AN: The concept for this Hymn was written a long time ago, back before The Slab had been announced, so it's based off my own headcanon of Marcus' experience in prison (aka my other fic, Hound). Apologies for the obvious inconsistencies!

VII.
Fiction
(Part Two)

come via light;
why do I refuse you?
'cause if my fear's right
I risk to lose you.

"You don't have to lurk in the doorway all night."

The words were quiet in the empty silence of the sergeants' mess on Vectes, but they still made Anya jump nearly out of her skin. She wondered how long he'd known she was there, standing like the shy kid in class by the entrance, before finally acknowledging her. Her face began to burn with embarrassment, and she was grateful he hadn't turned around at the bar to look at her yet.

"Sorry, Marcus. I wasn't sure if you wanted company or not."

Hell, I never am. These days, it was always easier to assume the sergeant would rather have his free time to himself. Sighing inwardly, Anya finally allowed herself to cross the threshold into the mess proper. It had been mere months ago that the COG had constructed this hall on Vectes Island for Gears to meet with their buddies over a trayful of pints; a genuinely happy place amid a whole world of miserable. But something about all the empty chairs and tables made the place seem far less friendly than when it was brimming over with warm friends and even warmer hooch.

Anya approached the bar, her boots just a little too noisy on the greying floorboards, and slid onto the plum-coloured leather barstool beside the lone sergeant. He glanced at her sidelong, then gestured vaguely to the sparse collection of half-empty bottles on the shelf behind the bar.

"Want something?"

"I'm alright, thanks." It was a self-serve sort of deal here; in the dim light of the low-hanging lamps, Anya could see Marcus had already helped himself to a glass of something rust-coloured. The lieutenant herself had never managed to build up a resistance to the throat-scalding moonshine that Dizzy home-brewed.

"Bit late for a drink, don't you think?" Anya remarked half-heartedly, checking her barely-functioning watch. The grimy square face blinked the red numbers 0249 back up at her. "Or early, I guess."

The sergeant just shrugged. "Five o'clock somewhere."

It was a tired old cliché to justify drinking; usually, the more generic Marcus' brush-offs were, the further his mind was from the present place and time. No one knew what the real reason for him sneaking off to the mess at such an hour was, but Anya guessed it probably had something to do with clearing thoughts that could only be safely resurrected when there was no one else around.

Anya swallowed. She wished she had the willpower to control it, but just like always, she found herself watching him from the corner of her eye. He stared straight ahead as he nursed his drink, ice blue eyes half-lidded. His posture was less stiff than it was during daylight hours, his breathing slow and his shoulders resting easy under the furred hood of his bomber jacket.

It was probably only due to the fact that he was grateful to be out from under the leaden weight of his armour plating, but a sliver of Anya's heart found itself hoping that he might actually feel relaxed around her again. In the long, exhausting months since the sinking of Jacinto, the silences between them had become more comfortable, calming even. Sometimes, those quiet moments were even warmed with the odd conversation. It wasn't much, but the words seemed to come a little easier every time, and nowadays, that was all Anya needed.

They must have sat for minutes, each too lost in the inner workings of their own minds to even notice the growing silence, before Anya saw something that distracted her from her sullen thoughts. More than that, it scared her.

Marcus wasn't wearing gloves. Whether he was on duty back in Jacinto, or ghosting around Vectes on his off hours, he always had some sort of gloves on. Due to the island's humid climate, most Gears had abandoned their standard issue armoured gauntlets for lighter pairs that gave them full use of their hands, Marcus included. But for whatever reason, he didn't have them now; Anya realized she couldn't remember the last time that happened. And yet, it wasn't his bare hands that sent a jolt of cold apprehension down her spine.

It was the stark web of long, thin scars that covered the backs of them, their spidery lines trickling over his knuckles and down between his fingers.

"Shit, Marcus," Anya whispered before she could reel herself back from the edge of her own surprise. She couldn't believe it had taken her this long to notice. "What the hell gave you those?"

For a few moments, the Gear acted like he hadn't heard, though his subtle shift in posture suggested he'd sensed her dismay before she'd even spoken. Then he sighed, left his glass on the bar and raised one of the scarred hands in question. He grunted as he surveyed the twisted knots on the knuckles, eyebrows raised slightly as if he were seeing the scars for the first time.

"Long story," he stated quietly. He made a solid fist with the wounded hand, causing the white lines of dead flesh to stretch and warp over the bones. His jaw muscle was twitching slightly; for a scant moment, it almost seemed like he wanted to scratch the surface of that story. But he only cleared his throat and rotated his wrist a few times.

