A/N: Story title translates to "(Un)To the Halls of the Slain" and was inspired by the youtube video of the same title. Sort of. Rated for high octane nightmare fuel (though not in this chapter).

The jungle's night noises made a soft backdrop to the sound of human voices in the camp. The Shannons had finally left Commander Taylor to himself, drawing together around one of the fires and speaking in low voices, their gratitude for being safe and together audible over the crack and pop of the kindling.

Jim Shannon was a friend, or as close to one as Taylor permitted himself when his burden of command had necessitated a life of subterfuge and suspicion, but even he had eventually backed off under the silent weight of Taylor's grief. He was, and had always been, a private man: keeping an outward face for his troops and his colony, and his thoughts for himself. And his second.

Friend was an inadequate word for what Wash had been to him. She had been his confidant, his right arm, his counselor, his anchor to humanity throughout the dark periods of his life when all he'd been good for was killing. There had been a time, after Ayani died, when Taylor's life had been a bloodletting, a massacre as he marched farther and farther into the darkness of his pain in search of something, anything, to drown it in. That something had been war, with no end in sight until Terra Nova. A chance at another life. A lifeline, that Wash had all but physically closed his hand over, the dark steel in her eyes allowing him to believe, despite everything, that he could lead them on.

She had saved him, over and over, saving them all again with her last moment in the world.

The loss wasn't quantifiable. Wasn't…conceivable, yet. It was as if Taylor's mind had fractured, with one part still turning gears, planning their move, anticipating the enemy's countermove, watching the ever-shifting shadows in the tree line. The other part was far away, years away, remembering Chula Cham.

That blood soaked beach, with only a rag tag platoon of what had been a company left. Flies swarming over sizzling sockets as the heat and the humidity did awful things to the fallen.

"I ought to court martial you, Sergeant Washington," he growled, partially using the edge in his voice to cover the bite of pain as she pulled another stitch through his side. The bridge was the enemy's last hope as much as their own: well guarded, impossibly guarded; he had asked for volunteers, with the knowledge they wouldn't be coming back.

Washington had stepped forward before he had been done talking, her dark eyes deep in her hunger-pinched face, almost blending with the blood and dirt and paint camouflaging her skin. She hadn't said a word.

She did, now, looking up at the tone in his voice and, of all things, smirking. "You're welcome, sir."

For nearly getting blown up or for saving his ass, he didn't need to ask, but he glared at her all the same. He knew he wouldn't have made it back without her damn fool heroics. A small part of him mourned the lost chance for peace. A greater part was grateful, knowing whatever waited for a man like him on the other side, peace wasn't it. The rest continued to glare, because she was right, in her unspoken sentiment that they couldn't lose anyone else.

From the look on her face, Wash could read the thoughts right out of his eyes. She gave the medical thread a harder tug than was strictly necessary, her dark eyes flashing viciously as she said, without being prompted: "Like hell I was leaving you out there, sir."

Her hair was falling out of its bun, the green undershirt of her fatigues soaked through with sweat from hauling him, body armor, firearm and all, back to their perimeter, but she didn't look as exhausted as she had to be. The sharp angles of her cheekbones, the stubborn set of her jaw…driven, was the word. Driven, and somehow pulling off the kind of fool heroics they showed as motivational material during officer school. She should be leading them. Not him. "You should have," he said, his quiet statement surprising them both.

She stared up at him, shocked like he'd struck her. Then she surged up and kissed him.

Like her, the kiss was quick and fierce and full of promise, soft and hard at once before she broke off just as abruptly. She took in his stunned look with something like satisfaction, put her face inches from his and said: "Never."

"Wash–"

Suddenly businesslike again, she went back to the stitches, but gently. "Court martial, sir. Looking forward to it."

Then there had been no time, with the enemy closing on them, and afterwards there had been even less, caring for the wounded and jerry-rigging a radio to call for evac. Wash never said anything else, did anything else, to suggest there was a reason other than her damn fool loyalty that made her come after him, save him, again and again. Taylor knew he didn't deserve her loyalty, and deserved anything else that may have been even less.

He had told himself he trusted her, and counted on her, and would protect her from himself as best as he could, while at the same time unable to push her out. And he'd never admitted to himself that she was everything, until now, when it was already too late.

Chula Cham.

Only Wash could find a way to give him a plan and tell him she–

No good that way, Taylor told himself. She was gone, now. And he was beyond lost without her.

It was the pain that told Wash she was alive, tearing her out of unconsciousness as it seared into her skull. She tried to fight it off, but her limbs wouldn't move.

There were voices, that she could barely comprehend over the sound of someone's screams.

"Hold her...drill...pressure..."

And she tried to tell the owner of the voice making those broken, animal screams to tough it out, but her own throat was far too raw, and the sickening agony was eroding her ability to think straight.

"Conscious...damage...sir?"

"No drugs."

Lucas.

"I like her this way."

Finally, nothing.