Denial

"So, Blondie, when are you going to settle down and pop out my disgruntled grandchildren?"

The question was so unexpected, Baird set down his soldering gun and stuck his head out of the boat's engine compartment to look up at Bernie.

"What the hell? Is that Alzheimer's setting in, Granny?" he asked with surprise. "Maybe you should sit down."

Bernie rolled her eyes. "I was being serious, you arse. Spirits are high and I know you've gotten some compliments about your genius lately. Even with that awful gob of yours, I'm sure the ladies have noticed your brains. You've been outperforming the whole league of engineers right now."

That might have been an exaggeration but Baird wasn't keeping score. He was working with everyone on Vectes to speed up repairs. Did it help that he knew how to do things better? The engineers were great but he just understood machinery on a level he didn't expect anyone to comprehend. He could dissect and repair anything with a few cannibalized parts; he'd been doing it since childhood. The engineers were useless without their military-grade tools and replacement nuts and bolts.

Yeah, I guess I'm the greatest thing right about now. A jack of all trades too happy to get his hands on machines. If people mistake that for generosity, let 'em.

"I haven't heard too many complaints, but definitely never enough compliments," he said, the pride clear in his voice. "I've only fixed VNB's guns, rigged up communications in the boats, fixed the damn submarine by myself, and then worked my magic on Gorasnayian technology." He pulled himself out of the compartment and stretched his arms over his head, cramped from the enclosed space. "Maybe you should pat my head and call me your good little boy for old time's sake."

"Aww, jealous of Mac?"

"Hell no. Your asshole-hound could drown for all I care."

He stood and stepped away from the engine for a moment. It would take a little more work to patch up the holes from the Stranded attack, but it was coming along. The fishers would have their boat back in record time.

"So be serious, Granny, what did you mean by that question?" Baird asked. "You weren't trying to ruffle my feathers. Shit, you're fishing."

"Must be getting rusty in my old age if you saw it that easily." She shrugged, unapologetic for the bizarre question. Baird didn't believe it. People had to focus on surviving, not producing kids. That's what the civilians were for. Gears didn't have time for emotional shit.

Bernie jerked her head to the left where Sam was walking the dock, rifle in hand. Yeah, Baird had been stuck with the Harpy Squad, but that was the price for staying in Pelruan to work.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Private Byrne lately," Bernie said with a shit-eating grin. "She's as surly as you, good with machines. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but she's a great gal. Two peas in a pod, if you ask me."

Baird threw his hands up in panic. Shit, shit, shit! She's trying to play matchmaker!

"Whoa, no way!" He shook his head furiously. "That crazy bitch? One insane South Islander woman in my life is more than enough. If I ever find a woman, I want the real thing. Not a brute in a skirt."

He spared a glance over his shoulder to see Sam staring holes in him. Had she heard? Maybe he did accidentally raise his voice in terror, but damn, he could never imagine holding hands with her. Just thinking about it was a nightmare. She'd probably try to dislocate his shoulder before even allowing him within her presence—not that he wanted to be there.

He didn't hate her in the technical sense. She was a Gear; he would fight and die for her as he would any other Gear. But Baird firmly believed women were better off in supporting roles, not front line. They stopped being all soft and cuddly, like real women should be, and became venomous bitches.

For Sam, it seemed like one big show. She had to be louder, stronger, and drink more than a man. It was a transparent act but Baird couldn't look past it. He hated the way she cocked her head when she was agitated—which was almost all the time—and how she stuck out her jaw and squared her shoulders just before she picked a fight. She tried too damn hard to be one of the guys.

Bernie and Anya were different. Hell, even Gettner. They just knew how to demand Baird's respect without overdoing it. Sam was still fresh to maneuvering the COG military world, despite being in service almost as long as Baird. It was just sad.

If he was being honest with himself, he could admit Sam was kind of pretty. Not his type, but kind of pretty. But there were two problems he couldn't overlook: she was constantly hovering around Dom and finding excuses to touch his arm or some shit. That didn't sit well with Baird; as hard as Dom tried to hide it, he was still mourning Maria. And the other reason was simple enough: Sam reminded him too much of Alex fucking Brand.

That was an impassable hurdle.

"Maybe if you just give her a chance," Bernie was saying. He realized he was still staring and turned back to Bernie, giving her his undivided attention. "She seems to really—"

"For the love of God, stop." He grimaced, realizing just how harsh that sounded. And even after I promised to be nicer to her, damn it. He tried again. "I appreciate your concern about the state of your grandchildren, but they won't happen any time soon. I don't have time to think about things like that. There's too much work to do and too many days of this uneasy peace to suffer through before any of us can consider things like family. Some of us are still too busy grieving the previous one to think about starting another. But whenever you and Hoffman set the wedding date, you know where to find me. I'll even be your ring bearer if it would make you happy." He patted her shoulder and crawled back into the cramped space of the engine compartment, pulled down his goggles, and went back to work.

Even if Bernie wasn't aiming to goad him, he still felt jostled by the question. He never felt pressured to pass on the Baird line so why now? Suddenly he realized just how old he was getting, and even if he made a terrible father like his own, he still wanted to try.

Why did problems always seem more real, more menacing, when someone else put them in prospective?