"But no real damage done..." Anya winced at the sound of the sergeant's wrist joints popping as he demonstrated his point. "So I guess it doesn't really matter anyways."

He swiftly dropped the hand back down to the bar and retrieved his drink to emphasize the over-ness of the conversation. But in the dim light of the mess hall, Anya had recognized something that scared the hell out of her. She might have spent the majority of her time holed up in a dark CIC room, but she knew the difference between bullet wounds and something else.

"Those are knife wounds, aren't they Marcus?"

The sergeant didn't even glance over as he took another swallow from his drink. "So maybe I've come across a lot of angry assholes with knives."

"Maybe before E-Day," Anya countered, trying to recall if the UIR forces had ever been known for wielding blades during the Pendulum Wars. She knew the Locust sure as hell didn't. "These...these are fresher than that. I could swear you didn't have them before..."

The lieutenant cut herself off before she could say it and remind him of that horrible black stain on his past. Whether she understood it or not, the Slab was a wound Marcus was still licking; too deep, too tender, and too recent for anyone else to touch yet. Not even her. Mentally berating herself, Anya prayed she'd stopped herself in time.

The look on his face told her she hadn't even come close.

"Like I said," he murmured sourly. "A lot of angry assholes with knives."

Understanding hit Anya like a Ticker blast, and she found herself feeling suddenly repulsed. She had seen everything—unspeakable acts of cruelty, senseless brutality, violence on a purely incomprehensible scale. So why, then, did the thought of some criminal thug from the Slab digging a knife into Marcus' bare knuckles make her sick to her stomach?

It happened before she could stop herself; she reached out and grasped one of his scarred hands with both of hers.

Instantly, they both froze, equally startled by what had just occurred. Anya resisted the overwhelming urge to jerk her hands away and mumble a sheepish apology, but left her grasp light enough that he could pull away if he wanted to.

He never did. Deep down, she hadn't expected him to; he was immune to knee-jerk responses like that. He carefully set his glass down on the dark wood, eyes fixed hazily on the tarnished beer taps before him. Anya held her breath: his hand remained motionless on the bar top, but it didn't soften to her touch. Subconsciously, she curled her fingers a little tighter, but the hand under her palms only stiffened.

Goddamn it. A scream of frustration burst soundlessly in Anya's chest. Screw it all; she wanted to kiss those scars, to press his calloused hands to her chest, over her quickening heart, and just hold them there. Her hands felt so safe inside his, but it was agonizingly obvious that her own touch didn't offer him the same.

What happened to us?

The lieutenant closed her eyes. Reluctantly, she allowed her hands to slip into her own lap, where she knew they belonged.

Marcus blew a long breath through his nose as if he'd been holding it; she didn't know if it was more a gesture of relief or worry. "Anya..."

In spite of herself, Anya glanced up at the sergeant. That one jaw muscle was working overtime, and his brows were furrowed in an expression of mild concern. He wanted to say something, Anya knew; she just wasn't sure if she wanted to hear it.

Unable to resist the need to just get away, the woman tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and rose from the stool.

"I should go." The rushed cop-out was as truthful as it was lame: she couldn't be in that mess hall anymore; she had to get out. Marcus was avoiding her eyes; she thought she might have seen something in his face, maybe a ripple of reluctance to let her flee, but she chased the notion away. Wishful thinking...

"Anya, wait."

Damn it, Marcus, just let me run away.

This would be what hurt the most, she knew; the final nail in the coffin. As desperately as she wanted to bolt, there was simply no way she could walk away from him know, even if the words he was working up to say would set her whole world on its head. She froze, but facing him was too much to bear.

"Just...stay."

Anya was so steeled for disappointment that the sergeant's words barely registered. When they did, the muscles in her legs began to feel a bit rubbery, and she held her breath. He seemed to be biting back on his words, chewing each one over before speaking.

"I know I have no right to ask you that," he confessed bitterly.

It felt like there was something more the sergeant wanted to say, but if there was, he wrestled it down, letting the statement hang suspended in the air.

At last, she brought herself to look at him, but he seemed just as unnerved by eye contact as she was. Cautiously, she laid a hand on the sleeve of his bomber jacket.

"Marcus..." she began, focusing on the texture of the worn leather rather than the silent man before her. Memories of the past five years strobed through her head, and she had a difficult time knowing where to begin. So much had been left unsaid.

"The day Dom brought you back from the Slab...it was like you'd come back from the dead."

It was painfully true. For literal months after Marcus' return, he'd felt like a ghost to her—intangible, unreachable—and she couldn't help but treat him as such. She remembered the moment she'd seen him, as they emerged from their respective Ravens in the middle of Embry Square. It had been four long years, but she had still recognized him from his walk alone: that slow, easy swagger that came from a lifetime of moving in bulky armour plates, with shoulders back and strong chin lowered...

