Author's Note #1: Written for the tn-ficchallenge's Holiday Fic Battle at LiveJournal and makesometime's prompt: They're deep in Somali territory, the days have bled into each other so much that she's lost track of time, she's tired and frustrated and wants to be alone. Until, that is, Nathaniel Taylor turns up at her door with a bottle of scotch and a "Merry Christmas, Wash."
Author's Note #2: MERRY CHRISTMAS, BAMFs! Originally I had planned to let the story take place only in 2137 but after the finale, I had to fix it. Hopefully it is not too unbelievable and not too OOC. :D
Disclaimer: I own neither the show nor the characters. I don't earn any money with this piece. I just do it for fun.

Somalia, Christmas Eve, 2137

War is an ugly business.

Once it had been about honor, about protecting and saving people, liberating them from dictators and tyranny. Now soldiers are sent to invade other nations' countries to secure Earth's last resources, to gain power over the planet itself.

Alicia's lips twist into a cynical smile. As a soldier, she is not entitled to have an opinion. As a soldier, she is an emotionless machine, following orders without questioning them, but as a human being (and despite her years in the service, she has never forgotten that she is), she has grown tired of the war.

Days bleed into weeks, then into months, until all that is left is a maelstrom of blood, pain and loss. It eats your soul, like a parasite, deeper and deeper, and if you're not careful, it's going to kill you. Either you are weak and break under the pressure like a twig under a boot or you're strong and battle your demons, one day after the other.

She has never been one to give up easily, she wouldn't have become a combat medic otherwise, and most days she wins the fight against the darkness. Some days, however, the lure of simply succumbing is strong, mind and body arching, and even hardened soldiers asks themselves why they go through hell and back, again and again.

Today is one of those and Alicia has never felt more worn out than she does right now. It's Christmas Eve but there is nothing festive or happy about it, not for her. They're stuck in the middle of enemy territory in the dense forest of Somalia, waiting for new orders from headquarters, waiting to hear if the war will finally be over or if the ceasefire will crumble as it has so often.

Waiting is the worst part. Waiting means, you cannot escape your past, it will come and visit you, haunt you, like the ghosts from that old Christmas tale. It means, you start thinking about the choices you've made in your life (the day she set foot into the recruitment center in Houston), the people you've left behind, family (she still remembers her mother's tears), friends (her best friend died in an attack of the ECO-terrorists) and comrades (first Raiker, then Mendelson and Pipes, Wallace,...). Most of those thoughts you manage to lock away again, years of practice make it easy, but what is hanging over your head like the goddamn sword of Damocles, is the question if all of this is really worth it (when it comes down to it, it is not but she is a soldier and is not allowed to have an opinion).

A shout somewhere in the camp pulls her from the abyss of her mind and Alicia blinks once, twice, to clear the stinging from her eyes. When the world comes back into focus, she finds the cloth she used to polish her blade with in pieces in her right hand. She has been so lost in thought, she hasn't noticed that way it ripped over the ridges and edges of her knife.

Tired and frustrated with just about everything, she flings the rag into a corner with more force than necessary and runs a hand through her tangled hair, still damp from the shower earlier, but the tension in her muscles doesn't ease up and with a defeated sigh she slumps back onto her cot.

She sheathes her knife before bracing her elbows on her knees, propping her chin up on her right fist, her left hand brushing against a strand of hair that has fallen over her shoulder and she unconsciously starts winding it around her fingers as she stares into the flames of the campfire in her tent, trying to keep her mind blank in hope of getting at least some peace (unlikely) and quiet (maybe), if only for a short while.

For a few minutes it does work but then the flames turn into the faces of Billy and Perk, one dying from too much blood loss, the other from a punctured lung. Both had been young, not even eighteen, and all she had been able to do was watch them die, slowly, painfully. They could have made it, if the ceasefire had been declared a few hours earlier. None of her fellow soldiers, laughing and celebrating their own war zone Christmas outside, had been present and as much as she wants to resent them for finding a little bit of happiness, she just can't bring herself to do it. But that doesn't mean she plans on joining them.

