Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum
By Portrait of a Scribe

"A dream that cannot be may be one's only reason to go on."
–Anonymous

Chapter 36.

2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2350 hours

"Tank!"

Tank jolted awake with a gasp, her eyes flying open as she peered through the gloom to see who it was that had awoken her.

"Reaper?" she whispered groggily.

"Ssh!" A warm hand landed on her shoulder. "Come on."

Tank yawned and sat up before getting to her feet. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight," Reaper breathed in reply. Tank allowed him to lead her, and within moments they were standing in the darkened locker bay. Reaper let go of her hand, and a second later she heard the quiet click of a latch. The lights flipped on, and Tank blinked blearily around at the empty room.

"What's up?" she yawned. Reaper's arms slid around her middle, and she leaned back into his chest as he briefly buried his nose in the side of her neck.

"Want some?" she asked sleepily as he ran his hand down her side to her hip. Reaper grunted.

"Nah," he murmured. "Just wanna hold you for a little while."

Tank hummed contentedly, closing her eyes with another jaw-cracking yawn.

"How're you feeling?" he asked after a few minutes. Tank inhaled deeply.

"Sleepy," she admitted slowly, voice thick. "Not awake, yet."

She paused. "Why'd you wake me up, anyway? Couldn't've been just to hold me."

Reaper sighed, and Tank shivered as his hot breath floated across her neck.

"You're right," he mumbled, pressing his lips to her skin. Tank gasped at the contact. They hadn't had relations since a little while before she had been diagnosed, really- most of the time she was in too much pain to even think about it. Now that she was feeling well enough for such things, Reaper didn't want it, and she found that the kiss he had given her felt almost strange after so long.

"John," she whispered, and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. "You sure you don't want any? We could go in the gym..."

"Amanda," Reaper sighed, briefly tightening his grip around her waist. "We can't..."

"Yes, we can," she said, her voice taking on an almost-desperate firmness that briefly surprised even her. "I'm not hurting right now, John. This might be one of the last chances we have..."

Tank turned around in his embrace to press her hands to his chest, leaning up and fervently capturing his lips with hers.

Reaper growled into her as she forcefully pried his lips apart, her tongue delving into his mouth before she pulled back slightly to suck gently on his lower lip. She nipped it lightly. Then she ran her tongue along his lip to nurse the hurt while Reaper grunted quietly.

Then he pushed her away.

Tank stared at him with glazed eyes, both of them panting, their lips red and swelling from the bruising force she had used. Tank felt his hands trembling where he was gripping her shoulders.

"John...?" she asked quietly. He took a few deep breaths, his eyes dark with longing. Then he let go of her.

Tank was surprised when he walked over to one of the sinks lining the wall.

"Come here," he said, keeping his voice low. Tank blinked, and walked over to Reaper, glancing at him in curiosity when he moved to stand behind her.

"I wanted to give this to you earlier," he murmured, "but I couldn't find the right time."

Tank smiled. "You mean you didn't want the guys to see you do it."

"I fell asleep before I could," he countered, giving her a pointed look in the mirror. Tank chuckled, and then reached back and touched his arm.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I was almost afraid everyone had forgotten..."

Reaper leaned over her shoulder to place a tender kiss on her cheek. "Not everyone. Now close your eyes."

Tank smiled softly and complied, her eyes drifting closed. A second later, she briefly felt Reaper's hands come around her shoulders before he withdrew them and a light weight settled in the hollow of her throat.

"There," he said. "You can look, now."

Tank opened her eyes.

Around her neck hung a small cross, the delicate-looking chain it was attached to just long enough so that the cross rested comfortably in the dip where her collarbones met at her breastbone. It was golden, about the size of a quarter.

In the center of the cross was set a blood-red ruby, carved in the likeness of a rose.

Tank felt tears come to her eyes, touched beyond words. She felt her throat close up, and as she reached up to touch the necklace, Tank's breath hitched in a soft sob.

Reaper's arms immediately looped around her middle, and he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"What's the matter?" he whispered. Tank wriggled loose enough so that she could turn around and throw her arms around his neck, embracing him tightly. Tank squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears ran down her cheeks to soak into Reaper's black shirt.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you so much, John."

He turned his smile into her temple before he pressed a small kiss to her skin. "Happy birthday, Amanda."

"Thank you," she said again. Reaper inhaled, and for a few moments, they just held each other, knowing that soon they would not even have that much.

Eventually, Reaper reached out and flipped on the small light above the sink. Then he left her briefly in order to flip off the overhead lights. A few seconds later, Tank was back in his arms, her nose buried in his chest.

