Step Ten: We continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.

"Got any eights, Chris?"

"Go fish."

Piers pulls a card off the top of the pile.

"Dammit. Nothing good."

"You need to learn how to play poker. This is getting old."

Piers shrugs.

"I know chess," he offers.

"I'm not a chess man myself."

"I figured as much."

It's three days till China. This hotel is in London, where the streets are as dreary as Chris imagined. He's been here before, of course, but everything is kind of fuzzy in his memories now. They're coming back, but it's a process. London is a nice place, but the weather is shit, and the only places to go within sprinting through the rain distance are pubs, and he assumes that Piers thinks he doesn't need that kind of stress.

Granted, in three days, they'll be on a peace keeping mission in China, preparing for the likely use of biological warfare. But, that's not the same kind of stress. It's funny how he can cope with some things so much better than others.

He's learned quite well that he can't cope with guilt.

"Are you going to lay a pair down, or are you going to wait for me to get old?" Piers taunts, bringing Chris back from his thoughts.

"You're gonna be an old fucking man before I put down this pair, Nivans," he retorts, shaking his head all the while.

"Uh huh," Piers says, running his hand up Chris's leg, under the little side table they've been sitting around. He bites down on his lower lip, smirks. "You bored of this?"

Whenever Piers has a proposition of sorts, Chris gets anxious.

He thinks that he just might love Piers, whatever the hell it is that love means anymore—if sharing a bed and feeling a pair of arms around your shoulders means love, then he loves Piers.

And if staying by someone's side while they exorcise their demons with whimpers and shakes means love, then Piers loves him.

"Yeah, a little bit," Chris says, hesitant.

Piers picks up on the catch in his voice.

"Something bothering you?"

Chris leans up into the back of his chair, rolls his shoulder blades back till he hears an audible crack.

"I don't know..."

"Am I making you uncomfortable or something? I mean, hell, you're the one who started this." Piers looks wounded. He's good at that, transforming from relaxation to indignation within the span of a second.

"Look, it's not like it's you, Piers..." He stumbles over his words, fully aware of how stupid he must sound right now.

"What does that mean?" Piers' mouth twists up like he's been wounded. "You can't exactly break up with me."

Chris raises his hands, a gesture of surrender.

"I'm sorry. That was stupid. Sounded stupid too. That's not what I meant."

Piers nods, sighs with a low breath across the table, shaking their carefully arranged card game.

"It's okay. Not a big deal. I get defensive sometimes, you know?"

"What the hell for?" Chris asks with a slight smile. It's as close to a compliment as Piers is going to get from him today.

"Eh, you know. Shitty exes, whatever. I'm allowed to have baggage too." He's got a wry expression on, with the corners of his eyes crinkled. Chris likes it when he does that; it makes him feel like Pier's is really focusing on him.

Piers collects the deck and starts putting the cards back in their worn out box.

"What about you, Chris? Any crazy ex-girlfriends, bunny killers or whatever?"

"I had to start first last time," Chris protests, fully aware of how juvenile he must sound right now. He grabs some cards too, and tries to jam them into the box, over Piers' hand. Piers laughs at him, and pulls them away from Chris, trying to get a semblance of organization.

"Well, I've been told I come on too strong. That's all," Piers admits, looking just a bit sheepish.

"Nah. You come on just right," Chris says. He feels Piers' hand resting against his knee again.

"You're really great, you know that, Captain?"

"You too kid, you too."

He thinks it might be the closest they'll come to confessing in explicit words and phrases just how they feel. There's a mutual understanding though.

Like when Piers brushes his hand against the side of Chris' face, taking his time to study him: cheekbones, jawline, the concavity of the slope of his neck, the exposed skin circling the collar of his t-shirt. Their breathing slows to a near halt.

"I wouldn't want to follow anyone but you."

Piers' lips slide against his neck, taking their careful time kissing and nipping little love bites, back up to the underside of his jaw, the day of stubble on his cheeks, his own lips.

He wants to say something, anything. Tell Piers how much he means to him, how much he's done for him.

You saved my life, kid.

But the words don't come to him, so he lets his actions suffice, biting down on Piers' lip, arms circling the other man's waist, pulling him out of his chair into a precarious balance on Chris' lap. Piers is all warmth and soft skin, he's like a fresh breeze of Spring into the Winter that Chris has been stuck in so long.

