Chapter Text
"Colonel!"
Who's calling? He can't see straight. His body feels heavy.
Miles realizes he's choking, but he can also smell... everything. The forest. The plants, big leaves and small leaves. Yesterday's rain, filling the air with the perfume of fruits and fungus. Gunpowder.
It all burns the same in his nose and throat.
Why can't he breathe? He lifts his hand to his face: no exopack. Then the side of his head — wet with blood and skin, sharp with broken pieces of glass and metal.
A pair of hands comes in to hold his face.
"I got you, sir. Just breathe."
The smudged visor of a mask veils his vision just before the world goes dark.
So much for a good first day on Pandora.
Miles hasn't checked his watch since before eclipse. Does it matter what time it is? He doesn't want to know how long he... How long he was...
Fuck.
In the washracks, he hurls his watch at the wall. It cracks against the tile and lands on floor with a wet plop. Tail risen, fangs bared at no-one, the Recombinant catches his reflection on a metal divider. It's distorted. But he can still see everything he doesn't want to see. He's not as big as he used to be. Recovery had lost him a little muscle. His mind takes inventory against his will.
Chest: scratched. Cheek bone: slightly puffy, dark. Lower lip: cracked with dried blood. Eyes: bloodshot.
He turns slightly and catches a glimpse of the fresh red bite-mark on his shoulder.
Quaritch retches over a drain, his hand slipping on the dewy wall of the shower. Not much comes out, but his body wants so badly to purge something, anything, that it goes on for several distressing minutes.
He's drenched in sweat by the time it passes. His legs already felt wobbly, but now they're trembling.
As foul as it is, even Na'vi bile doesn't erase the taste of tobacco from his mouth.
The next few days are foggy, like he's stuck in a neglected fish tank.
Sometimes he finds himself on guard duty, unsure of when he clocked in. The other Recoms are armed, but he's still on probation, so he stands around mainly as an intimidating prop. Sometimes he's back in his bunk, awakened by shivering dreams of the ocean or the sound of his teammates frotting.
Despite keeping his head down, keeping to his duties, he hasn't gotten any of the soldiers to stop sneering at him. One day, right before inspection, there's a dead stingbat under his pillow. He doesn't confront anyone over it. Fuck, he misses having his own quarters.
The major has been attending meetings or off on escort assignments with a few of the others, in a different sector of Bridgehead, or off-site entirely. Miles has seen him briefly around the Recombinant barracks, when they're all in a big group awaiting the week's or day's tasks. Only flashes of his eyes, his uncaring blinks, his relaxed mouth remain accessible to Quaritch's memory after the moment passes. Often he can hardly remember who he gets scheduled with and has to check his datalogs repeatedly.
Somehow, life has just gone on, even with his scratches and bruises still visible. Like nothing had happened. Some part of him keeps wondering if he imagined it. It feels so far away, yet he's still sore. Still feels hot breath on his ear.
The vomiting has let up, but only a little. Even filtered water for swallowing antibiotics doesn't always want to stay down and he's fallen behind.
He comes back to his body sitting at a table one morning, hardly recalling getting his food. He knows he got up, did his early tasks, and came here but it's all... watery. Smudged. Auto-pilot.
What's wrong with him? He's always had a sharp mind. It's how he got to where he is in life.
Where he is...
He looks around. The mess hall almost looks like the one his unit spent time in. Not as clean and fancy out at this corner of Bridgehead, but practical just the same. What hasn't changed is that the Recombinants have their own seating to accommodate their size. Or maybe to keep them separate from the human soldiers. Like a fucking feeding area.
When Spider had first tagged along, he sat with them, to many squints and stares. Kid was used to being around Na'vi-sized furniture and tools, but once they were out in the wilderness, he'd snorted at the sight of Quaritch trying to eat roasted teylu with a giant metal fork. An early Na'vi cultural lesson: "You have fingers, idiot. You don't have to stab everything."
Miles sits alone, tired, sore, and uninterested in his rations despite feeling like his gut has a black hole in it. In his tray sits pale nutrient packets, bone-dry bread, fake berry juice, and a sealed bag of medication for his lungs. He thinks of the yovo fruits he'd stashed in Cupcake's gear several months ago. He coughs and gags a little. Even the memory of a pleasant flavor doesn't relax his throat.
He's so lost in thought he doesn't notice anyone has approached until he's surrounded on three sides at the table. A Recom bumps his shoulder, far too close, as she makes a show of peering at Quaritch's untouched tray.
"No bueno, someone doesn't like his Meow Mix."
