts to open up the cocoons and help them break free more easily… What they found surprised them. The ones that they helped emerge from their cocoons were weak, with underdeveloped wings, unable to fly. They found that the fight to break free was actually a necessary process in the formation of the wings—imperative for survival. It is that initial fight that equips them for the life ahead of them.
It is the struggle that makes them strong."
.
When Vasquez finally opened the door and slowly made her way on her crutches back toward the bed, Hudson remained silent.
He brought over a glass of water and a plate he had prepared with some toast with jam and sliced fruit on the side, but he didn't tell her she should try to eat. Instead, he placed it on the shelf behind the bed where she could reach it.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have given you that shot earlier if you didn't want it. I couldn't handle seeing you like that. You're right, I was being a coward."
Vasquez grunted. She looked exhausted but no longer angry. "You were tryna help," she said quietly, and Hudson felt a wave of hope as she reached for the toast.
Hudson sorted through her pills and prepared the usual handful, holding them out to her so she could take them with water. Instead, Vasquez's hand went to his new cast, touching the hardened resin netting.
"I went this morning while you were asleep," he told her.
"Did it hurt?"
"No." Hudson couldn't help but smile, sensing that their brief fight had come to an end. "Trudy's an expert."
Vasquez nodded and eyed up the pills still sitting on his hand. From the small pile, she took only two, the antibiotic and the multi-vitamin. She left the painkillers as well as the anti-nausea and digestion regulator, which had only been prescribed to counteract the side effects of the painkillers. He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything.
She looked up at him anxiously, as if worried he would fight her on it. "I just wanna try this," she said.
.
When he noticed her fidgeting in the bed, he knew the pain was coming on strong. Her teeth clenched together, her hands kneading the bed sheets as Hudson watched her squirm in discomfort, feeling helpless.
He put a second pillow under her leg to raise it higher, put ice in a bag and wrapped it in a towel so Vasquez could position it as needed, all the while repeating the newly remembered words in his head like a mantra, it is the struggle that makes them strong.
When the ice seemed to provide a degree of temporary relief, Vasquez relaxed a bit in the bed.
"Vaz," he began tentatively. "Can we talk about this morning?"
"What about it?"
"Well," Hudson began, trying to choose the words with the best chance of breaking through Vasquez's already dismissive demeanor. "This morning, you were saying things about… how you thought you deserved to feel this way."
"Don't worry about it," she said quickly; the type of response he had expected.
"I do worry about it."
"Well, I don't know if that was really me talking, or if it was the meds," she said with a shake of her head.
"What do you mean?"
"That shot... is fucking depressing. Yeah, it helps numb the pain, but it also… numbs me from anything good. All I feel is sickness and sadness and all this shit I regret."
"Fuck," replied Hudson, feeling even more guilty for giving her the injection earlier. "I don't want you to feel like that," he said adamantly. "I agree, no more of that shit, I say we just dump it down the drain right now... But kicking the painkillers completely?" He looked at her with worry, knowing they were entering into a more delicate conversation. "I want you to know that I support your decision if that's what you want, but just help me understand why."
She was quiet at first, appearing to carefully consider her response. "Ever since we arrived here, I've been on some sort of painkiller," she said softly. "I know I've needed them—and I appreciate what you've done to make sure I've been taking them—but I feel myself starting to get lost in it all, like I'm getting used to them. I don't feel like myself. It's like, I can't trust what I'm feeling, whether it is good or bad, because I don't even know which feelings are mine and which are the drugs. Hudson, I just want to feel like myself again and know for sure… what's real."
Hudson watched her anxiously. He remembered the moment in quarantine when she had surprised him with that first kiss; the moment that set everything between them into motion. It hurt to consider that it might have been the drugs influencing that decision, the feelings she appeared to have for him.
He tried to hide the pain in his voice. "Well, how do you feel right now? What's going through your head?"
