A/N: First off, this is something of a sister story/sequel to Good Cop, Bad Cop. I'd recommend reading that first or this one likely won't make a lot of sense.
Second, I rage quit this more times than you want to know. But some of the lovely ladies over at livejournal, and Inu, wanted to see how JealousTaylor would react to Wash using sexy interrogation on someone else. I wanted to write a one shot. A sexy one shot with possessive action. Sat down to write it and what happens? BAMF essentially gave me the finger.
So sorry dears, you get four to five chapters of build up before that because it's the ONLY WAY to make this even slightly arguably in character. Just think of it as like…when your mom made you eat vegetables before dessert. Makes things better, right? WRONG. It was a lie then. It's probably a lie now. xD But we'll get there. Eventually.
Longest, most rambling, note ever done, read on.
Green Eyed Evenings
And to think, her morning had started off so well.
In the grand scheme of things, Alicia Washington could not say she'd had many overtly strenuous mornings since arriving in Terra Nova. She couldn't say she appreciated having to awaken before dawn every morning to lead patrols but it was most certainly preferable to her tenure as a soldier. Very rarely did she awaken to someone shooting at her, or Taylor shouting commands. It was, all in all, a very relaxing change of pace.
It had begun as any other day, her patrol going off without a hitch. She'd met with Shannon to follow some new lead he'd had (something about another gambling ring, hardly life or death) and the two had solved the case before noon. They'd had maybe an hour or so before they had to report to Taylor and the day was a particularly fine one, not a cloud in sight, the temperature tolerably warm. It seemed a waste not to do something.
He owed her a drink, but offers to buy her lunch instead. They are engaged in a (nearly) playful conversation regarding their respective marksmanship (she's the better shot; he insists she's compensating for something with that rifle; she laughs but still hits him) when all hell breaks loose. A piece of fruit halfway to her mouth, she becomes aware of the man in front of them about a hundred paces. She hasn't seen him before or at least can't place him. From the way Shannon stiffens beside her he's also aware of it.
They aren't far from the Commander Center, the gate is in sight. Taylor's assembled the majority of their troops for their weekly (daily, she corrects, the man's positively obsessed with keeping morale up) pep talk. His arms are behind his back and he's pacing, looking dourly handsome in his dark jacket, tone conversational. In the burning afternoon heat, he appears unfazed, composed and simply a leader. The kids are watching him with rapt intensity, hanging off each of his words. It's one of his greatest strengths. Taylor's damn charismatic and just has a way of speaking that…she doesn't know. But she remembers the feeling, remembers that she'd been ready to take a bullet for the man almost the first day in his unit. If anything the years have only rendered him more proficient at it.
His tone rises as he emphasizes something or other (the need for vigilance, how they must protect the colony, second chances; she's memorized all his talking points though she never tires of hearing them). The kids eat it up, goofy smiles on their young faces. It's something she's seen often enough over the years but it never ceases to cause her heart to flutter (absurdly, stupidly, childishly…) in her chest.
The stranger isn't walking quite right. It's subtle, but there is a tenseness in his posture that denotes he isn't simply walking the streets. He's nervous, uncomfortable, not at home. He glances around, hands drop to his belt.
Both she and Shannon pick up the pace. The cop's hand moves to the holster on his hip, throws her a glance to make sure they're on a similar wave length. She nods curtly, the motion causing the fringe of her bangs to fall over her eye, her own hand moving. They separate, space their movements, one coming in on the right, the other on the left, careful to keep out of his peripheral vision. They remain silent only because the area is teeming with civilians. No use causing a panic over nothing.
She really wishes they would have.
The man gets closer, finally stops about a foot from her commanding officer. The stranger calls his name. His free hand pulls something ever so subtly from beneath the confines of his jacket. There's very little doubt in her mind as to what it is. A gun. Because it's always a gun, isn't it?
She isn't entirely certain if it's her or the assailant who cries out.
For one unbearable moment, time and her world seems to freeze. Breathing becomes impossible, a weight on her chest. She simply watches, helpless as Taylor half turns to meet his addressor. A bang, blood. He's falling; she's running. She absently aware of his assailant hauling ass in the opposite direction, leaping over stands in the market. Idiot. Can't they ever plan an escape route that causes less havoc, takes less time to clean up? Amazing, the sort of nonsensical ideas that rush through one's mind as panic overtakes reason.
