Helllooo. It's me. You're probably wonderin' how on earth this story got an update…

But seriously guys, hi! I personally can't believe it's been over two years since I've contributed to this story. And yet, here I am. Obviously, this whole fic needs an overhaul, as I've basically forgotten what I've wanted for most of the plot, but after rereading it, I feel like it really does have potential. I'd like to update regularly, possibly weekly, but a lot has happened in two years, and I've found myself writing a lot less, recently. Who knows? This at least proves that there is hope for picking up a story where you left off.

For anyone that wants a recap, this is an AU Gears of War fanfiction, set after the events of the third game. We've found out that Samantha Byrne has passed away, leaving behind not only one distraught Damon Baird, but also their premature son. It will take the whole of Delta Squad (and maybe a few other familiar faces) to get them there, but hopefully, Baird and the baby will get to have a happy ending.

As always, R&R's are greatly appreciated. If you have any ideas for future chapters that you would like to share, send them my way. Maybe this could be a joint story, where we figure out the plot together? Much love to all of yall, and here's to many more chapters in the near future.

Cheers!

Song: Iris, by The Goo Goo Dolls

And I'd give up forever to touch you

'Cause I know that you'd feel me somehow.

"Baird?"

You remember her voice from the other room, not worried so much as tentative. You remember walking through the doorway after it, ready to ask if she was okay again, if she was going to be sick again, if she needed anything again. You remember being worried yourself, trying to hide it. You'd been wondering for days what had been making her ill.

But it hit you with crushing certainty when you'd entered the room-her wide eyes fixed on you, your's on the small cylindrical item in her hands. You'd gone up to her, still looking at it. She said, "It can't be right," and you replied with,

"Let me see."

You remember wishing you could dissect the test, cut it open and figure out how it worked, learning the hows of it instead of only realizing the why's. But in the end, it came down to simple chemistry. Two lines. You remember seeing two lines, and even though you hadn't read the box like she had, you immediately knew that somehow, it was right. And you felt

scared

tired

helpless

small

numb

confused

dizzy

cold

Happy.

Happy.

Happy for her, because when you'd looked up, she had a hand plastered over her mouth, palm pressed to a smile, and her eyes were shining from the inside out. She had seen the realization in your face, shattering her doubt, and she was happy, so you were happy, too.

Without a word, you'd pulled her into a hug, and she'd buried her face in your neck with a laugh. She hadn't been thinking 'how.'

You'd couldn't get 'how, how, how,'' out of your head.

You remember not kissing her, just holding her for a really long time, letting her think that you were smiling over her shoulder like you knew she was over yours.

And you remember how you had wanted to smile. But during that embrace, you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

Baird woke up on the nursery floor, the last traces of that memory dissipating like smoke. He was stiff from cold, and the bruises on his body felt like they'd deepened, worsened; the broken blood vessels expanded, somehow. Outside, it had stopped raining, but the grey clouds overhead taunted that the reprieve wouldn't last very long. He glanced down at his watch. It read 7:03.

"Shit," he said out loud. He'd always been in the habit of talking to himself, but it had been excessive, lately.

Slowly, he managed to pick himself up off the floor, using the wall for support and then stumbling into the bathroom.

The mirror provided Baird with the reflection of a stranger, and he stared at it distastefully for a long minute, hands gripping each side of the sink. The swelling across his face had gone down, yes, but the bruises were still very present, only morphing colors-from purple to brown to yellow to greenish. Besides which, his jaw was coated in a fine layer of stubble, dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes, and his cheek bones looked slightly more pronounced. At this rate-when he couldn't remember when he had last eaten something-it would only make sense if he was losing weight.

For half a second, he was tempted by the idea of shattering the unfamiliar reflection, pondering whether or not he'd regret the burning sensation that would surely settle in his knuckles afterward.

And then he took a shower.

It was about a mile's walk through light forest growth before Baird got to the lake in his backyard. By then, it was nearly eight oclock.