Vasquez gave a bit of a laugh. "What are you, a shrink?" she asked. But when he just stared back at her, she seemed to feel the need to answer. "I dunno, man. Still super shitty, I guess. Like, I still feel like I'm in a dark place caused by that shot."
"So maybe then it's time to address those feelings while they're still at the surface," Hudson reasoned. "Before you bury them down again, see where they're coming from, ya know?"
Vasquez snorted, a hint of annoyance audible in her voice when she spoke. "Why are you trying so hard to analyze me right now?"
Hudson continued, undeterred. "I'm not, I'm just saying that whatever you're feeling, that's okay. You've been through so much. You just lost your leg and so many of our friends... And I know you feel guilt for Drake's death, for Gorman's and your mother's, for your sister having to run…"
He found it hard to look at Vasquez as he spoke, her face growing red, out of anger or discomfort or both, but still, he remained focused, trying not to stumble on his words. "In the entire time that I've known you, you've been so hard on yourself. I see these things weighing on you… and it's so hard to see you feeling that way, but I want you to know that it's not wrong to feel these things, but it might help to talk about it."
"I can't talk about this, Hudson," she said. "It's too…" She shook her head.
"I'm not tryna force you to relive it all. But burying these things doesn't help. That kinda thing just leaves a person feeling alone, Vaz, like you have to bear the weight of it all on your own."
Vasquez looked down at the bed, silent as Hudson took a deep breath.
"I never told you this," he began nervously, "but when I was pulled down into the bug nest, I found Dietrich there. She was… cocooned with one of those things on her face. But she was alive. I used her pistol to do it. I killed her, Vaz."
Vasquez looked back at him, her brown eyes wide. "There was nothing else you could have done. That's what she would have wanted."
"No. She would have wanted to live."
It was all rushing back to him in overwhelming detail. The moment in which he held the gun to Dietrich's head, preparing himself to pull the trigger.
"At least you tried to save Drake," he added. "I didn't even try. Dietrich saved my life and I just...finished her off like the coward I am."
Vasquez put her hand on his knee. "No. Maybe she was alive, but she was already gone. Hudson, there was nothing you could have done to change that."
As soon as she spoke, Vasquez looked down at the bed, as if having a realization.
Hudson drew in a breath. "When it comes down to it, I'm the one who pulled that trigger, Vaz, and I can't help but feel that regret. I know you don't think I need to feel at fault for Dietrich's death, just like how I know you don't have to feel that way for the people in your life who died. You tried to save Drake. You didn't ask for Gorman to sacrifice himself. And I don't really know what happened with your family, but knowing you, you did everything in your power to help your sister—for God's sake, you defended her and got shot and went to prison to protect her. And I'm sure she's somewhere living a free and happy life because of those sacrifices you made for her."
Vasquez stared back at him, her eyes filled with sadness.
"I'm not gonna tell you how you should feel," Hudson continued. "I'm not tryna tell you that everything's alright and you should be feelin' fine. I think these thoughts are normal... it's not like you can just turn 'em off. But you don't have to keep 'em in because we can talk about these things together. We can help each other."
A long silence lingered between them, and Hudson wondered if he had completely crossed a line and whether Vasquez was ever going to speak to him again.
"It feels heavy," she said finally. "Always carrying that guilt."
Hudson nodded his head. "Maybe it's time to take a load off."
.
When it seemed apparent that Vasquez wasn't going to open up more than she already had, Hudson decided not to push his luck. She seemed quiet after their talk and a bit contemplative as she moved slowly through her physiotherapy exercises.
Hudson helped her through the movements— 'the new PT' as he had coined it, hoping it would inspire the same dedication Vasquez had always shown towards their physical training regimen. And as expected, she had been doing well, competitively trying to improve her endurance and range of motion from the day prior.
So, when she suddenly stopped mid-movement, he felt concerned. She was doing all the same work as before, just without the buffer of the painkillers, so he immediately went to the kitchen to get a fresh pack of ice.
