AN: Hello all! I've decided that for my first addition to FF's archive of Halo stories, I'd write some smut. This will be a multiple chapter piece and will be updated randomly. Now, there's nothing too racy in chapter one, but it is rated M and will contain lemons. So if that's not your jam, you've been warned. This also takes place during (and after) Spartan Ops. I messed around a bit with the timeline and future events, hence the slight AU, but it should for the most part follow canon.

Well, happy reading!

Chapter One - Goodnight

He was certain there had been a point in his life when he knew what eight hours of sleep felt like, but Lasky was finding it increasingly difficult to remember.

"Next, Roland," he muttered into his palm. His laptop's screen blared harsh light into the dimly lit captain's quarters, but he was too tired to get up and adjust the lighting.

"Do you want me to turn the lights on, Captain?" Apparently his AI was a mind-reader.

"Just the lamp," he relented, and behind him a soft glow clicked on and lessened the impact of the white computer light in the room. "Shouldn't—" He stopped and let loose a jaw-cracking yawn. "Shouldn't be too much longer with the paperwork, anyway."

Roland appeared beside him, and imitated a cough. "Sir," he began slowly. "There are currently seven hundred and forty-one pending files that still need revision from this section alone. We're still going through the aft docking crew."

He rubbed his eyes. "Can't you do this? Why do I have to?"

Roland sniffed, looking offended. "Brass wants a more human touch, sir. They think it would be good for morale of you personally detail the crew's strengths and weaknesses. It has made a significant impact on other UNSC vessels—"

"If I had a problem with my crew, I'd speak to them directly, not write it down on a piece of paper and hand it to them," he groused.

"They want a more official way of providing conflict resolution, sir."

"Maybe, but there are seventeen thousand people on Infinity," he protested. "How did Del Rio do this?"

"He didn't, sir."

Lasky sighed, rubbing his eyes again. "What did I even say on the last file?"

"That Crewmen Kellen Mags is punctual but needs improvement on... I believe you meant to type the words personal hygiene. I'm surprised spell check didn't correct the errors in your spe—"

"Who is Crewmen Mags, again?"

Roland presented him with a profile of Mags on his laptop screen. "The woman with the bald spot behind her left ear."

"Oh. Good enough. Next one. Wait—" he sat up and shoved away from his desk. "I need to pee first."

He limped to the bathroom, trying to work the feeling back into his legs. He looked at the clock on his bedside table as he passed by and realised he'd been doing crewmen profiles for almost three hours.

I ran out of different ways to say "hardworking" two and a half hours ago.

After emptying his bladder, he splashed water on his face, trying to stay awake. He had a meeting tomorrow at oh-seven hundred... to present the files he'd been working on. He'd have to piecemeal the reports over the course of a few months if he wanted to get them finished and not pass out from fatigue. Maybe he'd pass the task on to his XO, or possibly some other officer he didn't like. The thought brought him some form of joy in his half-awake state.

He idly scratched at a blister on his wrist, which he'd gotten from cryo last week, when he heard an aggressive pounding on the wall of his quarters.

"Commander Sarah Palmer is at your door, sir."

He frowned. Palmer? This late at night? He shuffled out of the bathroom and keyed open his door, frowning up at the woman taking up all the space in his doorframe.

"Palmer? What can I—"

"Are those duck pyjamas?"

He looked down at himself. Shit. His white t-shirt was standard enough, but he'd replaced the itchy-as-hell off-duty trousers with the cotton ones he'd gotten from shore leave. He'd grabbed the first ones that had looked comfortable in the store, barely aware of what he'd been purchasing at the time, and it wasn't as if he was sharing his room with someone who would see them. Still, maybe he should have taken the time to find something less colourful.

"Yeah," he muttered, blinking. "What did you need, Commander?"

"Why ducks?" she asked, eyeing his pants with growing interest.

"To annoy you," he shot back. "I'm going back to paperwork."

"Wait," she said forcefully, and her tone woke him up. The amusement drained from her face, and she suddenly looked a hundred years old. "Can I talk to you?"

He swept his arm into his room, nodding. "Come on in."

She walked past him silently, immediately sitting down in his office chair. He moved to take a seat in his bunk, but remembered his manners before sitting down. "Can I get you something?"

"Do you have any alcohol?"

He frowned. "A bottle of whiskey, but that's all."

She pointed to the desk. "I'll have one."

He nodded, quickly heading to the sparse kitchenette in his quarters and making up two glasses. It looked like he wasn't doing any more paperwork tonight, so he might as well get buzzed.

When he handed Palmer the glass, she downed it in one go. He was by no means a spring chicken when it came to alcohol, but he didn't know many people who could achieve what she just did, especially without coughing or choking.

"This is about Fireteam Grand," he murmured, raising his glass passingly before taking a sip of his own drink.

"I haven't written any of the condolence letters yet," she whispered. "Seven letters to seven families. Did you know that Carlton's wife just had a baby?"

"Jesus." He took another sip. "And here I was complaining about crewmen reports."

Palmer's eyes were red, but dry. She glared into her empty glass. "We've finished the war and there's still so much death." He watched her hands curl and uncurl in her lap, the tendons straining against her skin. "A whole Fireteam in one day."

"You can't—" God, how cliche. You can't blame yourself. The words sounded so fake. "Their deaths weren't your fault."

"Oh really?" Anger replaced the melancholy in her voice. "I sent them onto that planet with intel I gathered."

"Troop movements change. You can't predict everyth—"

"Shut up, Tom, and get me another drink."

