A/N: I'm subscribing to the theory that if I kill Wash enough in fic she won't die on the show. And for all you panicking Wash fans out there I've got a…motivational speech type thing for you at the end. If you are not a panicking Wash fan feel free to skip my insane rambling. I ramble profusely. The note here is actually LESS rambling than it was before and that's saying something.

Desperate

Taylor is an active leader. He applies to the notion that if it's something he wouldn't do himself his men shouldn't have to either. No task is too small, no mission too dangerous. He would willing go through hell for any of his men and, in return, they will do much the same. It's loyalty incarnate, a leader incarnate.

So when he asks Wash to investigate one of their research facilities near the edge of their territory, she doesn't so much as ask a question. Simply nods, her dark ponytail bobbing behind her, and flashes that little grin of hers. It's the one that says she'll have everything cleared up before sundown. Shannon enters the commander center just as they are finishing up and she catches the lapel of his jacket to pull him along after her. His eyes widen but he follows through with the movement, trotting after her.

He doesn't pretend to understand their kinship. Perhaps it has something to do with similarity, birds of a feather and all that nonsense. But Shannon doesn't return to the office and when he hears the roar of a rover a moment later Taylors assumes the man has simply tagged along after his lieutenant.

It's a routine task, the one he's sent her on, one he would frequently see to himself. But he'd woken up with a sharp pain in his side and a dreadful sort of melancholy plaguing his spirits. He couldn't explain either. Both pass before he's finished his shower, the warmth of the water cleaning them away like so much filth. The dread had returned the moment he'd entered his office.

Taylor's never been a superstitious man. He doesn't believe in luck, he certainly doesn't believe in fate. But you don't live a long time as a soldier without learning to trust your instincts. His instincts told him not to go on that patrol. So he sent Wash, his best, his most valuable, his most precious, lieutenant with her dark hair and triumphant grin, eyes still sparkling.

Hours pass. She doesn't call. Shannon doesn't call.

It's near midnight when he receives a garbled distress signal, Shannon's voice cracking over the air waves. He nearly knocks his comm. unit of the desk in his haste to reach it.

"Repeat, Shannon."

"Taylor? Oh thank god. We need a rover out here, now. We're about a…" there's the sound of something scratching, labored breathing as he shifts something. The comm. unit falls out of his hand with a loud thump. From the sound Jim doesn't move to retrieve it immediately, something else having caught his attention. The rustling of fabric, a moan. Shannon lets out a miserable plea, barely more than a whisper, "Shit, Wash, just stay with me, alright, stay with me. Come on, girl."

Her voice is weak, full of obvious pain and slurred as if she's speaking through a mouthful of liquid (blood, his mind screams, and Taylors halfway to a rover before he can think better of it), "Not a goddamn girl, Shannon."

"Unless you stay with me you are."

She replies with a half choked sound, caught between a laugh and a sob.

"Shannon, repeat, need your location." Because he's already driving, even if he doesn't have a direction. Wash is out there, wounded, he doesn't give a damn where she is. He'll find her. He always finds her. It echoes through his head like some infernal mantra, over and over. He'll find her because he has to, because she's out there because of him. Out there because he let himself get a little worried, had a bad feeling.

The dread re-intensifies. Because it had been for Wash, hadn't it? Not for him but her. It doesn't occur to him, even for a moment, that it might be ill advised to leave the colony. That he should bring medical help. She's out there, she dying, and he can't live with himself if he's responsible.

"Yes, sir. We're not far out. Managed to drag ourselves back, um…about a mile out, down the road."

"In route."

"Sooner the better, Taylor, don't mean to worry you but uh…we've been better."

Hell if that isn't the understatement of the century. Taylor calls the medical center, orders (not asks) they have a unit waiting for them at the gate. If they aren't back within the next ten minutes or so they have orders to come out searching.

The rover comes to an abrupt halt the instant he catches sight of them. Shannon is hobbling down the road, blood dripping down his face. Wash is in his arms, the majority of her body limp, and he doesn't need to see her wounds to know their severity. Under her own power she'd never permit such a thing. With nothing more than an ounce of strength she'd insist on walking on her own two feet.

The dread becomes fear, irritation with himself, irritation with her. Something like hopelessness gnaws at him. They've tied a makeshift tourniquet on her upper thigh, blood seeping down the remains of her pant leg. He's running towards them before the vehicle even stops, doesn't bother to look where it ends up. He's found her, he's found her, she'll be alright, he's found her, over and over again in his head.

Shannon doesn't even bother flashing him a smile; he doesn't have the energy for it. The man known for his cheerful disposition is serious faced, clutching the woman in his arms tightly to his chest. Occasionally, he'll glance down, give her a squeeze, ask her something, anything, to keep her talking. Sometimes, she'll groan a response; bury her face in the blood soaked fabric of his jacket. More recently, she remains silent.

"What happened?" Jim surrenders Alicia willing to his waiting arms, almost sagging in relief. His own side is bleeding spectacularly and he winces as the skin pinches. Wash simply sags, her face unnaturally pale, hair plastered to her damp forehead. Taylor tries to ignore the gore marring her features.

