AN: I wanted to post a chapter to celebrate a new Gears. I haven't played it yet, but hopefully will get a chance soon.

So...where are we in the story? Without having everyone go back and reread...here's a brief summary per character:

Baird & Chelsea: Chelsea is working in the medical wing on Fort Collier as a medical assistant and Baird is working on a classified project. They're waiting for Baird to be cleared in a rape and paternity case so they can move on with their lives.

Marcus: Marcus has been struggling on his own. He nearly drowned in an incident where someone very specifically targeted him and Baird for capture, and since then hasn't been quite the same. He's been angry and on edge with pretty much everyone. He just found out Anya is pregnant and decided to punch Clay when he saw him at a bar.

Anya: Anya got ambushed during her audit presentation of Bender Fields by a young lawyer looking to make a name for himself, and he outed her pregnancy (that no one but her doctor knew about).

Clay & Daniel: Clay's been helping Anya out with go-fer type work. He's a little protective of his boss at times, and a couple chapters ago he needled Marcus on an elevator by flaunting his closeness to Anya compared to the distance Marcus has kept. Daniel has started work on proving up a small farming and cattle operation, and has met a girl named Anonaei who mostly speaks a different language and hopes to get married and start a family. He's in town meeting up with a couple friends and Clay at a bar when Marcus punches Clay unprovoked.

Dom and Cole: Dom and Cole just finished a successful mission and are on Outpost 18 where they've debriefed and gotten some rest. Cole has met someone he likes, but there are obstacles to asking her out.

Carlo: Carlo is learning to keep his private life and his home life separate so Dom won't find out about his criminal activities.

Bernie & Hoffman: Bernie has been busy designing new training techniques at Fort Collier, one of the hubs where new COG soldiers attend boot camp. She's training recruits all the way from basic boot to advanced Commando tactical training. This is a time of flux for the COG where they're shifting their methods of recruiting and training now that that war's over and they've reduced the number of men and women in uniform and started to take more time to train new soldiers. Hoffman is still keeping busy being the top COG commander, and he's heavily involved behind the scenes in the project Baird is currently working on.

Sam: Sam has been promoted and has been assigned to work with Dom on coordinating communication array set-up for Baird's project. She's also working on becoming a Raven pilot.

Alex: Alex Brand is commanding a special task force assigned to disrupting pirate activity off the coast of Tyrus. She's working with Cole and Dom on finding the person responsible for trying to kidnap Marcus and Baird because their mission goals overlap.


Clay could hear his brother's pleading, but this thing between him and Fenix was two days in the making. It started in the elevator, and it had to end here. "You're in for a world of hurt, dude," Clay said, eyes locked on his opponent.

It had been a while since he'd fought someone with half a chance in hell of beating him.

Fenix stared him down, his gaze cold and angry. "Stand up, you son of a bitch," he said, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked dangerous. He sounded dangerous. No doubt, if Clay tried to get up, he'd be on his ass again.

With a grunt of effort Clay lashed out, the heel of his boot striking his opponent's kneecap and effectively knocking Fenix's leg out from under him.

Using the opportunity to hop onto his feet, he pulled back just in time to feel the whoosh of air when a wild punch just missed his cheek. Fenix had swung hard at him, off-balance already, and it caused him to over-extend and he ran right into Clay's best right-handed haymaker with all of his weight behind it. As drunk as Marcus was, he didn't have a chance of avoiding it and Clay's fist slammed into that granite jaw with a satisfying crack. It turned out to be a case of the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object, but inertia won out and Marcus stumbled back, his head whipping around, but he didn't go down.

Fenix stumbled around trying to regain his balance, and Clay stalked after him, hyper-focused. He picked up a chair and grabbed the flimsy bamboo back with both hands, swinging the chair like a baseball bat right into Fenix's side. The chair exploded into fifteen or twenty pieces, the weaved chair back flying off in shards.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Clay taunted, pulling back his right fist to take a big swing. He hardly knew what came out of his mouth at times like this, because once the adrenaline took over he didn't think much. He just taunted, throwing out bullshit to tempt the other guy to stay mad and keep making stupid mistakes.

In other fights, he'd used such gems as,

"You're a bitch."

"Your girl was the worst I've ever had."

"Maybe if your dick was bigger, she'd still be with you."

The list went on and on.

But Fenix was a hard man to take down, and Clay got cocky. He swung too big and Fenix moved inside, grabbing him by the neck and slinging him around. Clay's hip slammed into a table, and Fenix used that grip on his neck to try to torque him down, intending to bounce Clay's head against the tabletop, including the array of heavy glass mugs sitting there.

Patrons sitting around the table quickly moved away from the battling titans, and Clay had to put an elbow down on the table and use all of his strength to stop his head from getting slammed into their remaining dishes. Seeing an opening, Fenix went to town on Clay's ribs, that big fist finding Clay's lower floating ribs and beating them to a pulp while he continued to push Clay's head down toward the table. But Fenix couldn't hold onto him with one hand for more than a couple good hits; when Clay started to slip away, Fenix grabbed onto him with both hands and tried to brain him, and when that didn't work, Fenix wrapped one hand around Clay's throat and squeezed tight, cutting off his air and weakening him just enough to slowly push him down onto the table. Clay clawed at the other man's grip on his neck, fighting for air before finally realizing the simplest way out was to give in, allowing his opponent to push him down on the table, which gave Clay the freedom to pick up his feet off the floor and kick the other man squarely in the chest with both boots and drive him back.

Without Marcus holding onto him, the table tipped over under Clay's weight, nearly dumping him back onto his ass on the floor, but he got his feet under him just in time to move out of the way before Fenix could kick him, and the other man's foot impacted the table instead, sending it flying across the floor and slamming into a wall hard enough to break off one of the legs.

Barely finding his balance in time to avoid another wild swing from the former sergeant, Clay charged, not giving his opponent any time to recover, and tackled Marcus. He got low, below Fenix's center of mass, and lifted up so he could slam the other man down on the floor, knocking chairs back out of the way when the two of them crash landed on the dark wood flooring. Clay got lucky, landing on top of Marcus's torso. The man must not have had brothers to wrestle with, because if he had, he never would've let Clay gain the advantage so easily. Or maybe he was just drunk.

Clay sat on Fenix's chest, raining down thunderous blows anywhere he found an opening. Fenix frantically fought to throw him off and regain some leverage to fight back.

The sound went out of the room, and everything pressed in close. Every ragged breath he took echoed in Clay's ears, his heart pounded so hard in his chest he wondered why it didn't explode.

Holding onto Fenix's collar with his left hand, Clay beat the shit out of the man with his right fist. The sleeve of his shirt had torn away during the fight, and Clay could feel the tattoo on his right arm. He felt the swirling black script spelling his brothers' names burning into his skin like a branding iron, more painful than the day Sam Byrne had used the needle to ink him.

Dan got one thing wrong. Clay always felt pain. It never let up, never relented. The pills didn't take it away, they just softened the edge. Those were the two constants in his life. Pain, and rage. Drugs helped with the pain, but sometimes they brought the rage to the surface so it outshone everything else.

Every time his punches landed, he heard the distinct sound of bone hitting flesh, but he couldn't feel anything but the heat. Fenix had damaged him in the fight; from experience, he knew that—but he couldn't feel anything but the fire consuming him.

Anthony moved out of cover and got his head blown off.

Ben was barely more than a boy when he died a horrific, gruesome death.

And this son-of-a-bitch was there both times. He let it happen.

People shouted at him, but the voices sounded fuzzy and far away. Someone made a half-hearted grab at his right arm, but they didn't have the strength to stop him. Most men would've quit fighting back by then, but Fenix kept his guard up, trying to protect himself.

"I knew I could beat the shit out of you," Clay hissed through clenched teeth. He flew high in that moment, soaring and unstoppable.

Just the night before he'd had a dream about riding on a big palomino, seventeen hands tall, with his two little brothers stacked on behind him. Ben right behind him, arms wrapped tight around his waist and Anthony in the back, making sure the little boy didn't fall off. They'd been just little kids, riding around the paddock; laughing, enjoying the sunshine and the smell of sweet clover. The horse plodded along like they weren't even there. They rode him with just a blanket for a saddle and a halter and lead rope for reins.

The memory flashed back to him in an instant when Fenix flailed to the side, trying to move sideways and get him off, moving both of them several feet across the wood floor and crashing into a table. Keeping his balance on Fenix's chest was more like trying to stay on a bull than riding that palomino, but Clay's body remembered how to do that, too. He went with the movement instead of fighting it, staying centered and upright, hanging on with his left hand. The second he started to tilt to one side, he'd lose his seat, so he'd move with Fenix and then strike. Move and strike. The onslaught never let up.

Neither did the pain he felt; searing deep through his soul and leaving him so completely broken. He could still feel Ben's arms around his waist, and he could hear the bright laugh of that little boy. Their parents had died on E-Day, and Clay had kept Anthony and Ben alive for weeks traveling across rugged mountains to the nearest COG base when he was still just a boy himself. Fenix knew them each less than a day and got them both killed.

Daniel said it tore at him every time he had to kill a man—even an enemy, even a stranger.

Clay never felt that. For him, the world was clearly divided into two groups of people. Those he'd kill to protect, and those he'd kill without a second thought. Fenix qualified for the latter group.

"Officer on deck!" a man called out from the front of the bar and suddenly the bar patrons went silent.

Clay felt Daniel grab him by the scruff and give him a firm shake, snarling, "Colonel Hoffman on deck, idiot."

Nothing short of the appearance of the top COG commander would've stopped him cold in that moment. Clay rose off Fenix, his jaw already hot and swelling and his huge fists smeared with blood. He'd opened gashes along Marcus's left cheek bone and at the bridge of his nose. Purple bruising was already spreading around the other man's eye sockets.

When another man went out of his way to make Clay less pretty, he usually returned the favor in kind, plus interest.

"Colonel," Clay acknowledged with a nod, his voice hoarse from being strangled. He snapped off a half-decent salute for a civilian under the influence. He thought it was half-decent, anyway.

Hoffman stopped in front of him, giving him a seemingly disinterested once-over. "Carmine, is it?"

"Yes, sir," Clay popped off, although without the foaming enthusiasm of a man still in uniform. Clay stood with chin up and eyes cased, looking over Hoffman's shoulder at the far distance. As much as he wanted to shrug off the constrictive habits of the uniform and be his own man, old habits engrained practically from childhood died hard.

"You see this man, Carmine?" the Colonel asked, pointing down at Fenix. "This man saved humanity. This man served with distinction in more battles then I care to count. This man is a damn hero, Carmine. What the hell are you doing, kicking his ass in a bar?"

"Finishing what he started, sir." At the moment, he didn't give a shit if Fenix was a damn saint. No one sucker punched him and got away with it.

"Fenix came up behind Clay and cold-cocked him, sir," Daniel explained quickly, looking a bit anxious for his brother's safety. Martial law hadn't lifted yet, and Hoffman still had the authority to sentence a man without trial.

"Don't look so worried, Danny," Clay said. "The worst he can do is take me outside and shoot me."

"Shut up, Clay," Dan growled.

Hoffman looked skeptical. "Carmine, if I gave you an order, would you follow it?"

"The COG threw me out before I aged out and labeled me a sociopath, sir. I can barely get a job because of it."

"So would you follow orders, or not?" Hoffman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Depends on the order, sir," Clay answered, cagey about where this might be going. If Hoffman wanted him dead, he'd have a hell of a fight on his hands.

"Good. Carmine, I order you to give Fenix your best shot one more time, because that son-of-a-bitch cold-cocked me once, too, and I never returned the favor."

"Sir?" Daniel asked, seeming surprised, but like a kid given permission to chase an ice cream truck, Clay didn't wait for an explanation.

He felt almost gleeful as he lunged forward. It wasn't every day the top brass gave an enlisted man the opportunity to kick the shit out of a sergeant, and Clay had no intention of wasting the privilege. Fenix had managed to get his butt under him, remaining seated. His arms barely came up in time to defend himself before Clay's knee smashed into his face and drove the former sergeant back to the floor.

"I saved your fucking life! I pulled your ass out of the water, and this is how you repay me?" Clay snarled down at Marcus. "You may be the shit on the battlefield, but you're a damn coward man-to-man. If you're going to swing at me, you fucking face me when you do it!"

Marcus sat up again, spitting blood onto the floor and clearly unamused by Clay's taunting. "You don't deserve her, Carmine. You're fucking pathetic, chasing any underage bitch willing to suck your dick."

Clay spat a gob of the disgusting crap from the back of his throat, and his aim was true, hitting Fenix right in the eye. "I've done more to take care of Anya than you ever did!"

"Give the man a kick while he's down, Carmine," Hoffman said. "I think Helena would've appreciated that, especially today."

Clay buried his boot in Marcus's side and lifted him off the ground with the blow.

Fenix coughed, hardly able to catch his breath, holding his side and rolling over on the floor, his face twisted in pain. "Fuck you, Hoffman, it's not even mine."

"Bullshit." Hoffman stepped forward, covering the distance to where Marcus sat on the floor. He reached down and grabbed Marcus's left ear, dragging him off the floor, pulling hard until Marcus finally got his feet under him and rose, his features twisted in pain. Hoffman didn't let go until Marcus stood upright, and then he pushed the younger man toward the door, the shove none-too-gentle. "Pull your shit together, Fenix. We're going to have a talk, you and me."

Victor offered his arm to Mataki in passing, and Bernie took it, although she gave him a skeptical look. "He was already done when you got here, Vic."

"Tonight that son-of-a-bitch is lucky I'm not going to shoot him."

"She's old enough to know better," Bernie reminded, repeating Daniel's words from earlier.

Victor's face twisted in disgust. "She wasn't old enough to know better when he started with her. She was just a kid."

"So was he," Bernie reminded.

A few more steps carried the two of them out the door in Fenix's wake.

When they were gone, Daniel holstered his pistol and walked over to Clay, roughly grabbing him by the jaw and yanking his head around.

"He get you bad?" Dan asked, taking a look at his brother's injuries for himself.

Clay coughed against his closed fist. "I'll be fine. He got the worst of it," he said, his voice rough.

"I should've shot that son-of-a-bitch," Dan fumed.

The two girls Clay had hanging on him minutes ago approached cautiously, one on either side. "Who was that guy? What an ass," the blonde girl, Tiffany, said. She laid her hands on Clay's arm, but he jerked away.

