AN: I know this has been forever in getting to you, but I hope this little chapter at least deals with the minor cliffhanger that I left it at before (many apologies). I'm off on an extended trip in April, so I doubt I will be writing another chapter soon. But thankfully the mental block seems to have faded enough for this chapter to happen.

Thanks to everyone for their support - and again I apologize for the wait.

Enjoy,

~Voi

Blond-brown hair and dark blue eyes, the little girl asleep in his arms, was his daughter.

Sophie-Anne.

Now that he knew the truth it seemed almost comical that he hadn't seen it sooner, nearly made him wince to realize that for all his powers of observation he has missed the most important connection of all. Because there was no denying it, she was his as surely as the sun rose in the East.

And yet, Valentine's words had jarred him so completely, shaken his very foundation so badly that his mouth seemed to work without accessing his brain at all.

"You sure she's mine?"

His question might have seemed callous if it wasn't for the utter blankness of his face, the disbelief that had his eyes widening.

"Shit. I didn't mean to say that, Val."

Backpedaling as fast as he could, Tim looked down at Sophie and shook his head, "I know she's mine. Sorry. Didn't mean to ask that, I don't know what I was-"

Valentine's hands slowly closed around the one free hand he had resting on the table, making him jerk in his seat as he looked up at her, throat working furiously as he attempted to apologize again.

"You know you always get chatty whenever you get nervous. Always have." The smile on her is genuine but he can see in her eyes that his question has wounded her.

The realization makes his stomach clench nauseously, and he swallows hard.

"Val –"

"I've only ever been intimate with you, Tim." She cuts him off with the one phrase that is guaranteed to shut him up. And though she gestures to Sophie, looks at the baby in his arms, his attention remains squarely on her.

"She's 100 percent your daughter…well, 50 percent. The other half is all mine."

Vaguely Tim is aware of the bright flush to Valentine's cheeks, the lovely rose color that's started darkening with every passing second. But his mind seems just as stuck on her, and once more he finds himself at a loss, though a jolt of pleasure passes through him when she finally collects enough confidence to look him in the eyes once more.

"I'm the only..."

He means to phrase the words as a question but the pleasure of it makes it a fact, an assertive repetition of her previous admission. His throat dries half way through it and he coughs roughly as he tries to focus himself, but the room seems to have gotten just a little bit warmer for them both.

Exhaling slowly he tries again, his dark blue eyes narrowing in on her until she's almost scarlet.

"You mean you never…" Raising one eyebrow he leans closer, "Not even once?"

He can't deny he feels some strange sort of masculine pride at the thought, though he's the first to admit it's not the most evolved feeling he's ever had.

She shakes her head in the negative, and gives a little shrug. "No time."

Past experience had made him aware that she had always had a very practical view of things, this seemed no different. Still, the idea was so entirely beyond him that he couldn't help but probe a little further.

"But Val, surely…"

"Tim."

This time her words are tinged with a shyness that remind him of the young woman she had once been. And when Valentine gives the room a quick glance before turning her meaningful gaze back to where he's seated, he can practically see the exasperation written across her face; the need to finish the conversation in another, more private, venue.

It's like they've never been apart, and he gets her implication easily enough, nodding towards the door as both of them rise from their seats. And like they've done it a thousand times before, Valentine grabs the baby bag as Tim carries Sophie out, cradling her little face in the crook of his neck as they slowly snake around low lying coffee tables and chairs.

He waits until they've made it to her car before he speaks up again, "Sorry."

It feels like he's been apologizing a lot lately but the guilt seems almost suffocating, the self-reproach something he has not felt in many years.

Valentine nods but her expression is lost on him when she turns to open her car door and tosses Sophie's bag inside. And while she smooth's the blankets in the baby carrier, Tim focuses on his daughter, gently passing the little Bo Peep and Sheep dolls to her mother before they can fall from her slack grip.

But even holding Sophie close does little to quell the bitterness he feels. He understands why, of course he does, even if Valentine's barely told him anything outside the basics. The hurt is there, but worse is the feeling that somehow, someway, he's done wrong by her, by this woman he cared for once upon a time.

Hadn't he been angry at that unknown man who had gotten her pregnant without a ring?

He was that man, and the self-loathing could not have burned any more strongly than it was in that moment.

"Tim?"

He's halfway down the street before he's quite aware of what he's doing. But by the time Val had caught up with him and the precious bundle he was carrying they were already at the very steps of the building he needed.

"Tim, what are you doing?"

He briefly gestures to the stately building, "We are going to the courthouse and getting married."

There's no a trace of emotion in his face, not a flicker of anything, but Valentine can see the stiff lines of his shoulders, the intensity. It does little to stop her firm refusal.

"No, we're not."

"Damn it Valentine." He wheels on her, dark eyes flashing, "I would sooner die before I act like my father, so help me, I am going to do the proper thing and marry you."

His words do not surprise her, now when she knows him as well as she does…as well as she did. But understanding his reasoning and accepting them are two different things.

"This isn't the 18th century, Tim, I will not be a ruined woman if I am single and with a baby. And you are not and never will be like your father."

She touches his arm gently, and once more he's reminded of the very real chemistry that sizzles between them.

"I don't need you to marry me in order to take care of this baby." Gently she soothes the roughness of his temper with quiet reassurance.

He remains stubborn about this, because it matters more to him in this short span than nearly everything else he has in his life.

"Sophie needs a father."

"Of course she does," Valentine nods reasonably, "And you are more than welcome to look after her and care for her; to love her. Come over whenever you'd like. But your relationship with our daughter can happen without you marrying me."

