Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum
By Portrait of a Scribe

"For every fall I'll ever break/ Each moment's breath I wanna taste/ Confidence, and conscience,/ Decadence, extravagance/ A never-ending providence/ And loving while I have the chance..."
--The Corrs, 'Angel'

Chapter 20.

2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours

Tank stepped out of the squad Humvee and stretched her arms over her head, arching her back. She heard her spine pop a couple of times, and sighed in contentment.

It was September third, two months after she and Reaper had gone to Missouri. Goat and Pug had gone back to Twentynine Palms in August, and Reaper and Tank had stayed at her parents' house until September second. Then they'd said goodbye and flown back to Ontario International Airport, where they'd been picked up by Hellraiser.

Now they were back.

Reaper exited the Humvee, as well, stretching gingerly. His ribs were fully healed, if a little tender. Tank knew that he was still working on getting back into shape from his one-and-a-half-month long recovery; she also knew that Sarge would be merciless in whipping them back into fitness.

The muscles in Reaper's arms, back, chest, and shoulders had gained definition, though, from moving his wheelchair. Tank really appreciated the view.

Shaking her head, Tank headed around to the back of the Humvee to get her duffel bag out. Reaper was close at her heels.

"Glad to be back?" Hellraiser asked them as he joined them around the back of the Humvee. Tank groaned, grimacing.

"Hell, no," she said. Reaper glanced at her while Hellraiser just grinned and chuckled maniacally.

"Scared?" Hellraiser inquired. Tank shuddered.

"I have every reason to be," she growled at him. "You know how Sarge is going to be!"

"Wait, what's Sarge going to do?" asked Reaper. Tank turned her gaze on him.

"He's gonna train us so hard you'll miss the days before the vacation."

Reaper's eyebrows shot up. "That bad?"

"Worse," Hellraiser chuckled. "And you two are going to get the brunt of it."

Tank just groaned again while Reaper stood there, wondering exactly what he had gotten himself into.

Hellraiser laughed at them as he loped into the barracks to tell Sarge that they were back. Tank sighed, shut the Humvee, and started to follow him; however, Reaper caught her wrist and pulled her so that she was facing him.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Should we tell them about us?" he countered. Tank shrugged.

"Goat and Pug already know," she stated. "If Pug hasn't told the rest of them by now, then they'll probably know as soon as he sees us. There's really no point in hiding it, though I wouldn't make it too blatantly obvious. Portman'll just harass us more than before."

"Right," Reaper said with a heavy sigh. "And that means that we should really limit the PDAs, too."

Tank smiled, and leaned up toward him. "Just don't start kissing me in the middle of training, and we should be okay."

Reaper smiled slightly, and leaned down, capturing her lips with his.

Tank chuckled into his mouth, and they parted after a second. Tank led the way into the base, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder as she went.

Sarge met them in the atrium. He was standing in front of the stairwell with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face. Tank swallowed, suddenly knowing what a deer felt like when it was caught in the headlights. She and Reaper saluted crisply in greeting.

"Lance Corporal Amanda Halley, reporting for duty, sir," Tank said.

"Lance Corporal John Grimm, reporting for duty, sir," Reaper supplied. Sarge just stared at them.

Tank felt a bead of sweat begin to form on her forehead under Sarge's scrutiny. What was the matter with him? He had never been like this with them before.

"At ease, Marines," Sarge said at last. Tank and Reaper relaxed to parade rest, and watched as Sarge circled them, sizing them up. Tank winced when Sarge prodded her in her back.

"You've lost some muscle mass, Tank," he observed. "And so have you, Reaper. What were you doing in Missouri?"

"Vacationing, sir," Tank replied. Reaper remained wisely silent. Sarge came around to stand in front of them again. Tank was sharply reminded of a dog sizing up a chew toy. Sarge's gaze fell on her, scrutinizing, for several seconds.

Then he suddenly nodded, seeming satisfied, and looked at Reaper. "Good, you haven't knocked her up."

Tank gaped at Sarge for a long moment, as did Reaper, until Sarge's mouth started to twitch.

"Dwayne Casimir Mahonin!" Tank shrieked, her face flaring red. She dropped her duffel bag to the floor and walked up to him to hit him in the chest. "I cannot believe you just said that!"

Sarge just laughed uproariously at the furious expression on Tank's face. Reaper just averted his gaze, cleared his throat, and tried not to look embarrassed.