Rubbing her eyes, Alicia takes a deep breath and considers picking up Dallas' Sudoku pad (that would definitely knock her out) when his voice, deep and quiet, interrupts her swirling thoughts.

"Hey, Wash."

Across the fire her gaze collides with his. Leaning against the pole next to the open flap, Taylor is nothing more than a shadow in the night, watching her with those piercing, pale eyes.

"Commander." Her hands drop to the cot, closing around the edge as she sits up straight. "Did something...?"

"No, still no news." Pushing off the pole, he ducks inside and enters her tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him, and comes to a stop on the other side of the fire ring. The faint sound of glass against glass draws her eyes to his right side, the amber liquid inside the bottle he's holding shimmering in the shine of the flames, and she lifts an eyebrow, tilting her head questioningly.

Ignoring her wordless inquiry, Taylor continues to study her silently, his face not giving away anything. It's not the first time he's done something like that. In the years she's served with him, has been by his side, Alicia has felt his eyes on her more often than not.

It started in the jungle of Thailand, for her it was the first deployment to an active war zone, for him it almost became his final mission. They met while he was more dead than alive and she was crazy enough to try and sew him back together, despite his own medic's prognosis. During the bloody and painful operation (she uses that term very loosely), she felt his unwavering attention on her, and when she finally relented and looked up, annoyance clearly showing in her features, he had the audacity to smirk at her reaction. Rolling her eyes, she refrained from commenting on his antics and went back to closing his wound, tuning out his nonverbal but very persistent observation of her. Sixty-seven stitches later he sent his medic packing, told her it was now her job to watch his six and dragged her headlong back into the battle once more before she even had a chance to protest.

The second, third, fourth and every time after that, she simply refused to acknowledge him, denied him the satisfaction of knowing that he did effect her, in more ways than one. Sometimes Alicia caught him smirking before he turned away, other times it seemed as if he was disappointed that she didn't react. For her own good (and heart) she didn't dwell on those particular instances.

At this moment though, she cannot avoid him, he has her pinned to the spot, openly challenging her with that undefinable look. She is not going to crack, she's a soldier for Christ's sake, withstood the worst torture one can be subjected to, and even though this man, her commanding officer, has got the power to break her with just one glance, she will not fold.

It is only when Taylor quirks his lips and his eyes flicker from her face to her left hand and then back up, she notices she's been drumming a fast rhythm on the cot with her fingers for a while. Alicia stops abruptly, curls them into the soft blanket beneath and his smirk widens a fraction.

Damn. Him.

Raising her chin defiantly, she glares at him but all it earns her is a low laugh. "Busy?", he asks, nodding towards the discarded rag. The sight of it brings forth the memories again and despite the heat of the fire she feels cold all of the sudden, empty. She shrugs with feigned indifference, bents her head and focuses on the flames once more. "No, not really. Just been...thinking."

The reaction her words cause in him is one Alicia has never witnessed before. He, who has absolute control over his body and has never so much bat an eye at an explosion not three feet away, actually jerks as if her words pulled an invisible string they didn't know existed between them. It is so unexpected, so startling, that her gaze involuntarily snaps up to his and turns into a cross between alarm and surprise at what she finds in his silver-gray orbs, flashing dangerously, darkening even further when they meet hers. Taylor leaves her no time to think, moving quick and quietly around the fire ring until he's right next to her, invading her personal space.

As she tips her head back to maintain eye contact, she realizes for the first time how impossible tall, not only in the physical sense, he seems. The sheer intensity of his presence wraps around her, an odd combination of warmth and biting chill, unsettling her nerves, and she fights the urge to shiver.

"Thinking about giving up, Sergeant?" His tone is sharp, a far cry from his earlier soft one, and it seems eerily how he echoes her previous thoughts but that is what starts to give her an inkling what this is all about.