"Not tonight," Clay told her, point-blank. His hackles were still up after the fight and he didn't have it in him to be gentle with anyone at the moment.

"What? Why?" she asked, startled by his aggression.

"How old are you?" he asked, suddenly irrationally angry. The Islander girl got ready to cop an attitude right back at him, but Tiffany's face drained of color and so Clay focused on her and shut out her friend. "What were you two planning to do to me? Cry rape? Try to get me to knock one of you up? How old are you?" he demanded.

"Fourteen," she stammered, leaning away from him. "I'm fourteen, but she's eighteen," she said, pointing to the Islander girl.

"Fourteen! You're fucking fourteen?" Clay asked, outraged at the notion and part of him just didn't buy it. He didn't usually spare a second thought over young girls as long as they looked like grown women. But even he had his limits. There was nothing attractive to him about girls under eighteen who looked like they were under eighteen, but he hadn't ever realized just how large an age range he might be dealing with. "Does this look like a fucking playground to you? I shouldn't have to card girls in a bar after midnight. Does your old man beat you? Huh? Does he mistreat you?"

Tiffany shook her head, staring down at her shoes.

"So if you have a dad who gives a shit, what the fuck do you think you're doing out here chasing guys like me?"

"You liked me," Tiffany stuttered through tears, and all of a sudden she did look young, even through the makeup and the bottle-blonde hair. Her face screwed up and her chin started to quiver. Her voice became rough like she only just held back the sobs trying to bubble up out of her.

"Why don't you go back to school and find a kid your own damn age so your dad doesn't hunt me down and shove a shotgun in my face?"

He probably would've kept going, but Daniel grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the door, Anonoai trailing just behind them.

"They're calling the MPs. It's time to go," Daniel warned, voice low as they headed outside.

"I've got plenty for all of them," Clay assured him, and at the moment he felt like it. He felt like taking on the whole COG.

"Yeah," Dan said. "That's what I'm afraid of. Come on. We'll walk until you cool down."

Clay took a deep breath of the cool night air and tried to think calm thoughts, but his blood was up and all the usual primitive impulses clouded his brain while adrenaline and other hormones swirled around in him. Dan always said Clay only had two modes, and they were fight or fuck, and tonight he wanted to do both.

"Holy fucking hell, did she look fourteen to you?" Clay asked out of the blue about a half block down, still unable to believe it. He coughed against his fist, just starting to feel where he'd been hit.

At last, Dan laughed. It was a good laugh. The first they'd shared in a long time.

"You know mom would roll in her grave if you nailed a fourteen-year-old, right?" his brother asked.

Clay scoffed. It felt like a band was tied around his chest, and it kept getting tighter so his lungs could only expand so far. Probably bruised ribs. "That's water under the bridge, man. I lost my virginity to a fourteen-year-old girl right after boot camp."

"Not that I approve, but you were only thirteen then, so it's all relative," Daniel conceded wistfully, placing a hand on Clay's shoulder to steady him when his stride started to weave. "Maybe Fenix didn't have it all wrong when he walked off post to save his father. If I'd known how bad it was going to get, I would've taken the three of you up in the mountains and kept you safe instead of staying to fight."

"Might've just gotten us all killed," Clay reminded him. He couldn't imagine how drastically different his life would be now if Dan had taken that course of action at the beginning of the war. So much of Clay's identity was carved from being a COG soldier. A deadly COG soldier. They would've been outlaws for life if Dan had deserted—taking three future soldiers with him. Then again, the COG hadn't done such an awesome job training soldiers as the war dragged on, and that was part of the reason Anthony and Ben hadn't survived.

"I really wanted to kill him," Clay admitted after they walked a while.

To his surprise, Dan shrugged one shoulder like the admission didn't bother him. Usually his older brother did his best to curb Clay's bloodlust into more socially acceptable behavior. "I kinda wanted to shoot him. But he's still alive, and that's probably for the best. Wonder what he meant when he told Hoffman it wasn't his."

"Anya's pregnant," Clay said absently, forgetting he hadn't already talked to his brother about that fact during the past weeks when he'd started to suspect Anya wasn't just on bedrest for her injuries. "It came out today in the audit and Fenix found out."

Daniel stopped walking and turned to look at him, eyes wide and shock written all over his face, "Anya's what now?"

"Pregnant," Clay repeated, sighing. He knew his brother was about to have a conniption for no reason at all.

"And you didn't tell me this, because?" Dan asked, starting to get judgy and accusatory.

"I didn't know for sure. She's looked kind of sick, but she never came out and told me what was going on. Besides, why do you care?"

And that was the wrong thing to say, because Daniel proceeded to give Clay a very long lecture about why he cared, and Clay had to pretend to listen to it for the next ten minutes before he got a word in edgewise.


Anya's eyes widened when she answered the door and found Hoffman standing there. "Colonel. I wasn't expecting you."

Hoffman smiled. "Were you expecting him?" he asked, and jerking his head at the man standing behind him.

