Author's Note: I still know better than to be indulging in this crazy little show so early, and yet here we go again. More deep thoughts for Wash, more war history for Wash and Taylor (inspired by the scene in the jungle in Bylaws). Obviously, creative license has been taken with their past (though I think my assumptions are reasonable) so it's possible I'll end up wrong. In any case, enjoy and let me know what you think.

It's almost ten at night, and after this crazy insane day full of murder, deception and betrayal, Lieutenant Alicia Washington knows that she should be sitting on the couch in her quarters, feet up on her table, something mildly alcoholic in front of her. Right now, she should be doing anything but thinking about the last few hours. Anything at all.

Instead, she's out in front of Taylor's office, leaning over the railing, absently watching civilians mill around. From the look of things, it appears to almost be some kind of impromptu date night, she thinks as she watches several young couples walk along, hand in hand.

She smiles to herself when she sees Mark Reynolds and Maddy Shannon meandering through the marketplace. The two of them are walking close, but not too close. There's something there, but neither is quite sure just what yet. That and he's "courting" her, which of course means being hands-off gentlemanly.

Something only Nathaniel Taylor could come up with.

She chuckles, her mind turning to Taylor as it always does when it begins to drift. Sometimes, she hates how much he's become the center of her world. Most of the time, though, she simple accepts that it is what it is.

Still, at times she can't help but wonder why it's so much easier for him than it is for her to talk about their past – their days in the war. He trots out the stories and memories almost easily. Sometimes almost fondly. She'd be happy to forget the vast majority of what had occurred in Somalia.

In her mind, the only good thing that had come out of those long terrible years had been the fact that sight unseen, the notorious and infamous Nathaniel Taylor had chosen her to be in his special ops unit.

It'd been quite a surprise for her. Leading up to the reassignment to his unit, she'd been working with a recon unit. In short, she'd been in the rear with the gear. Even at twenty-two years of age, she'd hated that. She'd sucked it up, though, because being a soldier was at least a purpose in life. Something better than the nothing that most people in those dark days had had to look forward to.

At least wearing the uniform of soldier, she'd had something to drive her. A mission handed down to her, a goal set before her. In the beginning, Alicia Washington hadn't really bought in to the holy purpose – not hook, line and sinker anyway - but it also hadn't mattered. At that point in her life, absent hope of anything else, any dangling carrot would have done just fine.

Still, she'd been restless. So when the opportunity to learn a new specialty had come around, she'd jumped at it. She'd gone through six weeks of the most intense and disgusting field medic training a person could imagine. During it, she'd tended to wounds that seemed too horrific to be real. And yet, real they were. And often made by tools and weapons created by human hands.

During those six weeks, she'd seen first-hand the cruelty of humanity. She'd watched young men and women no more than fifteen years of age (the suits at the top had long changed the enlistment age in order to allow more eager kids to join up) die from gaping wounds that had seemed too grotesque to be real.

"You're good at this," her harried trainer had told her one night as they'd been sharing beers after a long and bloody shift in the makeshift emergency room.

"Thanks," she'd replied, her eyes on her hands. She'd washed them at least a dozen times already and yet was certain she could see blood on them.

He'd nodded his head thoughtfully, and then added, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Why?"

"Because maybe no should be good at trying to keep people from dying in war."

She hadn't replied to that, but she'd also never forgotten it. A couple days later, when the training course had ended, she'd been glad to leave the dark despair of the emergency clinic. Somehow, to her, it'd seemed even more depressing than the battlefield that she'd so far seen mostly from a distance.

That all changed less than twenty-four hours later when a courier had come to her with a hologram from Central Command which had informed her that she'd been reassigned. "Pack it up," it'd basically said. "You're going to the front lines."

She'd been exhilarated. She'd been horrified.

Also mystified.

On the air shuttle to the base where her new unit was being gathered together, she'd told herself that her newly gained medical training was likely the reason for her reassignment. It was fairly common knowledge around the camps (even for those in Recon) that good medics were hard to find these days. And even when you did manage to get your hands on one worth a damn, they had a bad habit of either getting killed in battle or running off out of sheer fear.