After a while, Reaper gently guided Tank's face up to his. His kiss was tender, gentle, tinged with sadness. It didn't last long, but then he sat down on the floor next to the sink, pulling her down with him so that she was seated between his legs, leaning back against his chest as he leaned on the wall.

For a few moments, they were silent as they sat there, until Reaper suddenly reached around her to splay his hands on her stomach. Tank smiled and covered his hands with her own.

"You know," she suddenly ventured, her voice quiet, "I'm glad I got to know and love you, John."

Reaper was quiet, allowing her to talk, uninterrupted. Tank swallowed, but she didn't feel sad, just a little... detached.

"This'll probably be my last birthday," she mused softly. Tank interlaced her fingers with his, pressing down on her belly. "Somehow, I when always pictured us sitting like this, I got this image in my head of you pressing your hands to me just like this-"

Tank put his left hand just above her navel, and pressed his right hand into her stomach just to the left of her right hip.

"Only, my belly would be large," she continued, a sudden eloquence seizing her tongue, "and full with our child."

She chuckled quietly. "I'd feel completely miserable," she mused, "'cause I'd've just been kicked in the bladder or the ribs, and you'd just sit there and laugh at the look on my face as I'd gently scold our baby."

Tank smiled ruefully as Reaper leaned down to bury his face in the crook of her neck.

"And then you'd chide me for scolding the unborn," Tank said, and her voice was amused as she closed her eyes and pictured it.

"And how'd I react when you first tell me we're going to be parents?" Reaper asked unexpectedly. Tank sighed contentedly and snuggled back into his warmth.

"You'd stare at me for a few minutes," she told him, "and then you'd go on a stuttering spree. You'd pace the room, slap yourself a couple times to make sure you're awake, maybe trip on something while you're trying to wear a hole in the floor. Then I'd kiss you to shut you up and, depending on where we are and what time it is, we'd make passionate love for a few hours right there in the middle of that floor you were trying to wear out."

Reaper's quiet chuckle bounced Tank a little. "Sounds like you've got the whole thing figured out."

"I try," she sighed with a smile. They were silent for a few minutes, and the clock crept past midnight and on towards one.

"There're so many things I want to say," she whispered suddenly, tracing idle shapes on the back of Reaper's right hand. "So many things I want to tell you, but can't..."

"Then just tell me," Reaper breathed. Tank inhaled deeply and let the air out in a resigned sigh.

"I don't know how," she replied, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she stared sadly off into the dimness of the locker bay. "I just can't find the words to describe these things..."

"Say whatever comes to your mind." he encouraged her gently. Tank was silent for a second.

"I wanted to be a mom," she murmured at last. "I wanted to have a baby to hold, to nurse, to raise and love. I wanted to have a baby with your eyes and temperament and my smile... I wanted to feel him grow inside me, to hold him in my arms, and then watch you hold him for the first time..."

Tank took a shaking breath. "There's so much I wanted to experience with you, and..."

Tank turned to press her face into the side of his head. Her voice was choked when she next spoke. "And it hurts, John. It actually physically hurts when I realize that it'll never happen."

She paused, and relaxed slowly against her husband's chest.

"...And then I realize," she breathed after a moment of contemplation, "that even if I could have those things, I would not hesitate for a second to give them up if it meant that I could have even a moment longer with you."

Reaper just squeezed her lightly. Tank drew another trembling breath.

"John, I want you to promise me something," she said, her voice more serious than it had been in a while.

"Anything."

"When I'm gone," she said, and then broke off before she kept talking. "When I'm gone, I want you to move on. Find somebody else to love. Don't waste any time, just be with her, don't let her go, and treasure her forever. Learn to love her as you've loved me..."

Now it was Reaper's turn to draw a shaking breath. "What if I don't want to?"

"You will," Tank whispered, caressing his hand. "Trust me, you will. And I'll be watching from heaven with my grandparents to make sure you're treating her right. And if you're not, I'll come back and haunt you like the ghost of Christmas future, chains and scary cloak included."

They were quiet for a moment, and then Reaper suddenly drew a hitching breath, squeezing her waist almost crushingly.

"I don't want you to die," he gasped into her neck. "You're leaving me alone, just like mom and dad did, and it hurts even more than it did when they died. It hurts so much more, Amanda."

Tank listened wordlessly, doing nothing more than rub the back of his hand.

"Every time I look at you I think 'She's right there, she's doing fine, it's all just been a bad dream'," he continued, and Tank could detect the waver in his voice. "And then you'll have a flare-up and I'll remember that you're dying, and it's like getting stabbed in the gut and getting all my ribs broken at once, and it takes me a few seconds to remember how to breathe because it hurts so much."