Ignoring the insubordination, he did as she ordered. Again, Palmer tossed back the amber liquid in one go, looking more miserable with each passing moment.

"Take it easy, Sarah. Getting drunk won't help."

"I disagree." She glared at him and grabbed his glass, gulping it down before he had time to even register what she'd done.

He knew what she was doing. He could see it in her face as she continued to glare at him.

"You want someone to be angry with you for fucking up," he shot back at her.

"Fuck you," she replied, clanking his glass down hard next to hers. "I just wanted your alcohol, Lasky, not your opinion."

"You said you wanted to talk, not drink."

"That's why God invented lying."

"I'm not going to yell at you. You did your best and it wasn't enough; it happens."

"'It happens'," she repeated, scoffing. "You make it sound like I slept in and was late to some meeting. Seven of my Spartans died today, Tom!" She stood up, and he found himself eye-level with her collarbone.

"Was it worth it?" he asked, trying not to look intimidated by the drunk, angry Spartan standing in front of him.

"What?"

"Did they send back anything—did they complete the mission?"

"Yes," she admitted grudgingly. "That and more. We've got more intel on Covie movement on Requiem than we've ever had."

"Then they're lives spent, not wasted. I know it doesn't make them any less dead, but they died for a good reason."

"Catchy phrase," she commented, sitting back down. She wiped at her eyes, and glared down at the wetness on her hand.

"A rip off; I didn't come up with it." He took a seat on his mattress, watching her face. She was pushing away whatever pain she felt, burying it deep. The smile she gave him was weak and fake.

"Who's you plagiarise it from?"

"Master Chief," he murmured, and she raised a brow. "I spoke to him briefly, before he left the ship. I told him I was sorry about Cortana, his AI, and he said 'better to be a life spent than a life wasted'."

"I didn't know he was such a poet," Sarah muttered.

He ran a hand through his hair. "You've distracted me. We should be talking about Grand."

She looked away. "Not much to say."

"You feel guilty."

"I didn't know you were a psychologist," she bit back. "Yes, I feel guilty."

"Why are you being nasty? You came here to talk to me."

Her face closed off whatever emotion she'd been showing. "Well, I'm sorry I disturbed you." She stood up, wiping her eyes again.

"Sarah—wait. Don't go."

"Why? I thought I was being nasty."

"See?" he said gently, standing up. "There. I'm not the one you should be angry at."

"I'm the Commander Bitch, I'm angry at everyone." Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and it was then that he realised just how much her Spartan's supposed opinion meant to her. And that she was dressed in only a tank top and crewmen pants. She hadn't been able to sleep, either.

"What's this about? Did someone say something to you?"

She met his eyes. Her expression was not a pleasant one. "They don't have to. I see the looks. I'm a bitch for keeping them alive and I'm a bitch for letting them die."

"Being hard and being a bitch are two different things," he corrected her. "You run your Spartans only as hard as you run yourself. There's no crime in that."

"It isn't working! You saw the look that cunt Halsey gave me! My Spartans can't touch the Spartan-IIs with a ten-foot pole!"

"Spartan-IIs also have great difficulty carrying out a conversation," Lasky commented dryly. "They might be better soldiers, but they've given up any social or emotional understanding to get there. I don't even think the Chief knows why he's mourning." He saw Palmer's face relax the tiniest bit, and he forged on, determined to get the anguished expression off of her face. "You've made your Spartans the best they can be, while still allowing them to keep their humanity. I don't see bitch anywhere in there."

"And yet they're still dying," she whispered.

"I'm pretty sure most of the Spartan-IIs are dead. You can't train death out of soldiers."

"Why do you always know what to say?" It sounded like an accusation, but he saw the grateful look in her eyes.

His brows furrowed. "I don't. I just say what I'd want to hear."

Sarah smiled. "You're a good friend, Tom."

He returned the smile. "So are you. I know it's tough losing people, but I sleep easy knowing that my crew isn't dying because you don't care or don't train them properly."

"You look like you don't sleep at all," she said dryly. He took the silent cue and switched to a lighter subject. At least she was feeling better.

"Staring at a computer screen is the closest I usually get," he agreed, rubbing his eyes. "I've got a meeting in five hours and I've barely started the paperwork I need to present."

"Oh. I didn't—I'll fuck off then. Sor—" She looked sheepish, but he waved her off.

"No, no. I'm not complaining. There was no way I'd get it done in time anyway."

"I don't think the excuse of having a lonely Spartan in your room will fly with brass," Palmer commented in amusement, crossing her arms. He tried not to notice the effect it had on her breasts.

He looked down at himself. "Yes, because I'm so very attractive in duck pyjamas and blisters." He scratched his wrist again. He'd have to put cream on it soon.

"More than you know," she whispered. Or rather, that's what he thought she said. The words were said so quietly that he could have imagined it.

"Sorry?"

She touched his arm. "Goodnight, Tom." Palmer gave him a parting smile before heading for the door, this one real and warm.

"You too, Sarah," he replied back. "Oh, and if you need help writing letters, let me know."

She shook her head, stopping in the frame of his door to look back at him. "You're too sweet for the UNSC."

He allowed himself the warm feeling spreading in his chest that her words afforded him, and moved to shut off his laptop. Roland, who had disappeared during his conversation with Palmer, popped back up next to his desk.

"I can send a message saying that you are not feeling well and won't be able to make the meeting tomorrow."

He shook his head. "Tempting, but I have to go. They'll get their reports when I have the time to finish them."

"Very well, Captain. Goodnight."

He nodded to the AI, who disappeared from view again. With that, he shut off the lamp and climbed into his bed, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow.