The heat boiled down, humidity thick and sticky, gluing his uniform to already clammy skin. Sweat slid beneath the pristine white bandages on his ribs making him even hotter.

Blowing out a frustrated breath Stringfellow Hawke waited, sky blue eyes narrowed on the tent in front of him. Beside him, the Chaplin - a short, slightly balding man of maybe twenty years or so his senior chattered on.

Muttering an affirmative "yeah" from time to time and shelving the urge to push past him and go hunting for Tuyen himself, Hawke hoped he'd put down his obvious distraction to typical pre-wedding day jitters.

It was anything but typical. What the hell had he been thinking? There was no way he was going to get this past Burns. And certainly no way he was going to get it past US authorities back home. Dom'd kill him, he thought squirming uneasily.

But what other choice did he have? If he didn't marry her, her butt would be out that front gate so fast it'd make his head swim.

He wasn't stupid - he knew the odds a woman and a newborn baby alone out there would face with the jungle crawling with Viet Cong and PRU troops.

No, he thought clenching his jaw; he'd just have to make it work. He owed Reynolds and more than that, he owed Tuyen. He'd just have to figure out the details later.

Somehow, he'd make Dom understand.

The door to the mess hall tent banged open. A slender slip of a Vietnamese girl stood there, dark hair piled high on her head and a traditional red ao dai gown reaching almost to her ankles.

Hawke swallowed, wondering idly where she'd gotten it. Reynolds was right, he thought. She was beautiful, probably the most beautiful thing he'd seen over here.

The door banged open again and one of the nurses stepped out, cradling Tuyen's baby against her khaki-clad shoulder, the brown fuzz on his head ruffling in the warm breeze.

This was wrong, Hawke thought, feeling the unfamiliar fear and doubt claw up at him again. This was Reynold's woman, Reynold's child - Scott should be marrying them, not him. He felt every bit the fraud, the imposter he was.

Panic-stricken dark brown eyes met his, before dropping abruptly behind soot dark lashes to his feet.

Hawke sighed, heavily. Only one problem - Reynolds was dead.

Tuyen's fingers brushed his hand, hesitant, offering comfort. Hawke felt them, appreciated the offered comfort, even as he sensed the hurt in Cait's blue-green gaze as her eyes lit on their hands.

Firmly, he tugged his fingers free of Tuyen's, doing his best to ignore the confused hurt in her face as he reached for Caitlin.

Long fingers wrapped around her elbow drawing her close, his forehead nearly touching hers. "You know I love you, Cait," he rasped, his blue eyes seeking hers.

Sun-kissed lashes fluttered across tear-filled eyes as she pulled away from him and into Saint John's brotherly embrace. "I don't know what to think, Hawke," she whispered. "But I do know, you should have told me."

Muscle leaping in his jaw, String met his brother's worried hazel gaze with his own. Yeah, he kinda got that.

9:13 am, December 2, 1969

A strong hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Startled, Stringfellow Hawke spun, only to be greeted by Colonel Burns' wry amusement. "Well, if I'd had any doubt you meant it, Hawke," he chuckled, "It'd be gone now. You have that suitable deer in the headlights look." Still chuckling, he clapped him on the back as he headed Tuyen's way, offering her his arm.

"Sir?" Hawke managed a strangled rasp.

Burns swung, eyeing him soberly. "Yes, son?"

For a moment, String contemplated backing out. Burns was a fair man, maybe he'd listen…

Stormy blue eyes lit on Tuyen's downcast head, the baby starting to fuss behind her. Her chin raised as if sensing his indecision…

In the distance he could hear rifle fire. Scowling, he turned towards it. Maybe he'd never make it home, maybe neither would Sinj, but here was a chance to do something worthwhile, a chance for Tuyen and Scott's son to live in freedom.

"Hawke?"

He swallowed. "Nothing, sir."

The Colonel gave him a brief nod, turning back to the Vietnamese girl and offering her his arm. "Let's get this wedding underway, people!" he ordered gruffly.

Bending his knees, nineteen year-old Stringfellow Hawke knelt beside Tuyen in front of the military Chaplin. Not exactly how he'd pictured it somehow, he thought.

A lone tear trickled down Tuyen's cheek. Not exactly how she'd probably pictured it either, he reminded himself.

Strong, tan fingers reached out and caught hers, squeezing gently as her eyes raised to meet his. His sapphire blue gaze crinkled around the edges as he met hers. "It'll be okay," he promised, tightening his grip on hers, shooting her a quick grin.

She nodded, not speaking.

The Chaplin watched all this with a benevolent eye waiting. "Ready?' he asked at last.

Hawke shifted, his fingers still firmly wrapped around Tuyen's. "Yeah."

The man nodded, raising his head to look at the ragged, motley group of fatigue-clad soldiers and a handful of nurses. "Then let's begin."

He opened a battered, brown Bible, his eyes meeting Hawke's. "Repeat after me…"

"I, Stringfellow Hawke, take you Tuyen Trung to be my lawfully wedded wife. Before these witnesses I vow to love you and care for you as long as we both shall live. I take you with all your faults and your strengths as I offer myself to you with my faults and strengths. I will help you when you need help, and I will turn to you when I need help; from this day forward until death do us part."