When Hudson gently positioned the ice on her leg, Vasquez's eyes were shut tightly, sweat beading on her brow. "It's not gonna help," she choked, "It's the part that's gone that's burning."
Hudson felt his pace quicken, witnessing the pain in Vasquez's expression, her gaze tilting up towards the shelf where the vial and syringe sat, as if an internal dilemma were playing out in her mind.
His mind jumped back to earlier that morning, sifting through the information Trudy had given him as they were waiting for his cast to cure. He had asked her for advice on dealing with phantom pains and she had shared a method that sometimes worked.
"It's a type of therapy," Trudy had told him, "used to alter the information received by the brain, essentially tricking the mind into believing the leg is still there."
Heart racing, Hudson moved quickly into the small bathroom, to where the long rectangular mirror hung above the sink. Without giving it a second thought, he forcefully pulled the mirror from the wall, leaving divots in the paneling behind it. It came free a bit easier than he had expected, underestimating the adrenaline that was helping to fuel his muscles, and he came close to hitting it off the opposite wall of the small space.
"What the hell?" Vasquez asked through her grimace when he came out holding the bathroom mirror.
"Just keep an open mind, okay? I heard this helps." He knelt in front of her on the bed, gingerly pulling the covers off her legs completely. Then he placed the mirror between her knees, tilting it away from her slightly so that it reflected her full leg.
Vasquez looked into the mirror and blinked in surprise. From Hudson's perspective, he could see what she saw: two full legs, one a perfect replica of the other. Aside from a few bandage patches that still covered her burns, the legs looked just as they once had been, smooth and tan and muscular, with two feet that were fully operational.
Hudson held the mirror in place on the bed, and very carefully removed the towel of ice from her injured leg, and instead, placed it on the lower part of her good leg.
"See?" he said, looking in the mirror with her. "Now you have the ice pack on both legs." He watched Vasquez hopefully.
He knew it seemed like a stupid gimmick, and he half expected her to tell him so, but she said nothing. It was as if she was in shock, staring down at the two legs, both on ice, stretched out in front of her: one real, one a deception.
Vasquez reached out and repositioned the ice pack, staring as the motion was replicated in the reflection; the view of herself inexplicably applying ice to a leg that she could feel, but which did not actually exist. She rubbed her good leg with both hands but stopped abruptly as the extra set of hands appeared in her line of vision, temporarily disrupting the illusion.
Hudson wondered if the effect might work better if Vasquez didn't see or feel her own hands on her leg. "Here," he said, gently moving her hands away. While still holding the mirror in place, he placed his right hand on the lower part of her left leg and lightly massaged the muscles of her calf, down to her ankle and foot.
As expected, it appeared that both his hands were massaging each of her legs. But the mirror had a trick for him too: he was free of his cast, seemingly using both of his hands with ease.
In the symmetry of the reflection, they were both whole, complete versions of themselves.
When Hudson eventually took his eyes away from the reflection, he looked up at Vasquez, and she was staring back at him, a sort of wide-eyed expression on her face. She seemed overwhelmed, and a few times she opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.
Instead, she took hold of the mirror and lifted it away, setting it beside her on the bed. Then, she leaned forward, pushing herself upward so she could kiss him.
When their lips parted again, she leaned back on her arms and stared up at him.
The look of pain had completely disappeared from her face, and he was glad for that. He was surprised to see a new expression had replaced it, her eyebrows turned upwards, almost in confusion, innocently staring back at him as if she were seeing him for the very first time.
He felt a flutter in his stomach—whether pride, excitement, or relief—he knew it was something good. He felt his cheeks rise, his eyes squint in happiness as he took in the image of her, making a mental note to always remember the way that she looked at him in that moment.
When she leaned towards him again, she seemed more certain of herself, pulling him forward by the shoulders, ushering him closer, her perfect lips once again meeting his, this time more insistent.
