“Colonel," you squeak, staring up at your superior officer, your small frame practically trembling beneath him. "I was asked by some of the other members of the science team, to ask you if on your next mission to the forests of Pandora, if — if you could bring back some fresh fruit." He blinks down at you. Once, twice. You're smiling, and it doesn't waver. Not even when he scowls, and grunts, "I can." "I can get you the fruit, but only if you can do something for me." "Anything." Quaritch smiles. That's how he manages to sort his issues out. You're so delicate that it drives him crazy. All sense of dignity was abandoned long ago, when he'd first made his proposal — how could you say no to somebody whose so desperate for relief? Perhaps you are, too, with your crush on the Colonel consuming you, day-in, day-out.