"Sir-"

"Don't. You. Dare, Wash," he whispers harshly, his voice low, barely audible over the sizzling noise of the fire. Gone is the relaxed man who entered her tent a few moments ago. Tense, body coiled like a spring, he flexes his muscles and she follows the movement from his shoulder over his bare arm down to the bottle and two glasses he's clutching in his hand before returning to his face. "I can't- Not without you- You are mine-"

She doesn't consider the possible outcome of her actions beforehand but simply acts, reaches up and tentatively closes her fingers around his left hand, clenched in a tight fist at his side. He starts at the contact but then she feels his muscles loosen up, the tension leaving his body in a rush.

"I would never leave you, Commander." Her smile is bittersweet as she gentle squeezes his hand. "Not by choice. Never by choice."

Slowly Taylor turns his hand in hers until they're palm to palm and laces their fingers. The intimacy of the gesture is not lost on her. "Neither would I, Wash."

The silence that follows their admissions is tinged with melancholy, their hearts heavy and their minds weary as they regard each other in the flickering light of the flames. It is the first time they speak aloud what they've silently agreed upon all those years ago when he chose her to fight by his side. Nothing except death would part them and while there have been some close calls, the Grim Reaper has yet to find a way to come between them.

"I'm sorry," he quietly says after a while.

"What for?" Alicia asks, curiosity lacing her voice.

"I came here to surprise you with a little Christmas Spirit and share it with you but what do I do instead? I mess it up." He looks down with such a truly miserable and contrite expression that she has to bite her lip to conceal her mirth.

"Is it a good year?"

That manages to bring the smirk back to his lips and he displays the Scotch for her to see. "Twenty-Ninety-Nine."

"Then you're forgiven." She shifts on the cot to make room for him. "Have a seat, Commander."

"You are so easy to please, Wash." Taylor chuckles, his grip on her fingers tightening for a moment before he lets go to hand her the glasses. Her fingers tingle but she ignores the immediate feeling of loss as their hands part.

"Why, thank you, sir." She bats her eyelashes at him and he shakes his head affectionately as he settles down next to her, so close, their knees are pressed against each other, bare arms brushing as he pours the drinks. When he's finished, he flashes her a grin and clinks his glass against hers.

"Merry Christmas, Wash."

She is about to reply but then he raises the glass to his lips and she forgets what she wanted to say. In the light of the fire he's all male, bathed in shades of red and orange, shadows catching the hard lines of his face. Heat surges through her, pooling deep in her belly, and her mouth is suddenly dry. The woman in her has always been aware of Taylor as a man, in the most basic sense of the word, but over time the physical attraction grew into something more. Alicia has never acted on those feeling though, she values his friendship and trust too much as to risk them over something that has no future anyway.

But tonight something is different, his and her reactions, lines are blurred, and she fights hard to control the urge to reach out and touch him. Touch him like she always wanted to, those well-defined muscles of his arm, stretching, moving beneath his skin, up to his throat, feel that strong pules beating there, to his jaw and five-o-clock shadow, then higher to his mouth and finally his eyes.

Steel-colored eyes that watch her over the rim of his glass, glittering with something dark, almost feral, and it steals the air from her lungs, she can barely breathe, her cheeks flushing hot. Taylor lowers his glass, his gaze never leaving hers, and for once Alicia takes the cowardly way out and turns away.

Closing her eyes as he starts to move, she bites her bottom lip, not wanting to watch him go, not wanting him to see her heart breaking. It's all one big mess, the best thing in her life, his friendship, blown to hell because she lost control over her libido, because she wasn't careful enough.

The air shifts around her and she stiffens, expecting him to stand up but then she gets the shock of a lifetime. An electrifying stroke of callused fingers against her cheeks, gently grasping her chin and turning her face back around. His other hand removes the glass from her and her fingers flex as she loses the last thing grounding her. Now it's just him and her.

Alicia keeps her eyes resolutely shut but then his lips brush hers and her eyes snap open. "Wash," Taylor breathes and damn him because she actually moans.