Dark days indeed.

The moment she'd stepped off the shuttle, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her appearance purposefully crisp and clean, all questions of why had dropped out of her mind as she'd set eyes on Nathaniel Taylor. It hadn't mattered to her that he'd been old enough to be her father; she'd been utterly captivated from the moment their eyes had locked and he'd smiled almost lazily at her.

"Corporal Washington?" he'd asked, walking towards her, his smile deepening, his eyes seeming to twinkle almost mischievously.

"Yes…yes, sir," she'd managed to force out, her voice almost wheezy. Inwardly, she'd chastised herself for acting like a silly girl. Even before war, she'd lived a hard life full of loss and pain. It simply wasn't her to be so…idolizing of anyone.

And yet.

He'd approached her and stuck out his hand. "Nathaniel Taylor," he'd stated. He'd waited until she'd taken his hand to add, "Glad to have you aboard, Wash."

"Thank you, sir," she'd replied not missing the abbreviation of her last name. What she'd come to realize with Taylor very quickly was that he had a habit of personalizing his people, putting his stamp on their IDs. She'd always been Alicia or Corporal or Washington to everyone else, but in the space of three seconds, almost absurdly, it'd felt like he'd carved her out a new persona.

A new person.

Someone he could mold and build.

"You're probably wondering why I brought you here, yes?" he'd asked, still tightly holding her hand in his, his grasp strong and firm. And warm. Damned warm.

"Yes, sir."

"I need good people, Corporal," he'd replied simply, like it'd been the most obvious statement in the world. He'd released her hand then and just stared at her, his blue eyes gazing deeply into her dark ones, as if searching for something. Fear maybe? Faith? She couldn't be sure.

In any case, considering she'd never met this man before and only knew of him from his reputation, she hadn't quite known how to respond to his statement so she'd settled for saying nothing at all. For some reason or another, her silence had amused him, and he'd let out a rumbling chuckle.

"Come on, Wash, and meet the rest of the team," he'd said as he'd turned around. He'd started towards an arched door on the opposite side of the room. Not quite show how, she'd found herself walking perfectly in step with him, something that even then had felt bizarrely comfortable and right. "How was the flight?" he'd asked, his tone so easy and calm.

"Long, sir."

"I bet. Hungry?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. We've got quite a feast available for us tonight. If I were you, I'd eat up. Chances are, this is going to be your last good meal for awhile."

He hadn't been lying. The next morning, the two of them and the sixteen other carefully selected "good" men and women had set out on a special mission that had involved sneaking into any enemy camp and destroying it.

It'd been something of an insane suicide mission and yet the team had carried it off in spectacular fashion. Before long, their squad had become the go-to for these kinds of operations. And for a long while, the unit had been almost ridiculously lucky, suffering only small wounds. And yeah, she'd been the one patching every one up when the need was there.

But mostly, she'd been learning how to be Taylor's back. From almost day one, he'd insisted on her coming along with him on every mission, every outing, every excursion not matter how big or small. He'd never told her his reasons (or his actual ones for choosing her in the first place) and she'd never asked. Instead, she'd simply trusted him. Why, she had no idea. She just…had.

Almost from day one, really, there'd been that trust. When he'd nearly been gutted during a raid, she'd been the only one he'd allowed to fix him up. Sixty-seven stitches. To this day, she remembers each and every one.

Mostly because that night, she'd been absolutely sure that he was going to die.

Definitely not one of her favorite memories. In fact, one she's tried very hard to forget for a long time.

So, of course, earlier that day, he'd found a way to bring it up about as casually and easily as possible. Like it wasn't a bad memory for him. Like remembering that he'd survived nearly being gotten was something he delighted in.

Knowing him, he probably does.

She hears his approach before she sees him, before he even speaks. He knows it, too, because he doesn't try to surprise her. He simply settles next to her against the railing, one large hand settling on the wood beam. "Thought I'd find you here, Wash," he says, his voice rumbling.