Marcus looked like hell. He'd been in a fight, and for the first time in her memory, it looked like he'd lost. He stared down at the floor, brooding. Even three feet away, Anya could smell alcohol and cigarette smoke on him, so she knew he'd been in a bar.

"We came to talk strategy," Bernie said. "I know it's late, but could we come in?"

Anya let the door open, using her cane to navigate to the tiny kitchen. "I'm sorry, I only have two chairs," she said, taking a seat in one of them. Before her injury, she would've stood and allowed her guests to sit, but that was no longer an option.

Bernie took a seat across from her at the tiny table, and Hoffman and Marcus remained standing.

"I'm not going to mince words," Hoffman said. "There's nothing I can do to keep you out of a court martial, Anya. If they decide your conduct was unbecoming, you will be dishonorably discharged and if they decide to press criminal charges, you could serve jail time or even be sent to the farms."

"So what do you propose?" Anya asked. She knew her options were grim at best.

"I propose Fenix get off his ass and marry you, like he should've a decade ago."

Marcus's upper lip twitched at Hoffman's words, and he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the kitchen sink and staring straight down at the floor.

Anya couldn't help it when her face twisted into sardonic smile. "Ah, there it is. Ye olde shotgun wedding proposal. Thanks, but no thanks. We aren't kids anymore and I wasn't good enough for him to marry before I got pregnant, and I think I'd rather hold onto the last shred of dignity I have left."

"Does it make a difference that I'll do it even though the kid isn't mine?" Marcus asked.

Anya's mouth dropped open. She couldn't help it. His comment hit her like an uppercut to the gut, leaving her speechless. If she hadn't been sitting, she might've punched him.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she snarled, her voice cold enough to cut and draw blood.

"You told me it wasn't a sure thing, Anya. We slept together months ago. Why else would you keep it from me this long?"

"So just who the hell do you think the father is?"

Marcus pointed toward the door, at the heavy canvas duffel with Clay's tags tied to the top draw string. "Your new roommate came to mind."

The duffle had hardly moved since Clay had dropped it there the day before. He'd pulled some clothes out, but beyond that it had sat undisturbed.

"I thought I was sterile and now I have no idea if I'll make it to term. That's why it isn't a sure thing. But believe me, Marcus, you're the other half of this equation," she said, placing a hand on her growing belly to acknowledge the life inside her for the first time, and his contribution to creating it. Her height helped hide the changes to her body, but her abdomen had firmed and a bump had formed beneath her belly button. "I've never been with anyone else."

"What about Carmine?" Marcus pressed.

Anya choked on a laugh that died in her throat. "I'm sixteen weeks, Marcus! That means I was already over eight weeks pregnant when I hired Clay. And you know what? Right now, a teeny, tiny, angry part of me wishes I had fucked him and I could throw it in your face. And I hate you for making me feel that way because I was never that woman!"

He wouldn't meet her eyes, and he wouldn't say anything. That part remained the same, but she'd never wanted to hurt him before. Not until he'd questioned the paternity of their child and ripped her to shreds one time too many.

"You do realize I've probably had about a hundred serious offers for sex since I was seventeen, and half of them were guys who served with you. It didn't matter that I've only ever slept with one man, to them I was a slut because I was just your thing on the side. Is that what I am, Marcus? Is that why you think I'm fucking a kid like Clay Carmine?"

Marcus just shook his head, like he didn't know what to think. "I told you to move on so many times. Why the fuck didn't you ever listen?" he asked rhetorically.

"Easy for you to say," she spat back at him. "You were always my best friend, but I was never yours. You always had Dom and after you got out of prison you just shut me out, but I didn't have anyone else! I waited for you, Marcus!"

Marcus exploded at that. He shouted at her, dressing her down like a private. "I didn't fucking go to prison for jay-walking, Anya! They should've put me in front of a firing squad for what I did! It's like you can't understand that. The men who died at Ephrya are on me. I wasn't ever supposed to walk out of that prison cell, and you know what I should've done when I did? I should've fucked the first bitch willing, so you would've finally been done with me! But I didn't, because I'm still weak. Every time I've let you close, that was more of the same bullshit I pulled when I walked off post to save my dad. Putting myself before what's best for you."

"If that's how you feel, then what happens if I miscarry? Then what?" Anya demanded, and suddenly she had tears in her eyes although she couldn't immediately explain why. She desperately tried to hold her voice steady, to return to the calm center she'd always managed to keep around him. It didn't work. The harder she tried to stay calm, the more she choked up. "Then what, Marcus?" her voice wavered in and out of pitch and she tried to force it steady, but the words still came thick with tears. "You walk away, again? I always thought you wanted more for us, but you never stepped up! You always made me feel like I wasn't good enough."

And then the tears came in a torrent. Anya's throat went so tight she couldn't speak anymore, and she just bowed her head and cried, feeling so low and ashamed part of her wondered how she'd survive it.

"Were you even going to tell me before you left?" Marcus asked, a bit accusatory.