"I'll take that," another says, reaching over to snag his juice. A third steals his bread. The first treats herself to the squishy bag of protein, tearing at it with fangs.
"Don't look like happy pills," one of them says when they hold up the medicine.
Miles stays quiet, taking shallow breaths. Reminding himself he's being watched. His fingers curl around the edges of the now empty tray.
The one with the bread takes a messy bite, his eyebrow tattoo distorting as he chews with his whole face. "Fucker kept me up all night hacking up hairballs. You hear that shit?"
"Yeah, fuckin' nasty," one replies. "Didn't know the RDA was running a shelter for sick pussies."
"Right? Bullshit."
Quaritch inhales slowly through his nose, chewing his cheek. The woman gnoshing protein crushes the plastic loudly, sharpening the intensity of his tension.
"Got too used to eating dung beetles out there, man?"
"Nah." The one on his right reaches down, grabbing the end of Quaritch's twitching tail like it's a toy. "I know morning sickness when I see it."
Miles feels the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prick up and he can't stop what happens next.
As tired as he is, it takes only a swift movement to bash the other clone in the face with the tray. The one with the undercut stands, cursing, and launches himself over the table to tackle Quaritch to the ground. Then the woman pounces and the rest of the table erupts.
The commotion can be heard down the corridor. Humans come running to see—a tangle of snarling and hissing, swinging fists and flailing tails.
"Fucking cats," someone says, still eating while they watch.
Before security has to resort to stun sticks, a piercing whistle rings out in the mess hall.
A few of the Recoms scramble to their feet, revealing three more at the bottom of the pile. Miles has someone in a headlock while himself caught in the same position. He's dropped as soon as his opponents realize what's going on.
He holds his rebreather to his face and looks up dizzily to see the searing stare of Major Dietrich.
The stethoscope is cold against his chest. He coughs but doesn't flinch, feeling it only briefly before thoughts melt his body away.
Does he even remember... after? Sensations float to the surface in jagged pieces, like the debris of a shipwreck. Hard to grasp long enough to examine, but sharp enough to hurt.
The stethoscope is on his back now.
Lips kissing his shaking shoulders.
His heartrate picks up. Large gloved hands feel along his collar.
His tail being gingerly slipped back through the hole in his pants.
His tail taps against the wall. Neck gently palpated. His ears pin back.
The cuffs on his wrists replaced by hands, rubbing over the marks left behind.
His stomach knots up. Someone's talking.
Simon whispering something as he helped him stand. What had he said?
"Knock it off."
Miles blinks and realizes the low sound he hears is his own growl. He stops, coughing mostly out of embarrassment (but he'll never admit it), catching the annoyed expression of the Recom in front of him.
His RDA-mandated Recombinant handler. Conservator Tyler Pierce, they'd called him. Conservator, like Quaritch is an asset to be maintained. He supposes he is. The question that bounced around his head at first was: Why is this handler a Recom too? The others are human. The size and strength would make his job easier if things got out of hand, that's for certain. Maybe it's a psychological play. Easier to get compliance when both parties are striped. Quaritch can't psych him out with wide cat eyes and a fanged smile like he can the tiny humans.
But just who the fuck is this guy? Quaritch hadn't known him as a human. Not that he knew all of the others, or the major, for that matter. The conservator is clearly recognizable as military by posture alone... But something is off about him.
Conservator... He and Lyle had learned a little about his role while they waited in orbit.
“So like a shrink? In case we freak out about our weird junk or what?” Wainfleet had asked, gauze up his nose from the reunion punch. Miles hadn't yet apologized properly, still reeling from being blue, but he'd at least insisted on helping him clean up (as soon as they'd gotten him pants). Lyle just seemed happy to see him, that smile going up to his eyes just as it always did.
“Guessin' they're more than that,” Quaritch had responded, skipping down a couple of pages and rewinding the orientation video.
He watches as the Recom opens a pack full of supplies. He has emergency sedatives on hand, no doubt. But Miles isn't about to test that hypothesis. So he lets himself be poked and prodded, touching his cracked watch to distract himself. The conservator resumes the check-up by shining light in his eyes and ears, inspecting his teeth and gums, and examining the state of his neural queue, much to Quaritch's discomfort. Pierce lowers his hands, peeling off the large latex gloves and tossing them in the bin next to him.
Miles watches him type on a datapad while he sips from his rebreather. In and out...
They wouldn't need handlers like this, he'd thought. He'd trusted his team. They were ready to get the job done. Luckily things had gone smoothly enough at Bridgehead, in the beginning. The labcoats taught them about their bodies, put them through the necessary exertion tests and checkups to make sure they were good to roll out. They adjusted surprisingly well to their new lives before the time came to begin their hunt.