Marcus made a small grumbling noise in his throat, pulling her from her reverie.

"You're tellin' me."

She examined his roughened features then, gauging his reaction as carefully as she knew how. His jaw was still sawing a bit, but she could see his brows were knitting as that rare overwhelmed look crept over him.

Her lids drooped, remembering. Maybe it would have been better to lay it all out in the open that day, to rush across that dangerous stretch of pavement in the Square and throw her arms around him right then and there. Hoffman would have probably had her publicly flogged, but maybe it would have saved time. Because here they were: more than a year later, and still drifting around each other like damned ghosts.

"I don't know what I'm trying to say," Anya sighed. "It's just that...I lost you."

Suddenly, the sergeant shook his head; a harsh, jerking movement that surprised Anya.

"No."

Anya's lips parted, unable to respond. Her fellow Gear just gave his head another angry shake and continued. "I was the one who screwed up, and I lost you. Not the other way around."

In the next moment, Marcus' expression of glacial calm cracked, and he winced like he was fishing a bullet out of his flesh. His next three words sunk through the air with a mournful acceptance that slashed at Anya's heartstrings. It was as if he were saying them for the first time, and only now realizing their repercussions.

"I lost you."

The lieutenant hesitated for a moment, more out of habit than actual trepidation, then reached out to graze Marcus' bare hand once again. Predictably, he tensed, but his actions seemed just as much force of habit as her own, and it wasn't long before she felt him relax to her touch. Moving as carefully as someone trying to catch a startled animal, Anya moulded her hand to his, fingers brushing the delicate scars on his knuckles as if they might still cause him pain.

"Never," she said solemnly. "Never."

No one moved. The pair was paralyzed by the visceral reminder of the closeness they had once shared, seemingly a lifetime ago. They might not have had much, and what little they'd made together had been worn to tattered threads over the years, but the pieces were still there.

And they were worth salvaging.

"...Stay the night with me, Marcus."

The sergeant glanced up at her; a little too quickly to hide his mild surprise. She knew he was well aware of the private officers' quarters Hoffman had secured for her upon their arrival to Vectes. He knew, even if he'd never asked to visit. His blue eyes had that thousand-yard haze to them as he surveyed her, then strayed off to simply stare into space.

"You still want me."

It wasn't a question so much as a mere statement, quiet and tinged with a mild, disbelieving sadness.

Again, he broke Anya's heart, and the absurdity of it all made her want to laugh and sob at the same time.

"Are you kidding me? Why the hell would I give up on you now?" She gave the hand beneath her own a vicious squeeze. "God, Marcus, you might be the most frustrating man on Sera, but damned if that isn't why I love you."

There it was, the word that they'd dodged their entire lives. But she refused to give it special status, nor would she let him be surprised by it. Anya was done with hiding her heart.

A blanket of apprehensive silence fell over the mess hall, then Marcus' jacket rustled as he stood; a gradual, unhurried movement. She studied his turning face, waiting for his reply, if there was to be any at all. But when he met her gaze, the look in his wintery blues said he had no more use for words, and his response came as action instead.

Before Anya could fully comprehend it, the sergeant had stepped in so that he loomed over her, and then she was in his arms, his mouth warm against hers.

The first moments were slow, hesitant. But then the spark of deep physical familiarity was struck, and Anya kissed him back with all the ferocious love she had to give. Her heart throbbed as he returned in kind, crushing her to his barrel chest and bearing down on her. At some point, she felt the hardened gash in his lip—one of the many scars he refused to speak of—but it didn't scare her anymore, and she kissed the wound with wolfish acceptance. He was just as she remembered him, scars be damned. No matter what marks the world carved into him, no matter where it dragged him off to, he was still hers.

The kiss broke, reluctantly, and the two Gears simply touched their brows together, breathing to steady themselves amid the electrifying fallout of the past several minutes. For whatever reason, Anya was reminded of the first night they spent together, all those years ago in her apartment after the Embry Star award ceremony. It was as if something old and well-worn had fallen back into place, settling with a silent and comforting clunk.

"Okay," Anya gave a hitched sigh, still wrapped up in her soldier's heavy embrace. She couldn't even bring herself to open her eyes. "Just one condition tonight."

Marcus' arms tightened around her in a way that said he was ready to agree to any terms.

"Stay," she whispered into his neck. "You have to stay."

Lids still shut, Anya felt a cool hand touch to her cheek, cradling the side of her face in a gesture she had all but forgotten. When Marcus spoke, his voice was barely a hoarse rumble in his throat.

"Deal."

end.