VII.
Fiction
(Part One)

were we torn apart
by the break of day?
you're more than I can believe
would ever come my way.

For the first short hours, every moment seemed to slip away like leaves in a dark stream: blink, and a dozen would pass you by. But now time had settled, and the minutes slowed back to a more comprehensible pace. There was only the thump of Anya's heartbeat, the sound of Marcus' breathing, and the endless ticking of the clock on the dresser across the room.

Anya's bedroom was nearly pitch black; she had a hard time sleeping otherwise. The only illumination came from the narrow shards of moonlight that spilled around the edges of the heavy curtains. The glow was dim and pale, bleached by the snow that had been falling for days on end. But it wasn't the clean white light of winter that Anya had grown up loving; this early morning, it had a tarnished, brassy hue. It had been like that for years now, ever since the Hammer strikes. Sera's winters had never truly recovered from the fallout.

Distantly, Anya was reminded of the first night after the strikes. There had been no snow, but instead a sky clotted with an entire world's worth of ashes. The air still had the eerie, blanketing hush that the first snows of the year always brought, and it was was almost worse than the original deafening blasts of the Hammer had been. Those who had survived in Ephyra had been under twenty-six hour indoor curfew until the black-streaked astmosphere became breathable again—not that anyone wanted to go out into that silent, windless storm. The suffocating sheets of ash were bad enough, but thinking about what—and who—those ashes came from was so much worse.

And despite the storm of war, death and grief that ebbed and swirled endlessly beyond that window, at this exact moment in time, the world was perfect.

She lay motionless under the sheets; such perfection was fragile. If she shifted, if she moved at all, it might crack like precious glass in her hands, like so many other moments like it before.

When it came to her and the sergeant, that was simply the nature of the beast.

All she could do was close her eyes and make sure to drink in every detail. The kiss of well-worn sheets against her bare skin; the strong arm that cradled her head; the slow, steady breath against the nape of her neck.

Marcus was sprawled on his back, his massive frame taking up most of the mattress real estate. Anya mimicked his lazy pose, overlapping him like one book fallen over another. Her hips leaned over his, and the brutish rock of his right shoulder gave her something to rest her head on, even if it wasn't nearly as comfortable as her well-worn pillow.

The bed itself was a mess; the sheets had become a tumultuous sea of white cotton, hopelessly churned up by the night's endeavours. They'd long ago thrown off the oppressive down-filled duvet, exposing their fevered skin to the chill air to cool down. Anya's poor circulation had eventually forced her to retreat back under the covers, but Marcus was a furnace as always, and his body heat was something to be thankful for in these wicked winter nights. Anya leaned against the naked chest at her back, shivering as the burning skin came into contact with hers.

We've lost track of time again. I wonder...

She tilted her head as stealthily as she could; if Marcus caught her looking at the clock, he would be reminded of the existence of time, and that would likely prove disastrous. Atop the oak dresser across the room, the red digits 3:53 were branded in the dark. Anya felt her stomach give a little twinge; this was the latest Marcus had ever stayed.

To her despair, the tiny shift in her posture did not go unnoticed.

"You awake?"

Damn.

The sergeant's voice was hoarse, and their physical closeness made the two words rumble throughout her entire body.

"Yeah," Anya replied, wishing she knew what her lover's thoughts were. Of course, she knew what her own were, but she didn't dare speak them out loud.

No, Marcus, I'm not asleep.

I'm afraid to, because every time I do, I wake up to an empty bed.

Sighing, she reached back with her free hand to the hard thigh that rested just behind her own, then began to trace absent-minded patterns over Marcus' skin. It was impossible to tell if a Gear was ever truly relaxed or not; the sinewy muscles that bound their superhuman bodies made their skin permanently taught, as if constantly tense with pain or stress. It had been one of the things Anya had been forced to get used to over the years.

Of course, small touches like these were the most she was allowed. Anya had learned to abandon the usual methods of feminine wile early on. Flirty winks and blushing giggles might have sent most men into giddy drooling tailspins, but things like that only seemed to disturb Marcus. She had always resisted being too overt in her affections, paranoid that her fellow Gear would think her childish—or worse, just a silly lovesick girl—but it was hard. And nights like this were the worst for it.