Reaper fell silent, and they did not speak for a few minutes. Then Tank absently reached up to caress the new cross around her neck.

"John," she whispered. He took a breath in response. "John, look at me."

A couple of seconds passed. Then Reaper slowly lifted his head off of her shoulder and turned to stare Tank in the eye, his pained hazel meeting her sad brandy-brown.

"I'll take this cross to the grave with me, John," Tank said softly, "but don't let me take your heart with me. I'll give you mine to keep forever, but don't bury your heart in my coffin."

Tank kissed him tenderly before pulling away and giving him her last words for the night.

"I love you too much to let you do that."

Reaper stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes studying her. Tank got the distinct feeling that he was trying to memorize her. Then he kissed her, tenderly, passionately, and she tasted tears on his lips even as she ran her hands down his chest, deciding to take this chance while it lasted.

They made love into the night right there, there on the floor of the locker bay, and it was the first time that their hearts had really connected as they did so.

It was so bittersweet that they both wept afterwards.

2046 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours

Tank stared blearily up at the white ceiling tiles and sighed resignedly.

Having pancreatic cancer totally sucked.

To her right, Reaper was snoozing in a bed they had pulled over, the dark shadows under his eyes and the paleness of his skin- save for the fever-flush of his cheeks- indicative of the fact that he'd caught a bout of the flu. This, of course, was the reason why Tank was currently in the hospital, being woken every hour on the hour by nurses coming in to check on her vitals.

It's April thirteenth, already. Why can't I just have two months without having to go into the hospital?

They'd had another mission just earlier that day. Tank had actually been able to go on this one, but afterwards, on the long flight home, Reaper had started feeling ill. The second the chopper had set down, he had darted out of the aircraft, taken a few listless steps, and then bent over to empty his stomach onto the pavement of the helipad.

Tank had swallowed back her own nausea in favor of running over and steadying him.

She had taken Reaper to the hospital just northwest of the helipad, promising Sarge that she would file their reports later. Reaper had thrown up once more on the way there, and by that time, Tank had gotten worried.

As it turned out, Reaper just had a nasty case of the flu, and the doctors had put him on some medicine and told them that he would just have to get through it like any other time.

The only problem had been Tank's own diminished immune system. The doctors had decided to keep her there overnight for monitoring, and she had reluctantly allowed them to do so.

That had been almost two hours ago.

Tank sighed, and turned to stare at her husband as he groaned quietly, turning over in his sleep. His cheeks were still bright red from the fever he was fighting. Tank could see a slight glaze of sweat on his face as he dreamed fitfully.

A sudden knock at the doorframe caught Tank's attention, and she looked over to see Sarge standing at the entrance to the room. Tank smiled at him.

"Sarge," she greeted. Sarge nodded, and walked in. Tank raised an eyebrow at him.

"You sure you wanna do that?" she asked. "You got a soldier with the flu in here. I'm sure you don't wanna catch it."

Sarge gave her an Air Force salute. "I've already been exposed to it, anyway," he said, unconcerned. "If I get sick, I get sick."

Tank chuckled quietly. "Yeah, well, keep it down. Reaper's a downright bitch when he's sick, and you know it."

"Heard that," Reaper mumbled. Tank jerked, her gaze snapping over to her husband, only to find that he was still asleep.

Tank and Sarge blinked at Reaper for a moment, and then Tank shook her head in amusement.

"Beats the fuck outta me how he does that," she whispered. Then she turned her attention back to Sarge. "So, what's up?"

Sarge smiled slightly at her and sat down in the chair to her left. "Reaper's just been promoted."

Tank blinked. Shook her head. Blinked again.

"Promoted?" she echoed. "To what?"

"Staff Sergeant." Sarge glanced over at Reaper's sleeping form. "Practically my second-in-command, effective tomorrow. And you've just been promoted to Sergeant."

He released a long breath and got to his feet again. "Congratulations, Sergeant Grimm. See you when you get better."

Tank could do little more than stare at Sarge as he walked back out of the room.

...Sergeant Grimm?

2046 A.D. - Robert E. Bush Naval Hospital, Twentynine Palms, California - 0900 hours

Tank sighed as she stared down through the glass into the room below, where Reaper was strapped to a gurney underneath a shield of Plexiglas. Electrodes were taped to his temples, and a number of sensors rotated slowly over his head, scanning his brain.

The day was July twenty-fifth.