Then, they were locked together, their kiss only breaking momentarily so he could move towards her and cautiously straddle her, kneeling over her waist, his forearms on the pillow at either side of her head.
That magnetic force, which he had come to feel when he was with her, was once again at full strength, taking hold of him.
Vasquez was voracious, hungry as she kissed him, breathing hard. She let out a moan as her soft, wet lips slid against his, and his mind instantly went crazy with sexual thoughts of her.
Their lips still interlocked, Vasquez pulled her tank top up to her neck, and his hands automatically went to her breasts, while hers peeled up his T-shirt, sliding along his back, the fabric of the shirt stretching as she began deeply kneading his back muscles.
They both broke away from the kiss for mere seconds to pull their shirts completely off before quickly resuming, wrapping their arms around each other, her bare breasts pressed against his chest.
Hudson breathed in satisfaction; skin touching skin—he could almost feel the conduction of energy, like he was a recharging battery, a circuit turning on.
His heart felt like it was beating through his chest; the pounding of lust, the pumping and redistribution of blood, making his chest and face flush and his head feel dizzy, causing that involuntary hardness between his legs, which now pressed persistently against Vasquez's stomach. Her hand was instantly there, rubbing him over his sweatpants.
"Jesus, Hudson," she said in appreciation, her hand moving over him repeatedly. Even the sound of her voice turned him on, and his eyes closed as he dropped his face into the pillow.
Despite the overwhelming desire, there was also a warning.
He groaned as his mind intervened, trying to quiet the burning cravings of his body, slowly winning the argument: it would be too risky.
"We probably shouldn't though, right?" Hudson said breathlessly into her neck.
"I feel fine right now," Vasquez said, and in her voice, there was a hint of desperation.
Hudson broke away, breathing hard, the feeling of lust dampened by worry. "Vasquez, I can't do it. I won't risk it."
Vasquez's eyebrows dimpled with disagreement, she shook her head, her eyes narrowed with disappointment. He reluctantly moved off of her and laid on his side between her and the bathroom mirror, feeling the physical letdown, the miserable itch of pent-up desire.
Vasquez was silent, her face was turned away from him, and he knew she was frustrated. He was aware of how unfair it felt for her.
But then, he remembered Trudy's words about trusting Vasquez to know what she needed, being open to what she decided.
He moved in closer to Vasquez and watched her expression fade into relief as he slid his hand along her stomach and down the front of her briefs.
.
For the remainder of the evening, a relaxed feeling of comfort seemed to settle over them both.
Hudson made them dinner—a simple pasta with a salad—and Vasquez determinedly clambered into one of the tall chairs so they could eat together at the counter. As they ate, they shared easy conversation, talking about things unrelated to Vasquez's recovery: foods they wanted to try, places they wanted to one day visit.
"When we go back, I think I'd like to spend some time in Houston," she said. "That okay with you if we stopped down there for a few days?"
Hudson looked up at her from his plate, trying his best to conceal any astonishment from his face. He hadn't heard Vasquez make any mention of future plans together. At least, not since their third night on Gateway when they briefly romanticized the thought of opening a bar in Colorado where Ripley, Hicks and Newt were planning to settle down. But now, Vasquez seemed to be actively thinking through her plans for the future in a way that involved him.
"Of course, Vaz, we can go anywhere you want."
"It would be nice to catch up with some people there." She nodded at the idea, still in thought. "Eventually, wherever we settle down, I think I'd like to get back into working with at-risk youth… I know I said I would help you open the bar, but we could do that too. I think I could manage both."
Hudson couldn't help but grin.
.
After Hudson had cleaned up the dishes from dinner, Vasquez hoisted herself up on her crutches, steadfast in her decision to take a shower before bed.
"Would you let me go in with you and help?" he questioned lightly, assuming the answer would be a stubborn, 'no'.
She paused for a moment, as if assessing her own balance and mobility. "Um, okay," she responded. "Yeah, that might be good. Thanks."