"That isn't right, Val."

"I'm a modern girl, Tim. If and when I choose to marry a man it will because he loves me, not because I got pregnant with his baby."

He looks torn, caught between dragging her up the steps and trying to respect her decision though every decent gentlemanly part of him rejects it.

"What happens if something happens to you?"

"You're her father, Tim. It's your name I put on the birth certificate, so if anything happens to me you'll be next in line."

"I wasn't asking about Sophie. I was asking about you, Valentine."

There's a file back in his car that tells him she's alone, without any family in this state or even this part of the country. It's not the background he remembers her having two years ago, and her lack of support system has him worried more now than ever.

"I'll just be careful."

"That's not good enough anymore, Val. You have a responsibility to Sophie, and if you're not healthy who is going to look after the both of you?"

"We don't need to get married for that."

"We do."

And then because Val couldn't stand the tension any longer, she blurted "I am not going to be one of those women who forces you into a marriage because I need the help. I am an independent woman, Tim Gutterson, and I am telling you now that I can stand on my own!"

"Then what if I'm asking you to marry me because I need you?" Arms full of their baby, eyes focused on her, Tim shook his head, "Don't ask me to compromise my values, Val. I still remember that we were talking marriage back before that last deployment."

When it looks like she might say something Tim manages to head it off with a frown before continuing, "I'm not asking for an explanation right now, about why things happened the way they did. But I want to be part of her life, and I can't stand the thought of Sophie growing up with the same instability that came from my father not being married to my mother."

"Tim…"

"You know I can't budge on this Val." Shrugging helplessly Tim brushed the one of Sophie's soft baby curls, "Please. You know me better than that."

"I do." But the look on her expression is as equally wounded, "But it's been too long. You can't expect me to pick up where we left off. I'll…need time."

"You're asking me to wait."

There's an ache in his throat that doesn't go away even when he swallows, turning to look at his daughter he finds a small measure of comfort that at least now he knows the truth.

Still, it's an eternity before he can scrape together the control to grate out a definitive noise of agreement.

"Ok."

Tim shows up to work the next day without much fanfare.

In at the same time as usual, he walks over to the small kitchenette to start the coffee pot and then drags his feet getting a glass of water.

He's usually one of the first people in the office, a habit from the early mornings back during his training days. The extra gives him time to organize files, parse through all the requests they get, and assess whether any of it is worth hashing out to the other people in the office for specialty work.

Being productive helps with focusing the mind, and today of all days, Tim craves that focus. He had suffered all evening, the bout of restlessness so strong that it had forced him out of his apartment when it was still dark. Going for a run, pushing himself until his lungs burned from the exertion, had helped.

Not enough though.

He lets himself fall into his seat, jostling the water in his glass and splashing some on the varnished surface of his desk. But the mess helps too. He needs something to do, and so he is all too pleased to return to the kitchenette and retrieve the paper towel necessary.

The restlessness continues all day.

But as he had hoped the work does help.

There is an escort job that proves diverting enough to lose several hours, and afterwards there are investigations into a handful of minor fugitives to be made and reported on.

By the time he had finished the paperwork on the latest case he's at the end of his day.

And while the office gets a notice that a felon had recently gotten loose in Tennessee and is likely on his way to Lexington, the task is left for other marshals and other work days.

Today, unlike days past, he has somewhere to be.

And it's not a bar.

And it's not his apartment.

He pulls up to the house a scant twenty minutes after his shift is over.

A comparatively petite building, it sits well away from the curb, and in the driveway sits the car he knew was chosen for safety rather than style.

Getting out of his truck, locking it out of habit, his focus is entirely on the little house that waits patiently amidst the little flowerbeds and shrubs.

Pretty, delicate, carefully manicured.

He scans the windows and finds the décor unmistakably Valentine's, down to the little antique ties that hold the curtains open. It's her house, and there's not a trace of another person in those softly feminine lines, that blend of old and new.

Crossing from paved path to porch, he spends a while lingering over the various potted plants, but making his way towards the door.

The closer he gets the more he realizes that he can hear them, Val and the baby, talking somewhere in the front room. Muffled though it is, the sounds are the ones he's been straining to hear all day. But when, at last, he's close enough to make out distinct words he finds himself hesitating as wariness leaves him rooted in place and stuck between two vastly different decisions.

He's at her door. All he need do is extend his hand and brush his knuckles against its surface.

But he can leave now if he want to, turn around and pretend he was never there.

Valentine will never suspect, and Sophie is too young to understand.

It is tempting.

In the face of everything he learned in the past twenty-four hours perhaps it is even the smart thing. But he is not his father, and the longer he lingers on their door mat the more this path feels discordant with everything he's done for himself, made himself into.

He wants to know his daughter, as much as it is his duty he finds that despite the short time span it is now something he wants as well. It could be curiosity, shock perhaps, but Tim knows himself well enough to see that this is no passing interest.

He has a daughter, and he is not, and never will be, his father.

Thus the other option becomes the only one. And before he can stop himself, his knuckles skim the wooden door before the sound of it echoes through the little house, stilling the chatter within.

There is a split second of absolute terror when the door cracks. And he wonders if maybe Valentine had simply said those words to appease him the day before, that she might not actually want her daughter, their daughter, to have anything to do with him.

But when at last her face appears, the door swinging open to reveal Sophie cuddled to her side, the feelings fade with as much abruptness as they had sprung. They are smiling, Valentine and his daughter, small hesitant expressions but smiles all the same.

And maybe, just maybe, it will be a good evening after all.