Marguerite looked over at the sleeping man beside her. His hair was almost entirely grey, with edges of white, but still full and thick. His contented form belayed no worries as he slept. His possessive streak still flared from time to time, evidence of a life hard spent. His arms encircled her and he held her tightly. A small smile edged his lips. His glasses lay on the table beside the bed, with a book under them. He wore them only marginally when his eyes ached with strain. Marguerite chuckled internally at her secretly vain mate. His body was still virile and bulky, but softening somewhat in his age. His face had more lines, but then so did hers. His long johns were now made of hide, and not cotton. They were sewn with love from Marguerite, although it was mostly because his others were threadbare and rough with age. On his feet were sandals and not boots, because of an intense volcanic eruption and in his haste for safety they had melted. The real story included him shucking her on his shoulder and carrying her like a ragdoll to safety, because he was unwilling to let her travel in lava alongside him. It was something kept hidden from a certain reporter friend who would have scandalized the issue. The fact that she was pregnant and willing notwithstanding.

On his body were handmade shirts and pants, although following in the previous custom now held a more tranquil design, and not washed eternally with lye and starch. His shirt had frayed at the ends, where he had ripped off his sleeves for a bandage or some such, and she had neglected to re-sew it. It had been that way for years. His pants, now more hide than cotton, and more pantaloon than khaki, suited him just fine. They both wore shorter length pants, and had opted for darker colours, mainly so cleaning wouldn't be such a hassle.

And on his head lay eternally his hat. It might not have been the original, but it was certainly the most treasured. He had lost his hat, many years ago, in a swamp. Ned had asked him point blank many, many, times about how he had lost it. The reporter was certain there was something behind the vague notion that Roxton could have surrendered the hat without a fight. The truth in that statement was glaring. The hat was lost as it was tipped over by a branch. The facts that he was currently occupied by both running away from Cannibals, jostling both their packs, and assisting a screaming injured Marguerite went casually unmentioned.

She still remembered the look on his face as she presented him with her gift. It had been an anniversary of sorts for her, but for him he was puzzled. So, he opened the burlap wrapped shape with apprehension, after thanking her and quickly scanning his memory for any past argument they might have had. He was presented by an almost exact duplicate of his hat. The only thing different was his name emblazoned on the inner band, followed by the stitching of a small heart beside it. It was nothing overly romantic, nor deeply affectionate, but he thanked her with deep sentiment in his eyes. And then thanked her with his body.

Every year after that she had repeated the gesture, and he his own. It became tradition that although a little absurd became necessity, after several lapses in judgement and the loss of many hats. Her hat, oddly enough, stayed as black as her hair, and didn't seem to age. Roxton was near certain that she replaced hers as well, but caution and her ire deemed it unnecessary for him to ask. He was actually beginning to figure out her personality and the little quirks that made him love her. But even after all these years he had yet to fully understand her. Her beautiful hair was tinged with grey in the temples, but remained as thick as ever. It was past her hips in length now, and Roxton refused to let her cut it. It was a half-assed argument on both parts, as it was fought wrapped up in each other, laying in bed awaiting sleep.

It had taken years of patience, on both their parts, but finally he had carried her over the threshold of their own home. She cried and laughed, and repressed a giddy shriek as his muscular frame attacked her in the treehouse. He carried her onto the elevator and completely ignored the astonished looks from their companions. He then trekked the half-mile to their home, the distance both for privacy and for the lack of good location. She was shocked as he stepped into their own lift made of deep cherry wood, and it carried them up towards their own treehouse. It might not have been the Savoy, or the Ritz, or very glamorous at all, but it felt like home. It had three levels, and two pantries, and best of all a giant soaker tub. Marguerite had bargained a Shaman at a local tribe for the treasure, and actually traded fairly with him. There was no way she'd welch on a deal that precious. They'd furnished it themselves, slowly as Roxton finished the structure. The original treehouse had housed their accumulating goods in the many empty rooms, but slowly Roxton had been removing their things. Their home needed to be sturdy, and Roxton had made triple-sure that it was secure. Getting help from their resident reporter and scientist, and sometimes their female-hunter, the beams were properly adjusted to support four times the weight needed, just in case. And Marguerite had had the perfect opt-out, although this time she actually didn't want it.

As he carried her towards the back parts of the structure, she saw that they passed a nursery. A small tremor ran through her and she was kicked in the kidney. From the inside. The small annoyance lit up her face, and she frowned at the man carrying her. "It's a damn boy again, Roxton." She said in a half bemused, half mock- annoyed voice.

The man just smirked back at her, and continued carrying her.

Marguerite groaned inwardly under the quilt at the passage of time. Had it really been that long? Yes, they had survived their many pitfalls, and yes they've lived quite the lives, but surely that that many years, bordering on a decade or two??, hadn't passed. She still felt relatively young. And if a kick in the abdomen was any consolation, she really was still young. She was still petite as always, a fact that Roxton mentioned every time she looked less than amused at the growing piles of laundry. Or the sewing duties of the day. Or milking the goat. Or eating supper. Or getting dressed. Or getting undressed. Really... the man mentioned such things far too often.In turn, Marguerite favoured his muscles and broad chest, as she kissed him awake in the morning. Ah, the sweetness of privacy.

Roxton shifted and groaned beside her, not awake but not asleep, and rolled over to pin her to the bed. His hand splayed on her stomach, the other to cup her breast, as he moaned and possessively threw a leg over her.

She rolled her eyes at his sleeping form. He grunted, and nipped at her neck.

He continued his half-assed ministrations until a certain clanging in the main room below in their treehouse woke him up fully.

"Terribly sorry Marguerite, Don't know what came over me."

"Mmm, we'll have to build another treehouse if you keep that up."

Roxton chuckled quietly and stole another kiss before half-leaping out of bed and dressing.

As Roxton left the room, Marguerite heard herself shouting after him, "And make sure Will feeds the damn goat this time, John. He'll eat the whole jungle if we let him."

William.

And Marguerite was shocked back into the present reality. She must have passed out from the pain. She felt Roxton's solid bulk beneath her, and his hand rested heavily at her pulse point. She then felt the terrible pain seep out of her, and exit her body. When she opened her eyes she was met by Roxton's inquisitive glance.

He quietly stuttered out, "That wasn't William, Marguerite. He's okay, I think. I'm sure of it. But-"

Before Roxton could finish, Marguerite saw a red flash of smoke seep from her fingers, and Roxton helped her sit up. She leaned her back against his solid chest, and felt the shock subside. A red glare shot out of her hands so fast she wasn't sure she wasn't dreaming. In an instant the raptors disappeared as did the blood trail and the solemn body. All that was left was jungle.

"That was one hell of a test." Roxton stated after a few moments.

Yes, But I know we'll past the rest." Marguerite said with a conviction that had been long lost. There was a gleam in her eye, and Roxton kissed her quick, lest he break his nerve.

He knew the statement traveled farther than just their situation. He knew it extended to forever.