But the Gear at her back tolerated the tiny show of physical attention without complaint. It was generally the most Anya could hope for, especially after the sort of day Marcus had suffered through before arriving on her doorstep. Even on the rare occasions that she wasn't on comms duty for Delta, she could always tell when something horrible had happened on his squad's shift. A teammate gunned down, the loss of entire districts, a particularly tragic civilian death; any of these things sent Marcus straight into her arms, eyes dark and needing.

It seemed a sad irony that the nights when he wanted her most were when he was most deeply damaged. Last night had been one of those times. If only he'd had an easier day; then maybe he might have been left a bit more open to the warmth she was so deeply willing to give.

If only...

The lieutenant stopped herself before her mind could wander further, admonishing herself for being fanciful. In Marcus and Anya's case, the if only game was just too painful. Some lovers only had a few obstacles to overcome on the road to happiness; if only your father approved of my job, if only I could afford to move closer to you. But for Anya and Marcus, they stacked up all too easily. If only he wasn't an enlisted man; if only she wasn't barren; if only E-Day had never come.

If only they weren't so bent and cold from the immeasurable weight of loss and responsibility that the simple concept of love was all but incomprehensible to them.

In some sad part of her heart, she knew they had it wrong. This—whatever the hell this was—should have freed them. The hours they spent together should have been a relief; the one source of comfortable warmth in a world that had long ago gone stiff and grey. They should have been running headlong into these encounters, giving and taking pleasure from the one place where it was free and in endless supply.

Regret settled over Anya, cold and cumbersome as the snows outside; it distracted her so effectively that the sudden voice at her back made her jump.

"What time is it?" Marcus murmured.

Anya screwed her eyes closed, shutting out the disappointment that barreled down on her.

That's what I get for hoping.

"Four," she said after a pause, then rolled over onto to her stomach so she could bury her crestfallen expression in the pillow.

Her back had been accustomed to the blaze of Marcus' body heat, and now goosebumps ran rampant across the skin; she had only the tangled golden cascade of her hair to ward against the brisk air.

Just as she began to shiver, something grazed her shoulders. It was Marcus, carding his fingers through her tousled mane. She almost never released it from its standard immaculate bun—most times, she even kept it tied up as she slept—but Marcus seemed to prefer her hair down. It was always his opening move, gently tugging her tresses free so that they tumbled over her shoulders like a blonde waterfall.

Now, her hair was once again the focus of his rare attention. He gently gathered the strands up off her shoulders, revealing her vulnerable neck, and, in an instant that was entirely unlike the quiet soldier, bent his head down to hers and inhaled the soft, clean scent of her locks.

His weight suddenly shifted, and he was hovering over the pale expanse of her naked back, arms driving into the mattress on either side of her like corded pillars.

"Marcus..."

She felt his breath on the base of her skull, followed by the press of his lips as he kissed the sensitive skin there. Her nerves thrilled at the touch, so intimate and unexpected, but it didn't stop there. Slowly, he began to move down her body, planting hard kisses along the elegant curve of her spine as he went. It was unfair, Anya thought distantly, how her affections had such weak effect on the sergeant, but the faintest glimmer of attention from him set her whole body on fire. As his mouth roamed down her back, early-morning stubble rasping on her milky skin, it was all she could do to stifle the moan of longing she felt rising in her belly.

Oh God, stay with me. Please, just stay.

At last, he reached the very base of her spine, and just as Anya felt she could hold back no longer, he stopped. Her breath came shallow, hardly daring to budge a muscle as she waited on her lover's next move. His head dropped down to the small of her back, pausing for a long, near-reverent moment.

And then, just as quickly as he'd come over her, the pleasurable weight of his body was gone, leaving her exposed to the cold draft of the room. Before Anya could even whimper in complaint, the jangle of a heavy belt buckle reached her ears, and her stomach sank with somber understanding.

"I have patrol," came the low grumble, and her fears were cemented.

The lieutenant rolled over to face the side of her bed. She watched, stunned to silence, as Marcus deftly buckled his fatigues and set to searching out his other discarded articles of clothing.

"You just got off patrol."

Marcus grunted, suddenly very preoccupied with getting dressed. "Took the double shift." His reply was muffled as he yanked his black tee from the previous day down over his bulky shoulders.

"Oh."

Anya bit back on her disappointment. Of course you did, Marcus. There was always a patrol to start, a rookie to drill, a kit to clean. But it was the first word that hurt; took. No one ever forced Sergeant Fenix to take the back-to-back patrols, to put in the extra hours. He was always the first to volunteer, Anya knew. His life was resolutely devoted to everyone but himself. Everyone but her.

