Author's Notes: This was the first fanfic I ever wrote, way, way back in 2005, when I was hugely into Marcal. This story was previously published, also under the name "Annebronterocks," at Tessarae's "Diner of Love" website.

Disclaimer: My father always used to say I could write for the soaps, but I never did. I own none of these characters and only played with them for fun.

Marcie was exhausted. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with her. She couldn't remember ever having felt this utterly drained. Not when she'd been in the hospital with that infection, not when those awful sorority girls had kept her sleep deprived before dragging her to The Garage for the climax of their plan to humiliate her. Not when she'd sat up in the hospital worrying about Al.

Al…. She was too tired to really let loose again, but she could feel her eyes welling up and spilling tears down her cheeks. Marcie couldn't believe that he had been gone for two weeks now. It just wasn't possible. If she concentrated, she could feel him standing in the doorway, looking down at her. She forced herself to raise her head, almost believing that she would see him. But her room was empty.

Marcie tried to concentrate. Something wasn't right, she just shouldn't be this tired. She should go to the hospital tomorrow. Maybe this was some sort of after effect of the infection reasserting itself. Or maybe she was coming down with mono; one of the girls in the dorm had come down with it last year and had had to drop out for the spring semester. Or maybe she was just depressed. Wasn't exhaustion one of the symptoms of depression?

Marcie woke up the next morning, still tired, but with enough energy to get up, get dressed, and go to the hospital. She signed in at the walk-in clinic and sat waiting, leafing listlessly through a tattered copy of Time magazine.

"Marcie Walsh?" she heard someone say, and looked up. A doctor was standing in the doorway of the examining room, holding a clipboard. Marcie rose and followed him in. She plopped into the chair that he indicated, and now looked at him for the first time. He was young, probably mid-twenties, with light brown hair. Tall, but much slighter than Al. She realized that he was addressing her again.

"Sorry," she said, "I wasn't paying attention, what did you say?"

"I was asking you to tell me about your symptoms."

"I'm really tired all of the time," Marcie began, "I don't mean tired like I'm not getting enough sleep, because I've been sleeping more than usual lately. I'm just exhausted. For almost a week. And I thought that I should get a check-up or something, that maybe I was coming down with mono."

"Have you been in contact with anyone who has mono?"

"Not that I know of."

"Any signs of fever, aches?"

"No." Marcie watched him scribble something on his clipboard. "You probably think I'm being a hypochondriac."

"No, no, I'm not saying that," he replied. He sounded a little brusque to Marcie, a little impatient. Or maybe she was just being sensitive. "Shall I examine you?" he continued. Marcie climbed onto the examining table and sat, her feet dangling. First the doctor took her temperature. It was normal. He looked in her eyes, ears, and throat, then felt her glands. It was all perfectly professional, although a small part of Marcie wished that the doctor examining her was a woman. What did men think about when they were examining female patients?

"Would you lift the back of your shirt?" the doctor said, putting on his stethoscope. Marcie obediently untucked her top and felt the cold circle of metal in the middle of her back. "Breathe." She breathed. The circle moved. "Breathe." She breathed again.

"Did you just become a doctor?" she asked as he moved in front of her to listen to her heart. She wanted a slight distraction from knowing that she was letting a guy, OK a doctor, but a guy she had just met look at her cleavage.

"I'm a resident. That's the last step. Don't worry, I'm perfectly qualified to examine you. Being a resident basically means that they work you harder and longer for less than a full doctor."

"What's your name?"

"Michael McBain." He had finished using his stethoscope and Marcie readjusted her top. After taking her blood pressure, he sat for a minute looking at his notations and scribbling something.

"Am I all right?"

"Well, you don't have a fever, your glands aren't swollen, your blood pressure and your breathing are all absolutely normal. I think it's safe to say that you don't have mono."

"But why do I feel this tired?"

"Could be stress. Have you been unusually stressed recently?" Marcie almost snorted. That was the understatement of the year.

"My boyfriend just died." Marcie swallowed hard. Michael looked at her for a minute.

"I was wondering if I'd seen you before," he said. "You mean Al Holden."

"Yes." Marcie had to swallow again. It was harder this time.

"I'm very sorry. Well, nothing is glaringly wrong with you, but I'll send you for some blood tests, just so we can say that we've covered our bases and ruled everything out." He began scribbling on a new piece of paper. "Take this requisition form to the testing center, then come back to the waiting area. It should take an hour or so for the results to come back if you have the time to hang around here."

"Thanks," Marcie said, taking the paper and leaving the room.

She had to wait two hours, not one, but Marcie didn't have the will or energy to be somewhere else. Dr. McBain finally called her name again, and she sat back down in the chair in the examining room. She watched him skim through the lab report, stopping once or twice to read something carefully. He put the report down and looked at her.

"Definitely not mono," he said.

"Okay."

"You're anemic."

"I'm what?"

"Anemic. Your body isn't getting enough iron. That's why you've been so tired."

"Oh. I was never anemic before."

"That brings me to the other thing that popped up on your blood test."

"What?" Marcie had been calming down, digesting the anemia, but now she was starting to panic a little.

"You're pregnant."