But they were still fresh out of the tube. Being dead for fifteen years isn't something you reconcile overnight.
Breathe, Miles. Four-counts.
Still, he'd had a mission. It felt good to be called on again. It also felt good to fantasize about sinking his teeth into violent revenge against Jake Sully. Maybe that's what made it so easy to push everything else aside.
And when the kid came along, he had something new to focus on entirely.
He's brought out of his breathing exercise by the crackle of the conservator's comms. "Copy that," he says after pressing it, then turns his attention back to Quaritch. “You've lost weight since our last appointment."
No response.
"Taking your medication twice a day?" He swipes his datapad to a Recombinant medical chart with too many notations. Miles looks away, answering with a non-answer. Pierce sighs warily, pointing at the tablet. "Your chest still needs time. But it won't get better if you skip doses. Unless you're trying to get back to the infirmary, stay on top of it."
The infirmary almost sounds better than the barracks. Quaritch glances at the camera in the corner of the room.
“If you're done with the chart, dismiss me,” he says, voice low.
The conservator crosses his arms, ignoring his demand. “This has to go on record. The fight.“ He motions vaguely at nothing, then pointedly to Miles' still-bruised cheek, very obviously older than today's brawl. “I'll do you a favor and not ask about that one.”
Quaritch frowns into the rebreather, glaring at the wall. “Fine. Dismiss me."
"That's not how this works. You know that."
Miles gives him a dirty look now, the same kind of face he makes every time they get to this part. The fucking talking. "There's nothin' to say. It was just a fight." His frown is so forced it wrinkles his nose. "Pent-up energy. You know how soldiers get."
The handler is unconvinced, pushing his hair back in frustration. "Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out every time a Recom gets stitches? You left holes in someone's arm."
Quaritch rolls his eyes. "You want me to say it won't happen again? 'Cause I can't make that promise."
"I want you to tell me what happened, Miles."
The former colonel stares. And then realizes he's staring. He shifts on sore sit bones while looking at the datapad in the conservator's hand. Having any incidents on file within his first few weeks back isn't a good look. Ardmore could throw him back in a cell at any moment. Hell, she's more likely to take him out back and shoot him for all the billions he's cost the RDA.
He can't... say anything else. He can't add anything more to the growing list of reasons he's a fuck-up.
"I know..." Another sigh, this time sounding almost like the conservator cares. "... integrating into a new team can be difficult. It is for anyone."
New team...
Quaritch thinks of hunting hexapedes with Z-Dog. How Mansk had listened eagerly, knife in hand, while Spider taught them which parts were edible, and which to return to Eywa. They'd humored him mostly so he wouldn't "accidentally" tell them the wrong berries were safe.
That's his team. Was his team.
He'd lost countless soldiers in his career. Every one of them had hurt in their own way. But something else hurts now, something he can't figure out. Something eating at him, something wrong.
"We done?" he asks, down-curved mouth barely moving.
The conservator exhales out of his nose, tapping a few times on the chart and giving up for now.
"Get some steam in the showers, it'll do your lungs some good," he advises, left ear flicking in displeasure. He gives a final stern look to his asset. "Don't be late again or I'm going to start marking it."
He'd long gotten used to Pandora's day and night cycles, only now he has the right biology.
Quaritch adjusts the rebreather pack on his belt, making his way to where he's stationed for the afternoon. He's on guard duty, then he has a thankfully long, long break before his next shift. He's on night patrol with... shit. The Recom he bit. Fuck everything.
The conservator's a hack if he expects Miles to just take it every time those vermin fuck with him. He may not be human or a colonel anymore, but he's Miles Quaritch. He's going to earn back respect around here. He'll show Ardmore that it was just a blip. Bad luck. If he can't complete his task, what is he here for?
His body reacts to the scent of tobacco before he realizes it, chest tightening in an instant. His CO is walking next to him, stride strong.
"With me," Simon says, too friendly for an order that doesn't bode well for Quaritch.
They pass workers preparing a payload. Miles tries to say something; he has a shift starting soon, he can't. He wants to go the other way, anywhere else. His throat is locked, pulse rushing against his ears. Before he knows it, he's rounding a corner behind the major. He watches him swipe entry on a door but stays frozen in place outside of it.
Simon turns his body in the dim doorway, kuru swinging lazily behind him like a chain. Miles can't explain it, but there's a threat in that soft smile so clear that his commanding officer doesn't even need to speak it.
