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Wash tossed and turned for many hours under his thin, scratchy blanket. His mind was weary, but his body was restless from days of inactivity. He felt like a caged animal, and his thoughts kept circling as such, back and forth within the confines of his mind. He couldn't stop the flood of memories - there was no one to privately converse with; no one to distract him from his torment. No one to break the cycle.

He had tried to be a rock - to be the careful one. To be thoughtful, soft-spoken. Considerate. Kind. Sally had always been there to support him with words of encouragement. Now he wondered if she had just been a figment of his imagination after all - his mind, trying to cope. He had tried to be good, tried to be free of sin, but the days dragged on much the same for his efforts. He tried to be brave, to accept his lot; but it was not easily won. Flashes of battle, of fog, and of strange beasts were his only mementos from this last mission. How long could they keep going like this? Was the best he could hope for the kind of peace that came with death?

With his weapon gone, he was well and truly alone - and in ways he hadn't had time to notice, before. Alone, with only the memory of happiness behind him, and tribulations ahead. It ate at his mind and kept him from his rest, and it was with a weary sigh that he finally rose from bed, donning his boots and jeans and throwing his coat over a shoulder. No need to fully dress; he was just going for a short walk. Perhaps the cool air would clear his head.

And so Wash walked, a slow, steady pace; meandering here and there. He examined his memories much as he had before - but this time, recent ones. The mission in the Sahara, the Arctic; the Horsemen Isles. There were brief moments of contentment but; for the most part, he had been merely moving from one disaster to the next. And there was always another horror on the horizon...

The soft slither of grass soon gave way to the crunch of sand and the roar of the surf. He took in a deep, steadying breath, and kicked off his shoes. Wash concentrated on the texture of the sand beneath his feet; of the breeze across his bare torso. He shrugged off his coat, dropping it to the ground and gaining speed, until he was jogging, then running down the beach, till the water slapped around his calves; slowing his progress. He hissed as the cold spray soaked his jeans and waded out to roll them up when -

He realized he wasn't entirely alone. He hesitated, immediately feeling a twinge of guilt. Of all of them, Sasha had had a great burden on her small shoulders as of late, and here he was, clumsily invading her sanctuary. He settled for pretending not to notice her, crossing her line of sight, tense. He hungered for the contact, but he could control it. He wouldn't lay his problems at her feet.

It was his cross to bear. The thought made him smile sadly.

Wash saw the flash of her hand from the corner of his eye - he had been watching, waiting; he realized. Hoping.

He relaxed by inches as he raised his own hand in reply, and made his way up from the water's edge to stand over her. He found himself fascinated with the small details - the way the faint glow of the moon through the clouds traced the smooth surface of the bottle at her hip. The sand that clung to her legs; the way the shirt wrinkled and moved with the curve of her body. His mind felt soft, warm; and he realized something.

She was beautiful.

Sasha had always been a person to him - just another hunter, a friend; Jerry's lover. But something inside him was starting to break, some mask that he'd clung to was finally crumbling. His lost eyes met her own, and softened. I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind, but now I see. Of all the people on the island, he wished and hoped and prayed that this one would be spared. That the next time, he could take her place.

Without a word he slid to the ground beside her, content to enjoy their mutual solitude. It was a strange sensation - as if he could feel the distance between them. A skin hunger perhaps brought on by his own inner demons that was strangely hard to resist. His senses felt oddly heightened, and he shifted slightly.

"Sasha," he murmured finally, in greeting; but he didn't look to her again. He gazed instead at the push and roll of the waves, cresting and falling across the horizon.

He'd forgotten his state of dress, and her warm, soft skin was an instant reminder. The touch of her body on his - chaste as it was - felt electric. Intoxicating. He felt like he was drowning in her presence, a strangely weightless sensation. He grabbed the offered bottle and took a long, deep swallow.

It carved a line of fire from his lips to his gut, and he relished the sensation. It left a smooth aftertaste that was heavy on his tongue, and he took another go before driving it firmly in the sand between them.

"Thank you," he intoned quietly. For everything, he added in his head. For being here, for letting him share this moment - for letting him have that touch, that taste of her skin...

He let go of the bottle slowly, arm tracing back along the sand. Wash was acutely aware of her breath at his neck; the slightly sweet scent of alcohol tainting it. He rested his arm behind them and leaned back on it, and it sang with tension. He was lost, adrift, and his body ached with need. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, trying to rid himself of the sudden and visceral image of grabbing a fistful of that dark, dark hair and -

He balled his hands into fists, white knuckled, and tried to concentrate on the cool night air and not the warmth at his side.

Wash felt crazed at the slight press of her lips against his collarbone; her hot breath against his chest. Could she feel his heart racing? The pulse seemed to hammer out a tempo that drowned out the distant call of the waves; driving his thoughts into little inelegant circles.

Lonely. Yes. What was that saying? No man is an island. He was raw, spent; a man possessed. Suddenly the here and now became pressingly urgent. He could try to be strong, try to stand firm forever, try to do what was right- or he could let go. It was a crossroads, of sorts. A choice.

As those last, harsh words fell from her lips, he twisted, turning to her. Sasha now rested against his arm as it curved around her, his hand tracing up her spine with inexorable slowness to bury itself in her hair. His other hand reached for her cheek to cup her jaw, the pressing need of his fingers given texture by the harsh bite of sand.

He gazed down at her and did not hide his desire, his desperation. He was on fire, and felt as if body was burning up. With a fearsome abandon, Wash dropped that last vestige of control; gave into the moment.

He chose.

"Don't be," he breathed into her lips as he leaned to press his mouth to hers.

Wash didn't answer her cry with words, but with an inarticulate hiss, sealing her lips again with his own and kissing her with teeth and tongue, as if he could somehow tame that passion by consuming it. The sharp sensation of her nails digging into his skin pushed him further still, and his own hands slid down her back, releasing her hair with a sharp tug. He roughly guided them downward, pressing into her flesh to finally rest beneath her thighs. He knelt before her and lifted her to him. He could barely think past the sensation of her body against his, breathing in the scent of her and using the moment to surge upward to his feet. The small woman was hardly a burden, and as he walked he teased and bit along her jaw to let his teeth graze delicately against her ear.

When he lowered them to the ground again, Sasha would find that instead of the chafing sand her legs would meet thick cloth. Wash's jacket framed her as he laid her upon it with a sudden gentleness that deeply contrasted his near-manic attentions just moments before. Her pale skin blended in with the white and gold cloth, blinding him; the promise of her sweet flesh had him undone.

Wash paused a moment, looming over her, eyes already filled with a kind of dark knowledge, warm fingers kneading at the bones of her hips and teasing along the edge of her shorts. He let the silence, his sudden stillness, speak now. He already knew what he wanted.

It was her turn to choose.