(A/N: This is the result of studying for midterms at three in the morning.)

...

Some people said they were secretly in love. Others claimed they were more of a dynamic duo, playing each others strengths. The truth? They absolutely loathed one another.

"Up! Are you estúpido? You can't throw your fucking dirty clothes all over the fucking room that we fucking share!" Taz was five feet of pure fury at this point. They were on an earth base due to a misfiring laser on their ship, and, since their accommodations were temporary and made very hastily, Taz and Up were bunked together. After just two days, there had been at least six attempted murders.

Up sauntered into the main room from the bathroom, dropping his clothes near the foot of his bed. Taz groaned, storming out of the room, streaming Spanish that he could only assume was cursing as she left. He grinned and picked up the clothes he had just dropped.

He lived to annoy her these days. She was so high-strung and full of herself (or so he thought) since she got promoted to Lieutenant. She put on a tough act, but it was a load of shit. She was weak; she didn't deserve that promotion. He should have been promoted to Commander. After all, he had been the one to save her ass in that robot explosion. She nearly killed herself, though, and now he was stuck at Lieutenant-Commander. So, he would break her. Even if it was one dirty shirt at a time.

...

Taz pounded the punching bag, trying to pretend it was Up's face. She hit it right where his mouth would be, over and over again, imagining the feeling of her fist connecting with his teeth. When her knuckles started to bleed, she stopped to wrap them.

She heard the gym doors open, and started winding the cloth around her hand faster, praying to what ever was left out there that it wasn't Up coming to work out.

"Huh, so God is dead," she muttered to herself as Up strutted over towards her. And that's what he did. Strut. All around the ship like a dead goddamned peacock.

"Can't even hit a sack full of sand right, huh?" he smirked. She clenched her fists and punched the bag even harder. It was getting easier to imagine the crunch of bone.

"Shut jour face or jou'll find out just how well I can hit sacks," she threatened, sending a kick to the punching bag. He scoffed.

"All the way down there? You can't even reach, sweetheart," he said condescendingly. She turned to him slowly, her dark eyes on fire. For a split second, fear splashed across Up's face. And then she attacked.

She flew at him sending him to the ground. He was unprepared, sending an arm out backward to catch himself, landing his hand awkwardly. He barely had time to register the pain before he had to use the hand to block her blows. She was going crazy, cursing rapidly in Spanish, landing hits where ever she could. Up managed to get onto his knees, only to be brought flat on his back with a knee to the ribs. He took advantage of her position on his chest and flipped over on top of her, pinning her beneath him. She stopped squirming.

"Not so big and bad now, are you, sweetheart?" he drawled. She spat into his face, and he quickly backed off onto his knees.

"Sonofabitch!" he yelled, and she was back on top of him, her knees on either side of him, pinning his arms by his sides. She leaned down close to his face, her warm breath tickling his cheek. His face flushed.

"Don' ever call me 'sweetheart' again, comprendo, gilipollas?" she asked, sliding a finger across his throat. He nodded, unable to make words. She stood up, kicked his shoulder hard, grabbed her gym bag off of a weight bench, and saluted him sarcastically. "Lieutenant- Commandante."

Up lay on the gym floor, until a class of cadets came in, wondering what the hell had just happened. She kicked his ass. And he had let her. What the hell was wrong with him?