Anya sniffed pathetically, wiping her nose on her arm like a kid before taking a deep breath. "I didn't get the chance. I was on bed rest and you didn't answer any of the messages I left you at work."

"You saw me yesterday morning."

"And you were being an asshole, as usual!"

Hoffman placed a firm hand on her shoulder, kneeling down in front of her. "Anya, listen to me. You don't have to be with him, but you do need to marry him. Under the law, a husband and wife can't be compelled to testify against each other. There won't be sufficient evidence to continue an investigation without that testimony in court. I had a legal team work through it this afternoon and that was the best answer they came up with."

Anya tried to get it together. She took another deep breath, trying to stay stable. "I don't think I can do it," she said.

Hoffman pulled a roll of papers from his back pocket. "It's really easy. You both need to sign these. I can serve as a witness and a justice of the peace and I'll file them in the morning. Bernie can serve as the second witness."

Marcus stepped forward and grabbed the papers from Hoffman's hand. Rolling them out flat on the table top, he found the right line and signed with a pen he pulled from his pocket. "Anywhere else?" he asked, flipping through the pages.

"Just the top page," Hoffman said.

"Fine." With that, Marcus snapped the pen down on the papers and straightened up, marching toward the door.

"Fenix," Hoffman called after him. "As much as the thought makes me want to shoot you, if she signs it, the two of you will need to consummate the marriage to make it legal."

Marcus paused as if to consider that information, and then walked out the door. He didn't go far. Anya could hear him pacing out in the hallway.

Anya stared at Marcus's signature on the page for a long moment. "I brought this on myself," she said. "I flaunted regulation for so long. Maybe I deserve the consequences."

"Maybe you do," Bernie agreed. "But your baby doesn't. If there's even a chance you can give your child a decent life, you need to take it."

"I made the same mistakes my mother did," Anya said softly, and she realized she still had one hand pressed to her belly. Another sob shook her. "When no one knew, I kept hoping I would miscarry so I wouldn't put a child through the same life I had. I tried so hard to not let myself think it was real, but now Marcus knows and I'm afraid…" she trailed off, swallowing hard before taking a halting breath. It was real now. What would it do to her if she miscarried? She'd barely survived getting shot and the recovery had so far been long, painful and frustrating. If she lost this child and then lost Marcus again, she wasn't sure she would recover this time. Not if he gave her hope of having a family and then took it away. Anya made a strangled noise at the back of her throat. "How did I become this awful, pathetic person?"

Bernie gave her arm an encouraging squeeze just above the elbow. "You're not, Anya. Believe me. And this baby, he's got a good pedigree for survival, don't you think?"

"There aren't any guarantees," Hoffman reminded her. "But keep taking it one day at a time and hope for the best."

Slowly, Anya finally reached over and took the pen and signed her name. Bernie signed after she did, and then Hoffman added his signature and folded up the papers.

Bernie stayed a minute, after Hoffman headed for the door. "Anya, you should know…Marcus saw Clay with some fine young thing and clocked him. He thought he was protecting your honor."

Anya nodded. "Thanks, Bernie." Maybe in the morning that would make her feel better, but right now she felt humiliated and emotionally wrung out.

Anya followed the couple to the door, finding Marcus waiting just outside. When Bernie and Victor were gone, it was just the two of them left standing there by the doorway.

By the time the foot-falls faded away down the hall, a hard, icy silence fell between them. Anya couldn't bring herself to look at him, and Marcus stared straight ahead at the wall. Amazing how much Anya felt like a teenager in this moment, caught in an impossible situation. Maybe that's why they'd never grown in their relationship. They were both stuck developmentally on E-day.

"Do you want me to stay?" Marcus asked when they were alone.

A sad smile cracked across Anya's lips. The hormones were really going today, because tears welled up in her eyes once again and she didn't seem to have any control over it at all. "I waited twenty years to hear you say that, but I think I'd rather be alone tonight."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Anya nodded, pursing her lips to try to keep herself steady. "I'm on pelvic rest until my doctor clears me, and even if I wasn't, I never wanted you to stay with me out of pity or obligation."

"So what do you want me to do?" he asked. "How are we going to do this?"

"I want you to come back tomorrow and try. If you want to be with me, try to be in a relationship with me. Prove to me I'm more than a booty call."

When he didn't answer, she went to shut the door, slowly swinging it shut when his hand suddenly shot out to stop its progress. "I want you to know something," he said, finally meeting her eyes. "I always say the wrong thing to you. This afternoon, when I thought you were trying to tell me you'd moved on, I hated thinking about you being with another guy, but I never thought badly of you for it. I just assumed you finally got tired of waiting. And mostly, we never conceived in over a decade together, so it made more sense the father was someone else."

Anya let out a sigh, placing a hand on her lower back to counter the extra weight of her belly. She probably felt bigger and more bloated than she actually was, but for weeks now she'd feared someone might notice the changes in her figure so she'd always kept her back straight no matter how much it hurt. None of that mattered anymore. "Marcus, I'm tired of waiting and I'm not playing games anymore. You're either in or out; no more halfway."