It was a large body of water, with the opposite shore only just visible to the naked eye. Surrounding it was more trees, at every side. On better days, the seclusion was peaceful, the scenery beautiful. It had been a place mostly untouched by the ravages of war, and that's what had made it so precious. Now, it just filled the blond with a sense of uneasy loneliness.

He walked across the pebbly beach, careful not to slip. The last thing he needed was to break his ankle in the middle of absolute nowhere, unable to reach anyone for help. Finally, he made it to the dock and sat down on the edge of it, booted feet dangling just above the water. It was quiet, aside from the lapping of timid waves.

He found himself wishing that he could feel her, here, this her final resting place. Sam, like so many others, hadn't wanted to be buried. They'd talked about it once or twice, fleetingly, without much conviction. It had been a worst-case scenario, explained through a cocky grin.

When one of us does decide on using those suicide pills, blondie, promise that you won't put me in the ground, yeah?

Baird swallowed. The days old memory of dropping the ashes of her into the lake, watching them dissolve and disappear forever, was the only thing that popped into his head whenever he came here, and it certainly wasn't comforting. He couldn't just remember her. He couldn't reflect on better times, and he definitely couldn't pluck up the courage to try to talk to her, like so many other people did over gravestones.

So he just sat, looking down at the water, hoping that, by bringing her here, he'd done at least one thing right.

Marcus hadn't gotten much sleep that night. Baird, in fact, hadn't called to let him and Dom know that he'd made it home alright, and although the dark haired sergeant could've predicted as much, it didn't put his mind at ease.

In plain and simple terms, he was worried about Baird. As much as people liked to say that there is "no wrong way to grieve," it was clear that the blond mechanic was falling apart at the seams. And if he'd been on his own, that technique might've been something that they could be patient with and work around, maybe.

But he wasn't on his own, not anymore. Damon Baird was a father, and as awful a situation as this was, he had to take responsibility for that. He had to do what Sam would've wanted, which, in Marcus's eyes, meant not going into seedy bars nearly every night, drinking himself into a stupor, and getting beaten within an inch of his life. It was a scenario that was becoming dangerously close to habit.

He and Dom were out of the apartment by half past eight, and it was quickly agreed upon that they'd swing by Baird's house to check up on him. They weren't scheduled to work until the afternoon, and fuck Compton Grant, anyway. If ever there was a piece of shit posing as a human being, he was it.

"Do you think Baird's alright?" Dom asked on the way over. He was driving.

"Define alright," Marcus replied dryly, although he understood what the other man had meant.

Dom pulled a face. "Do you think he got back alright? Last night's storm was as close to razorhail as I've seen in a long while."

"We would've heard something by now."

A short silence. Dom chewed the inside of his lip.

"Do you think we should just let him go off on his own like that?" he asked a moment later, sounding a bit confused by his own question. Baird was a grown man, he had his own life. They couldn't keep an eye on him all day, every day, but it felt wrong to simply leave him to his own devices, now, when he seemed so...fragile.

"And what exactly would've been a productive countermeasure to last night?" Marcus questioned, not heatedly, but with the same frustration Dom was feeling. The latino shrugged.

"Asked him if he wanted to stay?"

"Baird's never been one for company, Dom, not even on good days. And we did ask him if he wanted to stay."

"Yeah, the night. But what if he stayed with us a couple of weeks? At least until Michael's doing better."

Marcus turned to look at him, blue eyes revealing nothing. "He won't go for it."

"He might," Dom replied, shrugging again. "Convince him that he's closer to the hospital, that visiting will be easier. Staying in that house all the time can't be doing him any good, Marcus, you know that." He fell silent a moment before adding, "If I did that? After Maria?" and then trailed off.

Marcus looked at his friend knowingly, recalling those days, weeks, months after Maria died, and how busy Dom had stayed, whether it be killing locust or growing tomatoes. He'd found every distraction possible.

"You can ask him," he said, turning back to face the road ahead of them. "But he won't go for it."