"You should've seen the look on your face, Tank!" Sarge chortled. He caught her fist when she went to slap his shoulder, and gave her a warning look.

"Stop hitting me," he growled. Tank scowled at him.

"Then keep your rude comments to yourself!" she hissed. "Our relationship isn't like that!"

"Not yet, you mean," he said seriously. "Just don't let it get like that while you're on duty."

"Fine," Tank growled. "I don't plan on it going that far for a while, anyway."

She yanked her hand away and stalked over to her duffel bag.

"So does this mean you approve?" Reaper asked tentatively. Sarge turned to him, expression relaxed.

"It means that if you break her heart I'll pummel you so bad you won't know which part of you is your ass and which part of you is your head," Sarge replied levelly. Reaper nodded, his features grave.

"I don't plan on breaking her heart, sir," he said. "I'd die before I do."

Sarge nodded. "Good."

He turned to head back to his room. "The men are waiting for you downstairs. Why don't you go introduce yourselves?"

Tank blinked, and looked questioningly at Reaper as Sarge's door shut behind him. "Introduce ourselves?"

Reaper shrugged. "Maybe there're some new recruits."

The idea hit Tank hard, and she swallowed, looking at the stairwell. Her voice was quiet. "Maybe."

They stood there in silence for a few seconds before Tank suddenly felt Reaper's hand slip into hers. She looked up at him questioningly.

Reaper just stared at her, his gaze reassuring. Finally, Tank smiled at him, drawing strength from his grip, and headed for the stairwell. Their shoes clattered on the metal grating as they descended into the living quarters. Tank released Reaper's hand just as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Six pairs of eyes gazed at them, four familiar and two new.

A cheer was heard just before Tank found herself almost tackled by a flying blur of blond hair, and then she was picked up by her arms and swung through the air. She gave a whoop of laughter.

"Pug!" she giggled. "Put me down, du verrücktes!"

Pug laughed, swinging her around one more time before he finally put her down. Then he ruffled her hair with a grin.

"Willkommenes haus, Behälter," he said. Tank stared at him blankly.

"I have no fucking clue what the hell you just said," she stated bluntly. Pug laughed again.

"And here I thought you had brushed up on your Deutsch," he lamented, though his voice remained jovial. Tank shook her head with a grin.

"Nah, I just picked that up from an old friend," she said. Pug shook his head.

"Well, what I said was 'Welcome home, Tank', but I guess that you got the idea," he chuckled. Then he turned to Reaper and shook the brunette's hand.

"Welcome back, Reaps," Pug greeted. Reaper blinked, and then looked between Tank and Pug as Pug stepped away again.

"Is that nickname going to stick?" he asked. Tank and Pug exchanged looks, and then shrugged in unison.

"It's easier than saying 'Reaper' all the time," Tank explained. Reaper sighed mournfully.

"Goodbye, fearsome alias," he lamented. Tank laughed out loud.

"It's not so bad!" she exclaimed.

"Whatever you say, Tank. Whatever you say."

"Hey! Comin' through!" boomed a bass voice, and Pug hurriedly moved out of the way as Destroyer and Goat came up to them. Destroyer immediately pulled Tank into a bear hug, Tank laughing, while Goat said hello to Reaper.

"Good to see you, too, Destroyer," Tank said. Destroyer nodded, and let her go so that Goat could greet her. Then they backed off.

"Hey, whaddaya know?" drawled a tenor voice from farther back in the room. "The girls are back."

"Fuck off, Portman!" Tank returned, though it was only half-hearted. She couldn't keep her smile off of her face.

"Good to see you, too, bitch," Portman retorted, though his tone was amiable. "And look, you brought the whelp home with you."

Tank just smirked, and Reaper rolled his eyes.

Then their three friends backed off, and Tank and Reaper headed over to the bunk bed in the corner. Reaper tossed his duffel up onto the top bunk, and Tank settled hers on the bottom bunk before turning to her locker, beside which rested Reaper's.

It was then that Tank looked around the room and her eyes fell on two new faces.

One was an Asian man, with black hair and eyes. He had a calm, almost serene, look on his face, but his eyes glittered with an intelligence that belied a sharp mind. He stood about five foot ten, and probably weighed only a little more than Tank did, though his compact frame was made up of mostly muscle. He looked to be only a year or so older than Tank was, though she couldn't be sure.

The other was a young man, younger than Tank, with red hair and jade-green eyes. He had a nervous twitch in his hands, a loopy smile on his face, was a couple inches taller than Tank, around five foot eleven, and weighed probably the greater part of one hundred and eighty pounds.