He enters, standing numbly while he hears Simon press a few keys to shut the door. The noise of the corridor outside is instantly muffled. A light strip flickers somewhere. Where are they? He looks up at the rows of shelves. Before he can react to his realization, there's a hand compressing the base of his queue. He growls in pain, feet barely keeping up as he's forcefully backed up into a corner, right under the strobing light.
"Trying to make my team look bad?" Major Dietrich asks, voice smooth and controlled.
"Tell your mangy strays to get off my back," Miles responds through teeth, face scrunched, holding onto the arm scruffing him.
Simon's eyebrows relax adoringly. "A bitch like you could use a good hazing. Maybe I'll give them a few tips."
Miles snarls loudly and the other Recom promptly smacks a hand over his brazen mouth. The ring on Dietrich's pinky finger stings coldly against the pink underside of Quaritch's nose.
"I'll march your ass straight to Ardmore." His tail sweeps high, daring Miles to try him.
The former colonel forces himself to quiet into a low, dying growl. The buzzing of the flickering light makes his ear twitch and he looks down, yielding shamefully to his superior.
Satisfied, the major removes his hand from Quaritch's mouth, but keeps contact. He just barely touches that cheek, where the bruise is fading. Then his hand slides down, ghosting over neck and clavicle. Quaritch watches him in silence, feeling for a moment like he's in a holovid. Like each glowing dot on the major's face is pixelated. He pulls the strap of Miles' tank top aside to peer curiously at the bite mark visible just over the top of his blue shoulder. A thumb brushes over the still-healing skin, tracing where his fangs had punctured enough to draw blood.
The shadows cast by Simon's handsome eyelashes flicker under the busted light strip. He cuts his gaze back to Miles, yellow eyes flashing with the sudden contraction of pupils.
No—
Quaritch's breathing hitches as he tries to move away from the shelf behind him, away from the man in front of him, away from the contact. He looks toward the door with wide eyes.
"No," he says out loud, voice thick. Neurons sluggish, limbs going cold. "Sir." He tries to correct, but he's barely able to speak.
Like a switch being flipped, his body takes over. Quaritch fights for as long as he can. Simon lets him spin his wheels until he's completely out of gas, left panting in his grasp. Items knocked off of shelves is all he accomplishes in the end.
Simon is behind him now, holding their bodies together with an ease that makes Miles feel—small. One hand on his neck, the other on his thigh. Both give a hungry squeeze. Simon's cheek is right up against his face, nudging him far too tenderly while Miles struggles to catch his breath.
"Can't get you off my mind, kitten," Simon says, almost a whisper, not reacting to the way his prey tries to jerk away.
The hand on his neck releases pressure, but the one on his thigh leaves to slide up under his tank top. The major spreads his fingers over Quaritch's abdomen, caressing upward briefly, reuniting with his skin, his muscles, as if he just can't go another day without a hit. Simon doesn't linger though, moving on to loosening those pants just enough to slip his hand inside.
"Wait—" Miles rasps.
This isn't happening. It can't be happening again.
Simon sighs into Miles' neck the moment his fingertips find that impossibly soft little vulva. Delicate, warm under his hand, a precious secret only he knows about. For a moment he's silent, wordless, like he's lost in a fond memory. He pets pussy with such sweet affection that Miles' tail coils like a drowning worm between their bodies.
"Knew you were gonna be a problem," Simon rumbles against the shoulder he'd left his mark on. The CO kisses him under an ear, teasing the swelling thimble of Quaritch's member between his fingers. The former colonel's pelvis jumps back from the touch, just as sensitive as before.
"Stop," he hears himself say through labored breath. His body aches, starved of fuel and rest. Miles pushes with one hand, pulls with the other, but Dietrich is solid as a mountain.
"You need a reminder of how this works?"
Oh, hell.
The major rubs him in fast, hard circles. Twisting his legs doesn't stop it, but it's not as if Miles can just stand still either. Simon's hand is persistent, steady, and good. So good Quaritch is biting his lip to muffle the deep groans that arise from him like demons trying to claw their way out. It feels so good he's sure he's close to pissing himself when Simon's fingers slow to a stop and slide lower to sweep along his twitching entrance. Miles isn't even fully unsheathed yet but he's slick enough to coat the major's fingers.
"Doesn't take long," the bastard comments, unphased by his soldier's humiliated growl.
Quaritch hisses pathetically when the first finger pushes in, earning a warning neck squeeze that makes him see spots. The second finger has his ears drop down so tiny they almost vanish against his head.
"I should talk to Ardmore anyway," Simon says into his ear, moving fingers in and out slowly, delighting in each little quiver of muscle that follows. "Thank her in person for letting me have you all to myself."