"Sir," she acknowledges with just the slightest nod of her head. She knows that she could call him Nathaniel if she wanted to – he wouldn't even blink if she were to do so. After all they've been through, they're so far past the formality, and yet she falls back on it as one would a crutch. The formality, well it's safe.

"You look thoughtful," he says.

"Just thinking about today."

"I bet." He watches her carefully for a moment and then asks, "And how are you with…what happened today?" Though his tone sounds light, she knows better. He's no stranger to hard decisions (she's been there when he ordered a mission certain to produce mass casualties), and yet the one he'd made today, well she knows that no matter what he tells anyone else, it's chewing away at his conscience like a dog would a rawhide bone.

"There was no choice," she replies.

"Do you believe that?"

She turns to face him, one of her eyebrows slightly lifted. "Curran betrayed the trust of the colony. The bylaws –"

"You're just repeating what I said earlier, Wash," he tells her, amusement lighting his blue eyes. "Essentially anyway."

"I agreed with you then, I agree with you now."

"And if you didn't?"

"I'd never let you sacrifice your honor, sir. If I thought you were doing so, I'd stop you. You know that."

He nods his agreement, then follows up with, "So you don't think I did that today? Sacrificed my honor? The respect of the people out there?"

"I think it's easy to judge from down there."

"Didn't answer my question."

She considers her response for a moment, and then replies, "Whether I'm a civilian or a soldier, in my mind, there's no honor in allowing a murderer to get away with what they've done."

"You've been a soldier almost all of your adult life, Wash," he tells her. "Are you sure you know what it's like to think like a civilian?"

She knows that he's playing a weird game of devils' advocate with her, using her to work out his own self-doubts. She also knows that she's the only one alive that he would do this with.

"Maybe not, sir, but I do understand fear." She meets his eyes when she says this. He's the only one alive that she would admit that to. "I know what it's like to wonder if you're safe, if you'll ever be safe. And the idea that someone here - in our new beginning, our second chance - could throw all of that away and murder someone else without consequence, well that would scare the hell out of me."

"I have a hard time believing that anything scares the hell out of you anymore," he drawls, his eyes twinkling. She's glad to see the glint there; it means that he's coming to peace with his decision. Albeit slowly.

"Very little," she admits, but doesn't elaborate.

He nods, then turns and glances down at the marketplace. She turns to do the same, her eyes settling on Reynolds and Maddy as they flirt with each other over a piece of greenish/black fruit that vaguely resembles a watermelon with a hard shell. When cracked open, it tends to taste more like a sour cantaloupe.

For a few minutes, all they do is watch the young couple goof around with each other, each taking a turn at cracking open the hard shell of the fruit. It's cute and peaceful, and there's a lovely quality to the innocence they see on display. It reminds both of them of times long in the past.

Times before war and blood and loss and hurt.

Times both wish desperately that they could revisit, but neither knows how to.

Finally, with a smile on his lips, Taylor notes, "Your boy has quite a thing for her."

"He does," she confirms. "And he's not my boy."

"They're all your boys, Wash," he answers. "There's nothing they wouldn't do for you, nowhere they wouldn't follow you."

"You know they'd do the same for you."

"Of course they would. Because I'm their Commander and they respect me. But you trained these kids, Wash, not me. They're yours."

"If you say so, sir."

"That's the second time you've said that to me today."

"Is it?" she asks as casually as possible, knowing for a fact that he's right.

"It is. Something bothering you?"

"You mean besides watching those two make a mess?" Wash cracks as she indicates towards the young couple with her hand. It seems that the fruit that Reynolds and Maddy had been playing with had finally cracked wide open, spraying Maddy's right cheek with bright pink liquid.

"Come on, Wash, where's your romantic side?" Taylor grins as they watch Reynolds wipe a droplet of the pink juice away from Maddy's cheek.

"Not sure I ever had one."