She isn't sure if she and Shannon even exchange a glance; an understanding simply passes between them. Jim gives her a shove forward, taking off after the fleeing man. Before she can even contemplate what she's doing Wash is hurtling towards her Commander. Through sheer luck or desperation she manages to reach him before he falls, her arms wrapping about his chest. His weight is to greatly superior to her own for her to stop his momentum entirely but she effectively breaks his fall, his head resting against her own as she sinks to her knees. She feels blood, warm and sticky, through the fabric of his shirt, the liquid smearing across her exposed shoulder. Thanks god she isn't squeamish and has spent the better part of her adult life covered in his blood, macabre though the image is.
Civilians are screaming around them, ducking for cover. Some of the soldiers take off after Shannon, some stand helplessly by, not knowing what to do with themselves. There's a crash and a scream some distance away and something that sounds dangerously akin to gun fire. She looks up long enough to bark orders, tells the kids to move their asses. Positive thoughts aren't going to catch their assassin and neither is them standing there looking spellbound. A private nearly trips over himself in his rush to get away from her.
She thinks she hears Taylor chuckle at her vitriol (and she represses the urge to rage at him or at least hit him for being so stupid and insufferable, for letting himself get shot. She refrains only because the anger is more fully directed at herself for not acting more quickly), sees him smile up at her as she strips off her coat, presses it hard against the wound (she'll regret it later; the wound's hardly fatal, just a nuisance, really, and it ruins her favorite jacket). Taylor moves to assist her, rests his far larger hand over her own to keep the pressure on. She'd find it romantic or at least a little endearing if she weren't so busy trying to keep from bleeding out (he isn't, she's well aware, but she has to keep herself busy somehow).
The medically proficient half of her is quickly taking stock of his wounds. The bullets to high to really make an impact; its hit his upper arm more than anything else and it's passed cleanly through. Signing requisition forms for the next few weeks is going to be a pain in the ass but he's hardly going to die.
All the difficulty of infiltrating the colony and Mira's chosen a bad shot. Mentally, she chuckles at the absurdity.
The rational side of her knows he's not really in any danger. The bruising will be bad, it'll be painful but he's had worse in both fields. It's not even the first time someone's attempted to take his life. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing they haven't already done before, a scenario that's played out a thousand times. She doesn't dare move though, just keeps the pressure on, feels the blood seeping between her fingers. They're both well aware he's alright. Even if he isn't a trained medic, he's taken enough wounds to know what dying feels like. This isn't it. It's painful, but it's nothing like dying. Still, he doesn't try to move away, permits her to fuss over him (he's just been shot; no one's going to question the decision). It's the closest they've been for weeks. Consciously or not they've been putting distance between each other.
She can't say she regrets their little encounter in the interrogation room (it's very difficult for her to regret good sex, especially when it's with him) but she can say with some certainly that it's left things more awkward between them than it's been for years. The ease, the friendliness, remains but its left them in some horrific state of limbo, neither entirely certain what to do about their romantic involvement. They aren't overtly fond of discussing such things and so it simply hangs between them, a tension to address at a later date. And when that date arrives they'll simply postpone it again. It's just their way.
So at the moment, it's just one off sex. She's fine with that. Only it leaves highly insubordinate thoughts racing through her mind.
His proximity brings back flashes, memories, skin on skin, his lips on her neck, her breasts, his breath against her cheek. A silent challenge between them, the wall digging against her shoulders…
Interrogate me, lieutenant.
She's not entirely certain there's a less appropriate moment for such thoughts to manifest. He's just been shot. He's bleeding. She's covered in his blood. And yet away her thoughts go. She growls to herself, shakes her head, clears away the offending images. From the way he's staring up at her, entirely to amused, he's managed to catch at least a bit of her straying train of thought. She presses down harder on his shoulder; he grunts.
He doesn't look in the least repentant.
They don't speak (though he continues to stare at her in that fascinating way, almost as if he's considering saying something only to think better of it) till the medical staff arrives. It takes a very irate Dr. Shannon ordering her to step back for her to turn him over to their care. Despite their best efforts to dissuade her, she trails along beside the stretcher, barking orders at the panicking soldiers still milling about the market square. He continues to stare at her, amused and proud and in obvious pain. He doesn't ask her to leave and so she remains (despite the medical staff's protests) in the clinic for the duration of his treatment.
It takes a very sweaty, very winded, Jim Shannon assuring her they caught the assassin for her to leave his bedside. She gives his arm a squeeze, sets her shoulders.
As she leaves he stares after her.
A/n: Sorry, loves, short prologue is short. But now we can start the interrogation times. With Jim. Have I mentioned I love Jim yet this week? Well I do. Next chapter has a lot of him and Wash so it'll assuredly be better/less awkward/less sickening short.