Just six weeks before, Tank had had another flare-up, and then the squad had been sent on that ill-fated mission to the methane fields in South America. Tank hadn't been able to go, but from what Goat had told her, Reaper had gone ballistic.

After all, it wasn't every day that the closest thing Reaper had to a best friend got his head blown in half.

Still, the military therapist had insisted on the psychological therapy, saying that combat stress reaction could cause him to break down in the middle of a mission, which would, of course, be catastrophic. And so there they were. It was the latter end of July, Reaper was going through the therapy, and Tank was watching, offering her silent support despite the fire in her stomach.

She saw Reaper tense fitfully under the glass, his eyes opening briefly but not seeing anything. Tank's gut clenched, but it was not from the desire to vomit, this time. Not since she was chewing on a piece of crystallized ginger.

No, this clenching stemmed from the fact that her Reaper, her John, was being forced to relive one of his most painful memories, and she could do nothing about it but sit and watch. Tank got the surreal feeling that the techs around her were actually being entertained by it.

It made Tank feel dirty and sick.

She turned away as Reaper writhed, unable to observe any longer.

"I think he's fighting the therapy," observed one of the technicians. "Maybe we'd better-"

"No." The voice was that of the female psychological technician who had ordered the therapy. Tank whirled around to face the woman, about to demand that she halt the process, when the doctor spoke again.

"If he doesn't relive this now, he'll relive it as repression stress," the woman said, her voice light and almost-amused. "He'll snap in combat."

Tank gritted her teeth, looking down just as Reaper twisted in a manner that suggested extreme pain.

What are you seeing that torments you so?

A few more minutes passed, and the expression on his face became more and more pained, terrified, vicious.

"Turn it off!" Tank yelled, finally unable to take any more. "Turn it off! You're hurting him!"

"No," the lady psych tech said, giving Tank a condescending smile. "We will not turn it off until he-"

"Doctor, we've lost track of the memory!" called another technician. The doctor paused, and then sighed, briefly sending a glare Tank's way, as though it was her fault that it had failed. Tank glared back with all the force she could muster, her brandy-brown eyes promising cold death for the doctor unless she backed down.

The psych tech shook her head derisively and then left the room.

A second later she reappeared, down in the lower room where Reaper was, a smile on her pretty-but-pudgy face. Tank could hear her voice through the one-way speakers that led from the lab floor to the control room.

Two-faced bitch! I'm gonna-

"John Grimm?" the doctor asked sweetly. "Are you with us?"

Tank watched Reaper frown disgruntledly up at the psych tech.

"We lost track of the memory," the tech explained. "Stress levels too high-"

No shit, Sherlock, Tank thought, a sense of loathing overtaking her.

"-but I do think we made some progress," the doctor continued. "How do you feel?"

Tank could tell his thoughts from the rather murderous look in his eyes, though his expression was otherwise bland.

"I want to go back to my unit," Reaper said after a second. "Take all this fucking gear off me."

And there's the clincher.

Tank rose from her seat with a sigh, absently putting another piece of crystallized ginger into her mouth as she walked out of the room. She knew that Reaper hadn't seen her, that he didn't know that she'd watched the therapy session.

Tank scowled deeply at the thought.

If they call that therapy, then I never wanna see anything under their definition of torture.

Tank sighed and passed out into the lobby, drawing her jacket tighter around her shoulders. She'd been chilled for the past few days, most likely another effect of the cancer. She inwardly swore that the first thing she was going to do once they headed on vacation that afternoon was to go to the nearest swimming pool and have a good, long soak in a hot tub.

Really, she thought, they all needed the R 'n' R. Six months had passed without a vacation, six months of hard-core missions and pain and blood and sweat and tears. Tank was looking forward to this furlough...

...even if she probably wouldn't be coming back from it.

Tank entertained no hopeful thoughts about her condition. It was worsening, and she knew it. She knew that she probably had less than six months left to live.

Tank intended to spend that time with her family back in Missouri, and with Reaper. She intended to live life to its fullest until she took her dying breath.

She stopped in the middle of the lobby and absently pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. It was a typed letter from a hospital back in Missouri, and on the back of it was her own handwriting.

Dear Mrs. Amanda Grimm,

We regret to inform you that on this day, June thirteenth of the year 2046, your grandfather, Daniel Halley, passed away from heat stroke at 1500 hours. Likely cause of death is over-exertion from playing golf in one-hundred and two degree heat.

We offer you our sincerest condolences.

Sincerely,

Doctor Renee Descartes

Tank had been devastated, but even as she had sobbed into Reaper's arms she had laughed bitterly.