"Really? I seem to remember a young gunner you had a thing –"

She coughs, forcefully interrupting him. She has no real desire to talk about loves long lost – especially not with him. "It's getting late, sir. I should probably turn in."

"All right, then I won't keep you," he replies, that damnable smirk on his lips. He knows her well enough to know that she's avoiding the conversation. And he'll let her because that's their way. The important things they'll push on, but the painful and sometimes just bittersweet memories, they know to let ride.

"Good night, sir." She turns and starts to walk away, then stops.

"Wash?"

"You think he's still alive?" she asks, her back still to him. It's only because he knows her so well that he doesn't even bother with the "who" question. They both know who they're thinking about tonight – a young soldier named Curran.

"You trained him. You tell me."

"Not sure I take pride in training him," she replies.

"She's not surprised when a mere moment later, she hears his footsteps as he approaches, and then the weight of his hand on her shoulder. "Listen to me. What he did is on him and him alone. If you can say that we – that I– made the right choice in banishing him, then you have to accept that the fault and responsibility for his actions lies completely with himself. You did not train him to betray his duty or his mission or his morals. Do you understand me, Wash?"

"I do."

"Good. Get some sleep. Morning will be here before you know it, and unless I'm mistaken, tomorrow is your day for early patrol."

She can't help but groan, earning a soft chuckle from him. He pats her once more on the shoulder, his hand resting for a moment longer than is probably necessary, and then he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing as he crosses the wood planked floor.

She makes her way down the steps and passes through the marketplace, slowing only long enough to give Reynolds a sidelong glance that makes the young soldier color considerably.

Once back in her own house, she changes into her sleep clothes quickly and crawls under her blankets.

Sleep comes slowly that night for her. And when it does, the dreams come with it.

Of her first day in field medic training.

Of the explosions heard all around her on her first day in the trenches beside Taylor.

Of gently, carefully and slowly placing sixty-seven stitches into his torn side. Of then holding him against her as the fight had waged on around them. Of listening to his shallow breathing, her own hitching every single time he'd coughed.

Of standing in front of several young men on their first day of training to be a soldier in the Terra Nova military.

Of Curran. Eighteen years old and eager to please.

She wakes long before morning, and just lies in bed, staring up at her ceiling. She thinks about what Taylor had said, about these being her men and following her anywhere. Ten years ago, that had been she and her comrades in regards to Nathaniel. Anything he'd have asked, she'd have done for him.

To this day, she still would.

She thinks about Curran, out alone in the jungle, likely terrified. While she agrees completely with the decision that Nathaniel had made, she wonders if she'd have had the courage to make the same one.

She knows that the day could come when she'll have to find out. She's the second in command of Terra Nova. Should anything – God forbid (she feels her stomach clench at the thought) happen to Taylor, she'll be running the show.

And then what?

It's one thing to train men and run them through the drills. She knows how to take care of them, make sure their needs are met. She knows how to drive home the ideals of loyalty, honor, courage and strength (though clearly Curran had missed the class on honor, she thinks bitterly).

She's not sure she knows how to sentence a young man to certain death.

She supposes that's one of the differences between she and Taylor. Deep down in her soul, she's still troubled by the perceived sins committed during the war. She's made reasonable peace with them, learned to live with them, but she also spends little time dwelling on them. Here, in Terra Nova, she's happy to instead indulge in peacekeeping as opposed to life taking.

Nathaniel, on the other hand, seems to understand the darkness of mankind in a very deep and almost elemental way. If he's sweated the lives he's taken in the name of war, he's given very little indication of it. When he speaks of the past (as long as he avoids mentioning his fallen wife), there's no bitterness in his tone.

It was what it was for him. He accepts it as part of what has brought him to where he is now, and he makes no apologies for that. She envies him it even as she's not sure she'll ever be able to completely emulate it.

What she knows for a fact is that it is that simple acceptance of himself that makes him a good leader, someone that she will always follow anywhere.

Everywhere.

Always.

And for her, maybe that's enough.

-Fin.