The man strode up to Tank when he saw the brunette looking at him, and saluted crisply.

"PFC Brian Nicholas Cable," the man said. Tank blinked, and then saluted in return.

"Lance Corporal Amanda Halley," Tank returned. "You can call me Tank."

"And I'm Reaper," Reaper said, glancing at Brian out of the corner of his eye. He was fishing something out of his duffel bag.

"Lance Corporal John Grimm, in other words," Tank drawled flatly when Reaper failed to elaborate. Then Tank held out her hand to Brian. "Welcome to the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, rookie."

Brian grinned, and shook Tank's hand. "Who're you calling a rookie?" he asked amiably.

Tank withdrew her hand. Then she smiled.

"I'm calling you a rookie," she said, "because you are a rookie. So get used to it, at least until you get a nickname."

Brian laughed for a moment before walking back over to his bunk. Tank then turned to the other new man, and waved.

"Hi to you, too," she said. The Asian man nodded to her.

"We're calling him Mac," supplied Portman in a vague attempt to be helpful. "Can't pronounce his fucking name."

Tank raised her eyebrows. "Really, now," she said, and then turned to Mac. "Try me."

Mac gave her a faint smile. "Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi," he stated.

Tank paused, studying Mac for a moment.

"Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi," she mused, rolling the name around on her tongue. "Long name. Japanese?"

Mac just smiled. Tank shrugged.

"Katsuhiko alone is a mouthful," she stated. "I don't know how you guys got Mac out of his name, though."

"I like Big Macs and baseball," Mac told her. Tank laughed, and she glimpsed a minuscule smile on Reaper's mouth out of the corner of her eye before he turned away again.

"That works," she said. "Mac it is, then."

2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours

Tank groaned as she trooped into the kitchen at the barracks, fresh from her shower and aiming for some painkillers. Reaper was not far behind her, holding an ice pack to his forehead. Tank headed to the cupboards for a pair of glasses and some ibuprofen; Reaper just sat shakily down at the table, cradling his head in his hand.

"You okay?" Tank asked him, filling both of the glasses with water from the tap. She walked stiffly over to sit down across from him, setting the glasses down and popping the top on the medicine bottle.

Reaper groaned faintly. "When you said I would miss the days before leave, you weren't fucking kidding."

"I tried to tell you that," she reminded him gently. He sighed.

"Yeah, well, he didn't have to kick me in the head so hard," he groused. Tank smiled ruefully, and shook a pair of pills out of the bottle into her palm. Then she handed them to Reaper, who popped them before taking a swig from one of the glasses.

"Sarge is only making sure that we're in shape enough to live through whatever our next mission is," Tank told him. She took his free right hand in both of hers, resting them on the tabletop.

"Yeah, well, even with all the training we did after I recovered, it still wasn't enough," he grumbled irritably, but didn't pull his hand away. Tank flipped his hand so that his palm was facing the ceiling. The fingertips of her right hand traced idle shapes on his skin as she focused on relaxing the over-taxed muscles of her body.

"It would have been worse had we not done that," Tank reminded him, her voice quiet so that she didn't aggravate his headache. Reaper winced faintly nevertheless.

"John?" Tank asked softly. He opened his right eye, the other half of his forehead covered by his ice pack. She frowned when she saw that he couldn't focus on her properly.

"How many of me do you see?" Tank asked. He squinted, and then groaned and closed his eye again. Her suspicions mounted.

"Too many," he replied. Tank sighed. Bingo.

"How many?"

"Two? Three?" he squinted at her again. "Stop moving so I can count you, goddamn it."

Tank smiled, feeling a twinge of concern in her heart. "I'm not moving, John. Come on, we'd better get you to the infirmary."

"What about Sarge?" asked Reaper as Tank rounded the table and began to help him up. He wobbled dangerously about halfway up from his seat, but Tank's grip was firm, and he remained standing.

"I'll deal with him," Tank stated, her voice soothingly gentle and quiet. She absently scowled at the wall as Reaper maneuvered haphazardly out from the bench.

"Honestly, I should think that Sarge would know that head injuries are more easily attained after each consecutive injury," she muttered. Reaper swayed almost drunkenly, and Tank pulled his arm across her shoulders, wrapped her left arm around his waist, and braced him against her aching body. Then they made their way out of the kitchen and across the hall to the infirmary, whose door was located in the same hallway as Sarge's office.