Hudson stared back, her response surprising him for a second time that night. "Okay." And he followed her into the bathroom.
As he carefully helped remove the bandage from her leg, he wasn't sure why, but he felt a bit nervous to see her incision. He wasn't usually one to be squeamish around injuries, but there was something about the thought of seeing the finality of the stump of her leg, bare, no longer masked by a bandage, that delivered a chill of uneasiness.
He imagined his new friend Trudy telling him that it was okay to feel nervous, perfectly normal to be anxious about seeing such a substantive, irrevocable change that had occurred to the person he cared so much about. Or something along those lines.
But when the bandage was off, his nerves settled quickly. The incision was still healing, but it looked surprisingly innocuous, the skin meticulously stitched together in a neat line.
Vasquez released a breath, her head tilted as she stared down at the site of the amputation. It seemed she had been nervous about it as well.
When they were both fully undressed, Hudson helped Vasquez on her crutches as she moved gingerly into the flow of warm water.
She sighed as the water washed over her, letting it run over her face. He knew it must feel nice for her, having her first real shower, post-surgery. To him, it also marked a milestone in her recovery. The fact that she was well enough to shower, even with his help, was a good sign.
"Here, hang onto me," said Hudson as he helped her set her crutches aside and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
He helped her wash her hair and rinse out the suds, and then turned his attention to her body, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, as he squeezed too much soap into his hands, and ran his hands over her, lather everywhere.
He had been so concentrated on the task that he hadn't even realized until that moment that she was laughing at him.
"What?" he asked her.
"You wanna save some soap for the next guy? How dirty d'you think I am?"
Hudson raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I know you can be pretty dirty."
"Gimme that." Vasquez reached for the bottle of body wash, and he passed it to her, knowing that she would squeeze a big glob of it onto his chest. She tossed the bottle on the shower floor and lathered him up with one hand as she continued to hang onto him, the slippery soap going everywhere, along with her hand.
She squeezed her body into his so that suds squelched out between them. Then, she moved against him, their skin slipping and sliding, lubricated with soap.
"We both know you're the dirty one in this relationship," she said defiantly, looking down with a knowing grin, "See?"
Hudson felt his cheeks flush. "You can't blame me for getting… excited," he protested. "Rubbing up against me like that—a guy can only handle so much."
Vasquez grinned and water dripped from her long black lashes, foamy soap bubbles gliding down her chest and around her nipples.
"God, just look at you," Hudson sighed, the sheer sight of her making matters worse. Damn that part of his body which so easily gave him away.
Vasquez's grin widened, her hand creeping downward between them, until it landed, playfully closing around him.
"You were so good to me earlier and I didn't even get to repay the favor," she said, her voice low and sultry.
"Quit teasin' me," he breathed.
"I'm not," she said. "Now, would you just chill out and let me look after you?"
Her soapy hand pulsated slowly at first, intentionally stroking, stirring his senses, ensuring he was fully turned on.
It was as if he was instantly drugged; intoxicated by the sight of her breathtaking body and seductive expression; under the influence of the warm water that flowed over them; the perfect pressure of her hand and the flawlessly timed motion, intended to remedy the built-up tension he still carried in his body.
This time, he knew he couldn't fight it, even if he tried.
Vasquez smiled deviously, knowing the power she had over him. He closed his eyes, taking in the feeling of her touch.
He hadn't expected any of it. Vasquez talking about their future together, accepting his offer of assistance in the shower, and now this: her hand securely around his neck and the other on his cock, rubbing it against the velvety skin of her stomach in a steady, established rhythm.
Hudson's mind traveled back to the evening after LV-426, waking up on the Sulaco, lying on the gurney next to her. How they made their way to the showers together, battered and beaten. How he made a joke about showering together, to which her reply had naturally been, "not a chance."