I always knew Grandpa would go out in some unconventional way, doing something he liked, she had choked out.

That had been six weeks ago. Tank had received the letter that morning, and Reaper had come home from the failed mission to find her sitting on her bed in the infirmary, curled up as she cried. She had gotten through it eventually.

But it had raised some important questions for her. Tank had pulled out a pen the next day and begun writing on the back of the letter. She did some soul-searching, and found a list of things that she really, really wanted to do before she died.

Tank's eyes drifted to the list, written in her own sloppy hand, even as she cleared her throat of the lump that had formed in it at the memories.

1. Laugh until I cry.

Tank hadn't scratched that one off, yet.

2. Make John smile openly again.

Because Reaper hadn't smiled a full-hearted, open smile since her diagnosis, and he hadn't laughed since Jumper's death six weeks ago.

3. Have a normal picnic at the park with all my family, no bad thoughts involved.

She planned to do that one second after she went on leave, after the hot tub.

4. Visit uncle Frank and his family in Colorado.

She hadn't seen them in years, and wanted to say goodbye before she died. After all, she had been friends with her cousin Heather for a long time before Tank's mom and Heather's dad had a falling-out, and since Heather's parents had gotten a divorce. Her mother's brother, Frank, had some behavioral tendencies that Marie hadn't liked... not to mention that they'd just clashed.

5. Watch a sunset, then stay up all night to watch the sunrise.

Tank planned to do that with only Reaper for company, just so that she could savor his presence, his warmth, his scent, his strength, his life. If there was one thing that Tank wanted more than anything, it was to know that his heart was beating and that he was still drawing breath.

6. Make love to John under the stars one more time-

"Tank?"

Tank jumped with a gasp at the sudden voice behind her, and spun around to find the subject of her current list number standing a few feet behind her.

"Reaper!" she exclaimed, exhaling slowly to calm her racing heart. "I think you just shaved another few months off my life, there."

Reaper frowned, and stepped up to Tank, his eyes on the paper in her hands.

"What's that?" he asked. "And why are you here?"

Tank briefly pondered lying and saying that she was coming to pick him up, but she knew that it wouldn't work.

Tank sighed. "I was watching you in the therapy."

She bristled at the memory of the technicians, ignoring Reaper's disapproving frown.

"I can't believe those motherfuckers!" she spat, clenching her hands and spinning away to stalk toward the door of the hospital. "They were amused! Amused!"

She gave an inarticulate growl of rage, tossing her hands up in the air. "Those bastards enjoyed watching you writhe under that probe!"

Reaper followed behind her silently, his bad mood almost tangible.

Tank turned to glare back at the hospital as she emerged into the warm sunlight. "If I could, I'd go back in there and strangle 'em all..."

"Come on, Tank," Reaper grunted, pushing past her. "We need to pack."

Tank followed, and fumed in silence for a few more seconds, but her anger was fleeting, replaced soon by sadness.

"I wish you would talk to me," she whispered. She saw Reaper pause mid-step before he continued on. Tank didn't follow, standing in the middle of the road, clutching her jacket to her chest as an ache built in her heart and in her stomach.

"I guess," she pondered quietly, watching him walk away, "only non-Marines do that. Right? Only weaklings."

Reaper was too far away to hear her.

"Only families..."

Disclaimer: I don't own Doom.

Okay, I lied again. And I've been SLACKING. BIG TIME. I blame Assassin's Creed and Assassin's Creed II for getting me addicted. Yes. That's what I've been doing for the past two- three?- weeks. Beating up bad guys, chasing thieves across rooftops, assassinating Templars, and womanizing with Ezio and Altaïr. I has been a berry berry bad girlie. But loving it all the while. :D

So I'm sorry for the lateness, but I have to say, if you haven't played those games, GO DO SO NOW. So awesome… Sigh…

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and I'm really sorry for making you all wait. This means you, st. elmo-lover, and you, ErikaLynne, and also to HellgirlAngel, who reviewed chapter 3. I'm flattered that you guys think I should continue this, though I have to admit, I'm debating on which direction to take it in. On one hand, there's the plot point I've already established with the whole "genetic memories" thing, which opens up an "Assassin's Creed" sort of option. On the other, well… We all know how Olduvai turns out. If I go that route, then I can't say whether or not Tank will be a focusing character… Hmm, what to do, what to do…? :)

Next chapter should (hopefully) be out by 8-2-2010, provided I get up off my lazy ass and actually UPDATE ON TIME. Thanks again for your patience, and I'm very sorry that I forgot to post.

-Portrait of a Scribe