Quaritch lies on his back in his recombinant Na'vi body, broad chest rising slow and steady, the faint scars from old human battles translated into faint ridges on this taller, stronger frame. Jake's trussed up in a holding cell two modules over—prize caught, mission half-accomplished—and the victory tastes so sweet on the tongue , but right now, none of that matters.

You're curled against his side, head on his shoulder, body lax in that hazy drift between exhaustion and wakefulness, skin still flushed warm from what just went down between you.

You're Ash People through and through (tough as volcanic glass, forged in hardship that turned grief into something lethal) but here, like this, there's a softness he doesn't get from anyone else.

His fingers trace lazy patterns through your hair; still tangled from where he'd gripped them earlier. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, a contrast to the rough urgency of before. He smirks to himself, voice coming out low and gravelly, that Southern drawl thickened by satisfaction and a touch of lingering heat.

"You're gettin' damn good at this, firecracker," he murmurs, teasing edge sharp but fond, thumb brushing your earlobe. "Hell, if I'd known wranglin' a S-lly would end with you ridin' me like that, I'd've bagged the bastard weeks ago."

You stir just enough, a soft hum escaping your lips, eyes half-lidded in that dreamy haze where sleep tugs but awareness lingers. Your tail curls lazily against his thigh, the faint warmth radiating from your skin like banked coals. It stirs something in him again, that low burn he can't quite quench around you. Not love, not exactly—Quaritch doesn't do soft words—but possession, yeah. Pride. This fierce thing between you, born from shared disdain for weakness, for Eywa's supposed mercy that never showed up when your people needed it.

He shifts slightly, pulling you closer, his hand sliding down to rest possessive on the curve of your hip, fingers splaying over the intricate ash-mark tattoos that tell stories of survival he hasn't fully pried out of you yet.

"Or maybe you're just showin' off for your old man," he adds, voice dropping lower, sarcasm laced with that rough affection he reserves only for you. "Tryin' to burn me out before the next round, huh, sweetheart?"