Quaritch's enraged snarl is cut off by the major's hot mouth over his. Dietrich kisses like he's trying to suffocate him, snuff him out, take from him until there's nothing left. Miles controls himself enough not to bite, but he huffs and gasps for air every time he surfaces, growing lightheaded—All while squirming on the fingers driving into him faster and deeper by the minute. He's caught in a storm, knocked about between cruel waves of breathlessness and building pressure.
Suddenly, both sets of ears flick toward the door. Passing machinery and voices rise. For a hushed moment, the only sound is the wetness of cunt being worked hard from the inside.
Coast clear, Simon tilts Miles' head back, keeping his lips on his jaw. He growls something Miles can't quite hear and suddenly stops pumping with a harsh upward jerk of his hand. The recoil hits like a thunderclap, making Quaritch squeeze desperately, pleasurably around Dietrich's fingers. He tries to swallow the foul swear that comes out of him, but only chokes on it pitifully and crumbles into stunned groaning.
"Mmhm," Simon hums, tasting a tear-stained cheek before resuming fucking his prey on his hand. The major is focused, stroking vigorously, stalking after his prize like a beast in the forest. "Come on..."
Miles wishes he were dead. Really dead.
Every time Simon's voice vibrates against him, every time he feels himself clench around those firm fingers wringing heaven from so deep inside.
He can feel something happening, like a fault line beginning to wobble underneath him.
At some point he stops trying to pull that arm away and instead holds onto Simon for dear life when his legs lose themselves to shaking. The harder his pelvis squeezes, the more Simon nuzzles him, murmurs to him in a way that tickles his ear, flushing his face anew, wetting the tip of his stiff dick inside his pants.
He must have also begun to make more noise because Simon's other hand is over his mouth again, dulling the volume of his cries. The tipping point feels like it happens in slow-motion, with Miles instinctively pushing back against Simon's sturdy body for support.
And just like that, the fault line slips. Somewhere inside, he's fallen into the chasm.
Miles comes crashing down on his commander's strong hand, again and again. His vision is blurred, he can see only the annoying stutter of the light above them as he's wrung out by strong internal pulsations.
"Good..." Simon praises, lazily kissing him on the neck, savoring the frantically throbbing pulse under his soft lips. "That's it, kitten..."
The major doesn't let up just yet, milking such a sweet climax even after Miles is unable to do much more than gasp for air and shake like a leaf. He eventually tires out, and like a plug's been pulled, he sinks down onto Simon's hand as his exhausted knees buckle under him. But he doesn't fall, held up against the stable body behind him.
"I've got you," he thinks he hears Simon say when the hand leaves his mouth, swapped for his rebreather. The room spins. He feels warm wetness being wiped against his abdomen. "Breathe."
Miles blinks away the remaining build-up in his eyes, suddenly remembering the smell of the hospital at Hell's Gate. The sting of bandages being reapplied with fresh ointment. The looks of all above and below him when he first debuted his new scars. Scars he no longer has.
He finds himself being sat down on a crate, his attacker tending to the straps of his mask. Miles stares. And stares. Then his eyes snap wide. He bursts in rage, making a lunge for the major's throat, but finds both his wrists snatched in a fraction of a second. He's too weak, too dazed to rip them back.
"Really?" Simon questions, indignant but—excited. "Fuck. They said you were concussed but looks like Sully really did knock some shit loose in there."
"You can't—do this—!“ Quaritch hisses riskily inside his rebreather, twisting away from Simon when he's yanked close again.
But the sound of static stops the major before he can punish Miles. He pins him in place with only a sharp, daring glare as he lets go of one wrist to press his comms.
"On my way," he says to the other end, and lets his toy jerk his remaining hand free. He points a finger authoritatively. "Get to your post."
Quaritch coughs in the mask. "Fuck—you!”
But Simon just tilts his head thoughtfully. "You're off night watch," he states, standing upright and adjusting his black bracelet, then his earpiece.
"What—?" Miles is winded, wet, still hard, pissed off, violated, humiliated again.
"You need some work." Simon doesn't even look at him, fixing his own clothes, smoothing out any trace of exertion. "You're spending the night with me."
"Like hell I am!" Quaritch's tail whacks against the shelf behind him, raised sharply.
Simon doesn't hiss, growl, or even whip his tail back. He's calm, still making himself presentable. Miles can't stop looking at his eyelashes. He realizes only then that he's shivering on the crate.
"If you're not outside my door by nightfall, I'll come for you."
Miles is dreaming, surely. All of this has to be a dream.
"And I'll fuck you wherever I find you."
But the major's lips feel so real.
"Don't keep me waiting."