Piers is going to thaw him out.

They move the proceedings onto the too small twin bed. Spatial restraints require that Piers lay on top of him, with his heavy breathing in Chris' ear, searching hands sliding under his shirt.

"I'm sorry...if I ever made you think I didn't want, this," Chris manages to form the words, slow and stumbling, but spoken all the same.

"It's okay..." Piers gasps out between open mouthed kisses, darting tongues and wandering hands. "It's okay."

I love you.

I love you too.

Step Eleven: We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

They're laying in a new bed this time, with one night to go before China, and neither one is sleeping. Chris can hear Piers breathing short and shallow bursts next to him, feel his heart jumping around in his chest.

"You feeling okay, Piers?"

Piers stirs as if he was asleep. Chris knows it's an act.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, Captain. Thanks for asking."

Piers is jittery, making subtle twitches.

"You sure?"

Piers turns on his side to face Chris.

"Promise you won't run this time," he says, and it's almost a whisper. "Even if something happens."

"Nothing is going to happen. We're smarter this time. What happened in Edonia was a stupid mistake... we never should have trusted that bitch." Chris repositions himself against the pillows, tugs at the sheets.

"But what if it does, Chris? What if something happens to our men? What if something happens to me? How do I know that you're going to be okay?"

"Nothing is going to happen to you, kid. I won't let it," Chris grunts, extending out his arm to pull Piers closer to him. "I've had enough people close to me get hurt in the field. No more."

"But what if it does happen, Chris? What are you going to do then?"

"Why do you want to talk about this?"

"Because I care about you."

They're silent for a few moments. Piers presses himself up against Chris, feels his heartbeat. They're just about synchronized. It's a comforting thought.

"I've been thinking about when I get home... going to see a therapist or some shit, you know? I never really gave it a shot. I keep sober real well when I'm in the field, so my quick fix was always another mission... and then coming home even more fucked up."

Piers nods.

"I think you should. I would hate to see you again, throwing yourself away like that. You're the best damn captain in the BSAA."

"Thanks Piers... really. It does mean a lot to me. I've been doing this back and forth shit for years now, ever since I was a kid. I made it ten fucking years once. Ten years, and then I threw it away on a bad day."

Piers smiles, wraps his arms around Chris's chest. They're almost tangled up in each other.

"Go for a hundred this time."

Step Twelve: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

The helicopter is about to touch down in China, and it's shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Piers shoots a quick look at Chris, sitting next to him with his knees up to his chest. The floor vibrates beneath them, and some of the BSAA rookies are steadily losing the color in their faces.

"How are you feeling, Captain? You ready?" Piers asks.

Chris smiles in response, his confidence returned.

"I live for this, kid. Stopping terrorism."

"You're the best, after all."

"Yeah, yeah, if you say so." It's mock modesty, and Piers knows it. A little inside joke.

Piers takes Chris' hand in his own and squeezes down hard. The contact is comforting, and it's the last they'll probably have for sometime. Smooching in the field is a no go.

"We're about to parachute out!" the pilot announces, breaking Piers and Chris from the shared moment.

The pair stands up, shakes their legs out. China beckons beneath them, a stunning display of bright lights and rushed cars, people everywhere. A BSAA soldier hands them parachutes, and they get ready to suit up.

"Hey, Piers," Chris says, fumbling with his parachute.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Thank you. For everything."

Piers shakes his head, gives him that dogged grin.

"It was an honor."

They stand with their toes against the metal of the helicopter, on the edge of the world. China beckons, a land ravaged by bioterror and the forces of those who seek to have unfair power over others.

Chris knows what it's like to have something exerting power over you, the brutality of being controlled, by anything, anyone. He's there to set things straight.

Chris jumps from the helicopter, into the night sky. Piers is right behind him.

He'd follow him anywhere.

AN: And it's complete! I've never finished a fic this fast. Just something about the Nivanfield that inspires me. Now having played the game, I see that the events in this story do diverge from canon somewhat. However, I prefer this version of events, as I feel the game didn't really allow time for Chris to recover physically and mentally from his issues with alcohol.

The Twelve Steps are the intellectual property of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Much thanks to SLT and Riot Siren for listening to me ramble while I write.