Following his comment, however, the joke had been on him: unable to get the idea of her naked body out of his head, he couldn't help but envision her in the shower, dripping wet, the hot water streaming down her. The thought of her moving in closer, touching him...
Now, here they were: both together under the spray of hot water, naked and fully on show for the other to see. Her full breasts, just as he had imagined them that day, now animated with movement; her golden skin shining under the water; her plump pink lips pulled into a cute, crafty smile, clearly pleased with herself. He could scarcely believe he was living out his exact fantasy of her.
Hudson's hands cupped her ass and glided around her back, his cheek pressed against the side of her head, shower water going into his mouth as he panted.
It was more than just her sex appeal, more than the stroke of her hand and those final pivotal motions sending him on a steady trajectory towards euphoria. It was his feelings for her and a near certainty that she was feeling something for him—evidenced by the affectionate gesture; the desire to make him feel good. It was the feeling that she cared.
Hudson's stomach muscles convulsed, and he shuddered against her, a powerful hit of bliss coursing through his body. His vocalized relief resonated through the small space.
Then, he was instantly lightheaded and a subsequent weakness in his knees followed. He felt himself slumping against the wall of the shower.
Vasquez had already grabbed her crutch, carrying her own weight so he didn't have to, and he felt her slip her free arm under his, her hand securely around his back, acting as a temporary support as he recovered.
"I'm s'posed to be holdin' you up," he said feebly, his vision still a bleary haze.
"I don't mind," she said. Her voice was gentle as she ran her hand over his chest and stomach, washing him clean.
With his body slowly regaining stability, his brain coming out of its fog, he pulled her into him once again, hugging her, pressing his face into the back of her neck.
As Vasquez kissed along his collar bone, then laid her head on his chest, a surreal feeling of happiness flooded over Hudson. He never wanted to move from that spot.
.
The feeling of contentment remained as they laid in bed together, watching sports highlights on Vasquez's laptop.
It was amazing to see her looking comfortable. With a fresh ice pack on her leg, her eyes appeared free of pain. No longer battling nausea, there was color back in her cheeks, and as she laid her head against him, there was even a hint of a smile on her face.
It didn't take long before Vasquez was asleep against his shoulder, her breathing slow and even. As he took the opportunity to gaze down at her, the thought crossed his mind that he could get used to this: a comfortable life with her, living together and watching sports and sleeping next to one another. They were surprisingly compatible, well-suited for a simple life together—as long as they were lucky enough to be granted one.
He laid a light kiss on her cheek and gently shifted her to a sleeping position, her head settling onto her own pillow.
Hudson was just about to close Vasquez's laptop when a familiar noise sounded from the device. Right away, he recognized it as a USCM transmission alert, and his eyes scanned over the notification bubble on the screen.
—New message— Thurs, Aug 26, 2179, 22:04 - From Sender: 13218813422 - Pvt.C.V., 2nd Combat Support Group
The text on the screen was emboldened, the icon of an exclamation mark preceding it, deemed 'urgent' by the sender.
Hudson looked down at Vasquez, now sleeping soundly. He didn't want to wake her. He guessed that whatever the message was, he would have received the same one; most likely an inexperienced Private from the auxiliary support wing with questions about an upcoming mission, oblivious to the fact their battalion had been decimated, the few survivors honorably discharged.
"Haven't you been followin' the media, dumbass?" he murmured to the screen as he picked up the laptop and brought it over to the counter, where the sound would be less disruptive to Vasquez. He clicked on the link to open the file.
When he pressed the button to play the recording, the face of a woman appeared on the screen in front of him. A tan complexion and black hair buzzed short. Wide, dark eyes and a long neck. She was pretty, and immediately she looked familiar to him.
She looked like Vasquez.
The woman on the screen gave a deep sigh before looking into the camera. In the split second before she opened her mouth to speak, Hudson felt the blood drain from his face at the realization of who he was seeing.
He sat in shock as her words confirmed it.
"Hey sis."
.