"Okay," he said.

Marcus took a deep breath, resting his shoulder against the wall. When he exhaled, she could smell alcohol on his breath. He'd always been a high functioning drunk. Most of the time, she couldn't tell the difference between when he'd had one drink or a dozen until he did something erratic, like starting a bar fight. Usually she couldn't pry words out of him with a crowbar, but enough alcohol could ply his tongue.

"You were never a booty call," he said, crossing heavy arms over his chest.

"How am I supposed to believe that?"

"Because, you've never been more beautiful to me than you are right now," he said, and she realized he was looking at her. Really looking. Not a side-long stolen glance like she usually got from him.

Anya took stock of how she must look and realized at the moment, she didn't make a very pretty picture. During the long months of her recovery, her physique had waned. There was a bit more flesh on her thighs and upper arms and sides than she'd ever had before. She had all new curves, and not in a sexy way. The medium t-shirt she wore used to make her look fit, but now it hugged her new shape in a way that felt very unflattering. No makeup. Old PT sweatpants, a pair of cotton socks with a hole in the bottom of one heel. She hadn't combed her hair since early that morning, and since it was growing so fast it was messy in the sloppy pony-tail she'd put it up in. And of course, her cane supported her. Every time she looked in the mirror these days, the dark circles under her eyes got worse. The nausea sapped the color from her skin and sometimes made her face appear a bit gray.

"I have my walls, and you have yours," he noted, still taking her in. "I don't think I've ever seen you without mascara before."

"Why didn't you visit me when I got shot?" she asked, and then she hiccuped, probably from all the crying.

"I didn't know you got shot until I saw you here, walking around with a cane."

"If you had known, would it have made a difference?" she asked, choking back a sob. Thinking back on all the nights she'd laid in that hospital bed, in unbearable pain with no one there, no one coming to check on her for hours and hours while she'd laid awake in agony. She'd wanted to call him and ask him to come, but she'd been afraid he wouldn't. Tears flooded her eyes, and ran down her face when she closed them. "There were so many moments when I needed someone, and I always wanted it to be you."

"You're right," he said. "I'm not good at being there for you."

"So what's the difference this time?" she asked. "Why so gung-ho? Did you man up tonight for Hoffman's benefit or was it all liquid courage?" Anya asked, and she couldn't keep the bite out of her words. Besides all the regular aches and pains, she had a blistering headache.

"I honestly don't know," he said. "Things just seem a lot less complicated under the circumstances."

"Even when you thought it wasn't yours?"

"After I fought Carmine, I decided I didn't give a shit if it was mine. It could've been mine a thousand times over. It could've been mine when you were seventeen, or twenty-seven. What difference does it make now at thirty-seven if it's mine or not? I should've married you a long time ago."

"Then why didn't you?" she asked, a bit of disbelief in her tone.

Marcus stepped forward and wiped a tear from just under her left eye. "If you'd been with the right person, would you be happy?"

"Happy about what?" she asked.

"About this," he said, gently pressing his hand against her just above her bellybutton, his other hand coming to rest on her waist to support her so his handling wouldn't set her off-balance. "Did you want this?" he asked softly, his face just a few inches from hers.

Anya swallowed hard, trying not to read too much into his touch. He never touched her in public, and even though the hallway was empty and quiet, this was practically in public. "If I receive a dishonorable discharge, there won't be a place in the world for me to go. So no, right now I don't want this. You should know, I've considered giving it up. Vectes is virtually untouched by the war. There are lots of families with small farms willing to adopt."

Marcus blinked a few times, but her words didn't seem to touch him. It was like he didn't hear her. "If dad could see me now, he'd tell me I've wasted my life. I'm a forty year old ex-convict with a prison barcode on one shoulder and my regiment tattooed on the other. I don't have any sort of college degree, I got kicked out of the COG, I got fired from my job as a demolition foreman, and I fathered a child out of wedlock by a woman who deserved better from me. I'm pretty sure I've fulfilled every nightmare he ever had about my future."

"Marcus, are you listening to me?" she asked, her voice cracking and falling to a whisper. It hurt so terribly to come to terms with it. "I don't want this."

"Anya," he said, leaning his forehead against hers and placing one hand at the base of her neck ever so gently. Definitely drunk. Very drunk and possibly concussed. "I'm sorry I didn't turn out to be someone you can be proud to be with. I want to try."

"I need you to show up tomorrow and try when you're sober," she told him, backing out of his embrace. "Until you do, I can't tell if this is real or not."

The sound of boots on the tiled hallway distracted from their tit-for-tat and Anya looked up to see Clay slowly making his way toward them, dragging his drunk butt home from a hard night and looking a little sheepish about it. He was carrying a box the shape of a very narrow shoe box in one hand. When he approached, Marcus stepped back to let him pass and he walked into her apartment. Whatever animosity had existed between the two had apparently worked its way out during their fight.