"Carnotaurus," Shannon manages, gasping from the effort. He leans on his knees, trying to catch another breath. It aches, it's laborious, but he can manage. He has to manage. "Caught us off guard. Flipped the rover." He pauses, face contorting in pain, "its tail got Wash on the backswing, she went flying. She's…" he glances between his obviously distraught commander and the woman desperately clinging to life in his arms, "Doing better."

It's the single greatest lie Shannon's ever told. They're lucky there's even this much of her left. Her ribs are broken, her skin bruised, bleeding from multiple contusions. She's a bloody mess, a rag doll given rapidly dwindling life.

"Think you can drive?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then step to it, soldier. Med unit's waiting at the gate, get them out here." They can't risk jostling Wash's wounds any further. They can't simply shove her into the rover. They have to wait, deal with this hateful uncertainty.

He doesn't wait for Shannon's response. The other man doesn't offer one. He's running before the sentence is finished, barreling towards Terra Nova at a speed most would consider reckless. Wash tends to inspire that in her friends.

The woman brushes a finger against his chest. It's curled in a manner that suggests she'd like to burrow it in the fabric of his shirt but lacks the energy. Taylor feels a sharp stab of pain (guilt) when he looks down at her. She's watching him, wonderful amber eyes near delirious; she should be unconscious but holds on to life. Holds on to it desperately; she's a fighter, one of his men, and his men do not surrender.

She tries to smile, the expression impossibly wobbly, "Hey."

"Hey," Taylor manages to kneel without jostling her to much, settles her across his lap. It leaves her head resting more comfortably against his shoulder as he strips off his coat. The fabric is immediately rent, makeshift bandages taking shape. "How you holding up, Wash?"

"I've had better days."

He chuckles (it's a nervous thing, hardly in character for him), hauls up the right side of her shirt. Shannon had already divested her of her ruined armor. The black fabric of her tank is nothing short of soaked, clinging to skin and the wound beneath. He pushes it up near her breasts, winces when the laceration does not end. It runs to her hip, up over her ribs. The blood vessels there are broken; flesh an angry purple black across the entirety of her stomach as if she'd been thrown some distance before colliding with a less yielding surface.

"Does it hurt?" It's perhaps the single stupidest question he's ever asked. Of course it hurts; the entirety of her torso is bruised, the gash snaking across her abdomen. He holds the cloth over her side, applies what he hopes is the appropriate amount of pressure. Wash rests her hand over his, chuckling to herself. The sound is bitter, hollow, not yet tinged with surrender but coming dangerously close.

"Only when I breathe, sir."

"You sure as hell better not stop breathing." It carries the intonation that, if she does, he'll be coming after her to kick her ass. He'll rant and rave and send her back to boot camp. It is rage to mask fear, to hide the fact that he's terrified he is yet again holding the body of the woman he's loves as she dies.

"Yes, sir," but she seems less convinced.

He counts down the minutes in his head. The minutes until Shannon returns, the minutes she has left. Her breathing is shallow, labored. At times it seems she's stopped altogether. During these dark patches he'll squeeze her shoulders, burry his nose in her hair.

"Come on, Wash. Come on."

Her laugh transforms into a hacking cough, "Goddamn, you and Shannon keep telling me that. Jesus, have a little faith." She silent another long moment before she turns to the side, spits a mouthful of bloody. Their eyes meet, dark and pained to match pale blue and desperate. Havealittlefaith, she says, becauseI'msureashellrunningout.

She's dying because of him (though neither is surprised by this; ultimately they've always known this would happen, that one of them would die for the other), dying because he suffered a feeling, a moment of dread. Dying because he was too damn lazy to do his own job.

So Taylor simply holds her, holds her because there's nothing else he can do. Holds her because he's partially responsible for this. Hold her because he can't bring himself to let her go.

Shannon arrives ten minutes later, jumps out of the rover with the frenetic medical staff chasing behind him. He doesn't care about his own wounds, he's simply desperate to get back to his friends.

He comes to a stop, perhaps twenty paces a way. He holds up a hand to stop the doctors.

Wash is limp, her eyes closed, all color faded or fading from her once beautiful features. Their leader, the stoic, the lauded, Taylor is entirely still, his face buried in the junction between her shoulder and neck. He's clutching her desperately to him, a hand fisted in her hair, another around her waist. Desperate.

Desperate, because he ordered her out there. Desperate, because she has to breathe, she needs to breathe…

Desperate, because he never had the opportunity (never took the opportunity) to tell her what she meant to him.

Desperate, because this is the second time he's left holding the lifeless body of the woman he loves.

Sky: Dear fellow Bamf fans worried for our favorite adorable BAMF's life, feel free to vent your fears to me. I will reassure you reasons as to why she shall survive the season finale and set your hearts more at ease. I also have chocolate milk. And how can you be worried when you have a glass of chocolate milk?

But seriously, you're making ME be the voice of reason. If something happens, feel free to come after me in a crazy lynch mob. Also. Fix fic. If what we're terrified of happens there will be novel length fix fic up in this joint. Promising that now. But I don't think we have anything to be worried about. Just relax, just breathe, and enjoy this complimentary group hug between a virtual Wash and Taylor and yours truly.

*Initiate group hug now*