The infirmary was a clean, organized place with a few cots spaced through the room against the walls. Dividing curtains hung from rods that ran across the ceiling. Various medicine chests and supply carts were scattered around the room.

Tank led Reaper over to the bed nearest to the infirmary's restroom, and slowly sat him down on the side of the mattress. When he was finally sitting, Tank got up and knelt in front of him.

"Reaper, I need you to take that ice pack away from your head for a moment," she told him, speaking slowly and deliberately to ensure that he understood her. Reaper reluctantly did as he was told.

Tank winced at the size and location of the bruise forming on Reaper's head. It stretched from his temple down to his left cheek; his left eye was slightly swollen. He gazed at her with some difficulty. Tank shook her head and pulled one of the carts over.

Reaper grimaced at the loud clatter that the cart made.

Tank pulled out a small flashlight that would allow her to see into his eyes. She turned it on, and spoke to her boyfriend.

"Reaper, can you follow this light without moving your head?"

Reaper's eyes trailed after the flashlight as Tank moved it up, down, left, and right, but she could see the way that his pupils dilated and his eyes trembled from the strain.

"Good," she said, masking her worry with a professional demeanor. "Now, I need you to look straight at it, and don't blink."

Reaper did as he was told, and Tank stared through the eyepiece into his pupils. What she saw didn't please her. Finally she sighed, and put the tool away.

"Put that ice pack back on your head," she said. Reaper did so with a grateful sigh, leaning his head against the cold surface.

"Do you feel sleepy?" Tank asked. Reaper grunted.

"A bit," he admitted.

"Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?"

Reaper opened his right eye to glare at her. "Some of both."

"You're irritable, that much is for certain."

"What's going on, here?" The baritone voice was incredulous where it came from the entrance of the infirmary, and Tank set her features in a scowl before she got to her feet to face the intruder.

"What the fuck were you thinking, kicking him in the head like that?" she demanded. "You oughta know how easy it is to obtain a head injury so soon after a prior one!"

Sarge frowned, but crossed the room to them nonetheless. "Well, what's the diagnosis, then?"

Tank shook her head disapprovingly. "Another concussion," she bluntly informed him. "He's lucky it was only a glancing blow, or else it could've done much, much worse."

She crossed her arms over her chest, glowering dangerously up at Sarge. "Now he'll be out for another two fucking days, thanks to you. I hope you're satisfied."

Reaper groaned, drawing their gazes. "Could you keep it down?"

Tank grimaced, knowing how much pain he had to be in to ask something like that. She noticed that Reaper's face was lightening in its hue by the second.

"How's your stomach doing?" she asked. Reaper paled, turning almost green. Tank's eyes widened, and she hastily grabbed the wastebasket, bringing it over to Reaper. The ice pack fell to the bed with a thump as he grabbed the metal can and pulled it into his lap, hunching over it with a grimace.

All was still for a second.

"John?" asked Sarge. Reaper groaned.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," he moaned. Tank sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, laying her hand on his back and rubbing gently through the cloth of his black tank top. She could feel the faint tremors that ran through him.

"Don't hold it back, John," Tank instructed. "It'll just make it worse."

Reaper groaned again in response and stuck his face in the can with a small burp. Tank looked up at Sarge.

"You might not want to hang around, Sarge," she said, her glare cold. "It's bound to be nasty when he finally does lose it."

Sarge frowned at her. "Fine," he grumbled. "Update me on his status every hour or so."

"Yes, sir," Tank confirmed, still displeased with the whole situation. Reaper groaned faintly again as Sarge walked out.

Tank sighed, and leaned into Reaper's side to offer her support. It seemed that that was all that Reaper needed, for his body finally tensed at that moment. He gagged, and it was followed by the sound of something splattering into the plastic liner of the trash can.

Tank winced.

It was going to be a long night.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't sue.

Damn, I was only 7 minutes late, this time! Sorry. I hope I got the German in here right- I was using Dictionary (dot) com's translator again. And poor Reaper. He's got a concussion. I pity him, and that's all there is to say.

Finally saw the new Star Trek movie. Loved it. Loved the interactions between Spock, Kirk, and McCoy. Karl Urban did a good job, I thought.

Thanks to the people who reviewed the last chapter: JayDee, CaffeineKid, and to my latest reviewer, Steff7. You guys are awesome~! And to Steff7, I'm glad you like Tank so much! Hugs to all of you!

Next chapter should be up 11-30-09.

-Portrait of a Scribe