"I wasn't expecting you back tonight," she told Clay honestly.

"I gave up a three-way because of your damn voice in my head," he grumbled, his voice low and rough, stepping past her while pressing a box of saltine crackers to her chest. Alcohol was strong on his breath as well. No wonder the two of them got into a fight. They'd probably put away enough booze to kill an elephant judging by the smell. "And then it turned out one of them was shamefully underage, so to thank you for saving me from that. I stole those from the mess for you."

"Why?" she asked, a bit surprised.

"Morning sickness," he said, pausing to talk to her. His thick, dark lashes blinked together slowly. Each breath wheezed a little bit in his chest and whistled coming back out of his nose. "They're good for morning sickness. Is he bothering you?" he asked, referring to Marcus and belatedly remembering his job.

"No. I'm fine," she reassured. "He's heading out in a minute."

"Did you tell him it's his kid?" Clay asked. "Because apparently there's some confusion on the matter. I just got an earful from my brother."

Anya nodded, pursing her lips just a bit. "I told him. I'm sorry you got caught up in this."

"Don't be. I'm glad I had an excuse to rearrange his face."

"You're hardly a shining fucking example, Carmine," Marcus warned, his voice a deep, angry growl.

A broken, half-smile shaped Clay's lips. But instead of self-satisfied, it looked like the expression pained him. "No, I'm not. But I have other things going for me. For example." Reaching behind his head, Clay expertly yanked his shirt over his head with the ease of someone used to disrobing in a hurry. Giving the shirt a laissez-faire toss over his shoulder in the general direction of a chair, he stood in the center of Anya's small living area like a half-naked bronze statue. His dark eyelashes were at half mast and although the usual sparkle of mischief was missing from his almond eyes, a calm air of unflagging confidence nevertheless remained. "In twenty minutes, the mother of your child is going to see all this dripping wet in nothing but a towel while you lay awake in your bed…wondering…"

With an impish smile, Clay strode off toward the bathroom, grabbing his duffle on the way and throwing it over one shoulder. "I'll tell you this, Fenix. One way or another, I'm sleeping in a bed tonight," he said, grinning at them over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom, the door crisply snapping shut behind him.

Marcus eyed her. "He gets to stay?" he asked, sounding put out over it. Her quarters were small, and she clearly didn't have a second bed or a couch for Clay to sleep on, so if he indeed made good on his threat of sleeping on a mattress that night, they were going to be quite cozy in her standard twin bed.

Anya poked Marcus in the chest with the box of crackers. "He's going to sleep on the floor. But yes, he's staying. See if you can figure out how he earned the privilege."

"And I get no say in that?" he said.

"Nope," Anya informed him, earning a glare from those glacial blue eyes. "Nothing's changed from a few hours ago, and nothing's going to change until you make me believe you really want a relationship."

"Anya," he started to protest.

"Why don't you want him to stay?" she prodded. "Put it into words. Don't just get pissed off, make an argument."

"Fine. You want it in words? I think he's a fucking lunatic and I don't want him near you," Marcus spat. "Maybe it makes me a chauvinist asshole, but now that I know you're carrying my kid, I want to keep you safe."

"And you didn't care before, when I was just the girl you fucked sometimes?" she asked, keeping her voice level. Part of her enjoyed watching him squirm under her scrutiny.

Grabbing either side of the door jamb with his hands, he squeezed tight until the veins in his forearms popped to the surface, frustration showing so clearly on his face. He'd painted himself into a hell of a corner with that one.

"I told you, it was never like that."

"You didn't care yesterday, but now you do. Explain it to me."

His grip on the door slackened, and he sighed in resignation. "I never had anything to offer you before," he admitted. "I couldn't give you a family, or a home. I'm a failure, Anya, in so, so many ways. I never felt like I deserved you. Just, please tell Carmine to fuck off and find somewhere else to stay. And tell him to quit implying the two of you are together when you're not around."

For half a second she just stared at him, wishing he'd told her all that years ago instead of making her wonder all this time what the hell was wrong with him…or what was wrong with her.

Then she rolled her eyes at that last bit, wondering how he could be so gullible. "Clay likes to bait you, and lately you've been an easy target. And let me tell you how much I appreciate you emasculating my employee for helping me do laundry, and all the other things I couldn't do because I was on bed rest with your child."

"That was Baird. He's a dick to everyone."

"Yeah, Baird can be a dick. But he's always a husband to his wife, isn't he?" Anya asked.

Drunk Marcus didn't have an answer to that one. He let his arms drop down to his sides, his eyes somewhat glazed. Thinking it over, perhaps?

"Good-night, Marcus," she said at last, shutting the door and turning to head toward her bed.


AN: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. You guys are so awesome, and your feedback always makes my day. Please let me know what you think of the chapter, and any thoughts or questions you might have. Thanks so much for reading!