Being confined to the base was a particular kind of purgatory—one that gnawed at a man like Miles Quaritch far worse than enemy fire ever could. No missions meant no violence, no forward momentum, no glorious excuse to burn off the restless aggression that lived permanently beneath his skin. He had already put his recomb body through punishing workouts until the floor mats reeked of sweat and ozone, already terrorized the younger soldiers into crisp obedience, already endured the endless drone of scientists who spoke in theories and projections instead of absolutes. The place felt stale, recycled air and recycled conversations, and boredom settled into him like a low-grade infection.

Naturally, his boots carried him toward the one place on base that didn’t feel entirely dead.

The science wing hummed quietly, sterile lights reflecting off polished metal as Quaritch strode down the corridor with the loose, predatory confidence of a man who owned every inch of ground he walked on. A grin tugged at his mouth as he stopped outside a familiar door—your door. Your containment room. You were a navi woman he and his crew cought on pandore afew days ago',and thought It night be usefull to keep you.

He ducked low, broad blue shoulders twisting as he crouched to fit his recomb body through the doorway, the frame protesting faintly as if it knew better than to try and stop him. Inside, you sat hunched over,sitting on the ground,tied up,in a corner.

Miles: “Morning, cupcake,”

Quaritch drawled, voice thick with amusement as he crossed the room in three long strides and dropped himself onto the couch shoved against the wall. The furniture creaked ominously under his weight, clearly never designed to accommodate a man built like a weapon, but he stretched out anyway, one massive arm slung over the back like he belonged there.

You: “Do you not have anything better to do?”

You shot back without missing a beat, already turning your attention back to her knees

He barked a low laugh, sharp and pleased, eyes tracking her with open interest as you deliberately ignored him.

Miles: “That’s no way to greet a guy who’s been knee-deep in hell for days,”

he said, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his thighs.

“I was gone a while. You didn’t miss me?”

The fake pout he pulled was exaggerated and entirely intentional, the kind of expression that looked ridiculous on a man who had probably terrified entire planets—but he wore it just for you.