One of his hands threads through her black tresses, the other skims down her body to her hip and before she can even take a breath, he has tugged her over until she's straddling his lap. She is stunned from the sudden turn of events, shock and desire warring inside her, but then his warm hand slips beneath her tank, against the soft skin of her stomach, and she arches instinctively into his body, her hand flying to his bicep, fisting the short sleeve of his t-shirt, her other hand wrapping around his nape.

For several heartbeats they are frozen in time, staring at each other, the only sounds their heavy breathing and the crackle of the fire, its light illuminating their intertwined figures. The pounding in her ears and veins make it hard to think but with her last bit of willpower she pushes past the haze of need, longing and arousal racing through her blood.

"Sir, we can't..." The why (the military, the regulations, his wife, oh god, his wife) remains unspoken but the last is enough to clear her mind completely and Alicia tries to put distance between them but Taylor won't let her. His hold on her is unbreakable. With deliberate slowness he slides his hand to her lower spine and pulls her hips forward, solidly pressing them against his, and she chokes on her breath.

"Your wife-"

"No, Wash," he rasps lowly. "This is about us." He lightly rests his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. "I love Ayani, I do, but what I feel for you...that goes far beyond love." She can see it in his eyes, the burning there mirroring hers, that he means it, every single word, and the knowledge that she is not alone in this sends a dark thrill through her.

Tomorrow she will regret it. Come morning she will hate herself for giving in but right now she cannot find the strength to stop because tonight she can have him. This is her Christmas miracle, her little piece of heaven, in this godforsaken forest of Somalia.

And so Alicia yields to him as Taylor slowly untangles his hand from her hair, trails his fingers up her neck to her mouth and rubs his thumb across her lips. She responds, hips pressing down, and feels him fit perfectly against her, despite two pairs of layers.

With a low growl that raises goosebumps on her skin, he brings her mouth to his and there is nothing slow about their kiss. It's need, hunger, love and lust all wrapped into one and she welcomes it. She shifts against him with every touch of his hands, with every brush of his fingers, hisses as he nips at her bottom lip, gasps as he trails kisses down her neck and Taylor covers her mouth with his, gentle reminding her that she cannot make a sound.

It is her that deepens the kiss, hooks her arms around his neck for balance as she slides against him. There is nothing awkward or clumsy about them and it makes perfect sense. Years of seamless teamwork and they are so in tune with each other that it just fits they would be the same here.

Her palms follow the path her eyes traced earlier, over his arms, shoulders, down his chest, and Alicia wishes she could touch him skin to skin, but their time is running out and then he groans against her lips as he feels her nails through his shirt and she doesn't care anymore.

As she starts to grin into their kiss, he buries his hand in her hair, angling her head just right, and her mouth opens further under the pressure of his demanding lips, his tongue seeking out hers. The back of his fingers brushes the skin under her belly button as he unfastens her pants and a shudder courses through her. He twists his palm, gliding lower to her slick skin, fingers pressing against the hot bundle of nerves at her center, and Alicia whimpers. It's such a soft, feminine sound, quite unlike her, and so Taylor does it again, much firmer this time, watching from under hooded lids, filled with pride, as she flares, her body going taut, breaking their kiss to suck in much needed air.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against her mouth and it spurs her into action. With surprisingly steady hands and nimble fingers she deals with his belt and zipper, accidentally (or not so unintentionally) brushes against the hard length of him, and he grits his teeth, hips arching and eyes falling shut. When he opens them again, his gaze is hot, making her breath hitch, and in a flurry of motions they tug and push the fabric down and she has never been more thankful for those loose fitting cargo pants.

His hands stroke down her sides, holding her hips as she grasps him, guiding him, and then he's sliding inside until he's all the way in. It has never been like this with anyone else.

"Nathaniel..."

There's something akin to wonder in her voice and his head drops to her shoulder, fingers clenching and releasing (she knows she will wear shadows of finger-bruises for a week), and she can hear him panting harshly. Her eyes flutter closed as Alicia clutches his shoulders, pressing her face against the side of his head, her nose brushing his hair, inhaling the scent of earth, rain and sweat, so pure Taylor that it causes a new wave of arousal to sizzle along her nerves and she jerks, making him slide that one inch deeper, and that's all it takes.