A hard lump of pointless jealousy began to form in Anya's throat, but she cleared it before it could take root. The lieutenant sat up in the bed, gathering the sheets meekly to her naked breast.

"Do...do you want to grab breakfast, then?"

"...At four in the morning?"

The answer struck blunt, even if he didn't mean it to.

"Okay, maybe not," Anya could feel herself running out of straws to grasp for. "I just thought..."

Focusing now to the task of buckling up one massive boot, the leather groaning with the cold, Marcus hunched one shoulder in a painfully dismissive gesture. "Don't worry about it, I can grab something in the mess on my way in."

Come on, Marcus. Give me something...

His determination was all too clear. Anya simply tucked a hair behind her ear and went to swing her legs over the side of the bed. At the very least, she'd demand he get at least one cup of coffee in him before taking off. She was sure there were still a few packets of instant coffee in the cupboards of her cramped kitchen...

She felt a rough hand press into her thigh, preventing her from sliding out of bed. Glancing up, she was thwarted again by that distant blue stare.

"I can see myself out, Anya. Don't trouble yourself," Marcus said quietly. He had his coat thrown over his arm, a leather bomber jacket with a fur-lined hood. It looked relatively new; Anya hadn't even noticed he'd worn it in last night. "You've gotta be up in a couple hours too. Get some sleep."

He turned to leave. For the hundredth time since that very first night, Marcus was running before dawn, and every step he took towards the door was another bitter tug on Anya's heart. The brass knob on the door clicked open, and the familiar sound triggered a startling loneliness deep in the pit of the woman's stomach. Before she could catch herself, her eyes clamped shut and her hand shot out into the frigid air between them.

"Marcus. Wait."

The Gear looked back. Just as always, his face was a mask of unreadable neutrality. He pressed his lips together, saying nothing, and Anya's mind was blank, except for a single thought.

Don't go.

In the haste of Anya's outburst, the thin sheets had crumpled into her lap, and she was left with nothing on but her COG tags. Even if it was nothing the sergeant hadn't seen before, instinct told her to wrap her arms protectively around herself, to blush and look away and mumble an apology. But she resisted the urge, only lowered her head and let her hair fall limp over her eyes.

The room was doused in painful silence, until the creak of boot on aging wood broke it. A heartbeat later, and a hand touched her jaw.

Reluctantly, she met her lover's wintery eyes: they were caught in a look halfway between guilty longing and simple exhaustion. He'd been awake for well over twenty-six hours, but even beyond that, her wistful affection had always seemed to pain him. For a short while, he studied her, brows knit in a way that could have meant concern, or just confusion. In spite of her exposed state, his gaze never strayed to her bare skin.

He remained silent as his hand fell from her delicate jawline. Fingertips, thick with callouses, grazed down her neck and along her collarbone; retracing the paths of similar caresses from earlier in the night. Anya couldn't understand how something that felt so sweet could hurt so badly.

He leaned down, as if to plant another kiss like before, but none came. There was only the soft rustle of cotton as he lifted the sheets from her lap, then wrapped them loosely around her gently shivering shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Anya," came the rough half-whisper, close enough to feel his breath. She winced. "Stay warm, okay?"

She didn't watch him go. Her lids remained closed as she listened to the thump of boots outside in the narrow hallway, followed by the muffled clunk of the front door closing as Marcus escaped out into the snowy dark. Once again, she was alone.

Under the meagre protection of the bedsheets, her fingers trailed down the valley between her breasts where her COG tags lay, warmed by her own body heat. Closing her eyes, she recalled the sensation of his laboured breath on the skin there, even hotter than the metal of her tags. She realized that those rare moments were the closest she would ever come to seeing Marcus Fenix's walls come completely down.

There would be no loving whispers, no passionate confessions, no hands laced tightly beneath the covers; and, as he had made so clear tonight, no nights spent asleep in each other's arms.

And with a throat-tightening pang, Anya finally accepted that, if it had to be him, then it had to be like this.

And it had to be him.

She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, head laid flat as she stared blindly at the clock. Of course, Marcus couldn't have known, but she had been the officer to arrange the week's patrols. And she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Marcus' squad didn't go on patrol until the next day.

It had to be you.

A/N: I told you I wasn't done writing these. Buckle up.