He trusts up while pushing her down, does it again, setting a pace that is both gratifying and maddening, and then she's moving with with him, gripping his shoulders and crying out as her back bows. With every stroke their open pants scrape against her thighs but the light pain only fuels the heat spreading through her body. As she begins to shake with her climax, he cups the back of her neck, his blazing eyes focusing on her, totally and completely, and she cannot look away, her hips pushing and grinding against his until she collapses against him.

Alicia can still feel him hard inside her and when he starts to rub her slick skin in small circles once more, hips moving in slow steady pushes that burn her over-sensitive flesh, she digs her nails into his skin. It is too much.

"I can't..." A throaty plea but the way she responds, pressing herself closer, belie her words and Taylor knows it.

"Again," he commands her in a hoarse whisper and there is something primal in his gaze as he watches her coming undone a second time. He leans into her neck and sucks at the soft skin, his teeth grazing her pulse as his thumb moves more insistently against her. It's what sends her careening over the edge, her world shattering, and she dimly hears him groan as his own release follows, hands tightening almost painfully on her waist.

He gathers her to his chest as she sags weakly against him, wrapping his arms around her, her head resting on his shoulder. Alicia curls her fingers into his shirt and Taylor turns to press his lips against her hairline. They don't talk about what happened, not willing to really even think about it and all its complications, not wanting to break the spell of this moment.

The heat of the fire at her back and the warmth of him beneath her are enough to lull her and she's on the verge of dozing off when a log breaks apart, embers soaring into the air. It jostles her awake and she finally gets enough control of her body to move but his voice stops her.

"Stay."

It's just one word and yet it says so much more. He lifts her head to kiss her, long and hard, a stark contrast to the soothing hand he slides up her spine, and she loses herself in him again. When they separate, she sighs and he smirks slightly, his gaze knowing.

Taylor carefully shifts her to the side before he pulls off his shirt and crouches down in front of her. Gently he starts cleaning her and there should be embarrassment or at least she should feel uncomfortable with him doing something so intimate, personal, but there is none of it. Instead the feel of his callused fingers and the soft fabric add to the still moist heat simmering between them.

With him busy taking care of her, Alicia reaches out and touches her finger to the very center of his chest, slides it downward, tracing the long scar that marks their first meeting, until he closes his fingers around her wrist, brings it to his mouth and brushes his lips against her fingertips in a feather-like caress. It's a tender gesture, so different from the pain and hardship they both endure on a daily base, and she has never felt more loved as she does right now.

"Lie down," he tells her and she does so without thinking about it, scowling half-heartedly at him when she catches the twinkle in his eyes. Even now he leads and she follows. She jumps slightly in surprise when he slips behind her on the cot, his left arm sneaking around to her front, pulling her back against his bare chest, his warm skin meeting hers where her tank has ridden up, and she shivers at the contact.

When she turns her head, he's there, looking down at her with intense eyes. "I'm staying."

Oh. Oh. It's bordering on ridiculous that a tough soldier like her can feel so girly from such simple words but she does and she thanks the shadows that are likely hiding her blush. His breath ghosts over her temple as he leans in. "Merry Christmas, Wash."

She falls asleep to the rhythm of his heart as she lies in his arms, their linked fingers tugged under her chin and the faint light of the burned down fire covering them like a blanket.

The next morning Alicia wakes alone but her heart is no longer heavy with sorrow and yearning. Like her tent is lit by the first rays of sunlight, so is she filled with inner peace and contentment and she smiles openly. Stretching her sore muscles, she spies the Scotch Taylor left and the grin on her face widens at the sight of a new hair tie wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

No, she doesn't regret the night. And from the heated look Taylor gives her when she arrives at the command tent, her hair up in a ponytail, neither does he.

* * *

Terra Nova, Christmas Eve, 2149

It's been a month. A month since he lost Lucas. A month since he lost her because of his son.

Taylor stands on the balcony of the command center and watches the people of Terra Nova preparing for Christmas. Anyone seeing him would not guess how deep the scars are that grief and sorrow left behind. He smiles and nods where it is needed and yet he wants nothing more than to be left alone with his thoughts and memories of her.

Her black hair (wrapped around his fist as she falls apart in his arms), her amber eyes (glazed with desire and love), her wicked smile (as he arches when she brushes against him), her soft voice (that calls his name as she comes undone). It might have been only one night in reality but he has relived it every night since then in his mind.

The death of his son has cut deep but Wash's has broken him. He should have gone in and confronted Lucas, screw the risks. She always has been worth it.

With great care he pulls something from his pocket and turns it around, rubbing his thumb over its surface. Her tags and her hair tie, his gift to her, wrapped around each other. It is all that he has left of her since those damn Phoenix mercenaries took her body. His fingers close in a fist and the edges of her tags cut into his flesh but he welcomes the pain. It's all he can feel since that night.

A shout from the guards on duty calls his attention and he carefully places the items back in his pocket.

"What is it, Dunham?"

"Sixers, sir! Almost a dozen."

They are the last thing he needs but who knows what they have to offer that could be useful. With a sigh, Taylor steps down the stairs, meeting Shannon at the bottom of them, and together they move to the gate, hands on their guns. Just in case.

"It is Carter, Commander."

Shannon and he share a look that clearly says that something must have happened out there if Carter is coming to Terra Nova on his own with just as few of the Sixers. Most of them are loyal to Mira but from what Taylor can see, those are not among the group trailing behind Carter.

"Oh my god..."

"Dunham?"

"Sir, you-you might wanna take a closer look. On the, oh god, on the left side, behind Carter."

Frowning at the stammering private, Taylor uses his binoculars to find what has rattled Dunham so much. And promptly feels like the ground has opened up underneath his feet. The binoculars fall from his sudden shaky hand, clatter to the ground but he doesn't notice it. Neither does he catch the worried look Shannon sends him or how Shannon tells the guards to raise the gate.

All Taylor sees is her. Alive. Head wrapped in stained bandages and supported by a Sixer but walking, breathing and very much alive. And she's giving him a weak but decidedly Wash-like smirk as her gaze finds his.

"Commander. Shannon."

"Wash? What the hell happened?" Shannon asks and she points at Carter, who lifts an eyebrow as Shannon narrows his eyes at him. "Ask Carter. It's a long story. Let's just say, the shot was not as deadly as you thought. Gave me one hell of a headache though."

Taylor finally finds his voice and while it is raspy and low, it still holds power. "Get those people cleaned up, feed and then settled. Post guards and keep an eye on them. Interrogation can wait till tomorrow."

Carter openly smirks at the last bit but Taylor can see it in his eyes that the man is more than thankful for Terra Nova accepting them back in. He's really interested in Carter's story but right now there's something, someone, more important waiting for him.

As the Sixers are being led away, Taylor focuses completely on Wash and steps closer to her, so close he can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Without a moment's hesitation he reaches for her hand and when she weaves her fingers through his, his self-control snaps and he hauls her against him, taking her lips in a bruising kiss.

They don't hear the cheers of the crowd or how Shannon holds his wife back and tells her to "give them a moment. Or maybe two. No, make that three."

Standing in front of the colony's gate, his arms wrapped around her waist, hers around his neck, they are lost in each other. Their kiss turns slow, tender and Taylor feels her shiver as his lips gentle feather over her cheek up to the edge of the bandage. Words fail him but then again, they have always been better with actions.

When they finally separate, she smiles up at him, a true, genuine smile, and the broken pieces of his heart and soul start to mend. Wash slides one hand between his arms to cup his cheek and he turns his face into her palm willingly, his beard lightly scratching her soft skin.

"Merry Christmas, Nathaniel."

- END -