A/N-- Not entirely happy with this chapter, but it will do. Next task: Update ch. 4.

Sleep had always been a welcome thing. Anya, being the workaholic that she was, always got the short end of the stick on downtime, forcing herself awake for three days at a time, or longer with a ten or twenty minute nap. She guessed it was one of those naps she was in now, having slept like a rock for who-knows-how-long, expecting someone to wake her up any minute, telling her some catastrophe happened while she was asleep that would have been averted, had she been awake.

Sometimes, these people just got on her nerves.

In all honesty, she wished someone would come in and wake her. The dreams that she experienced were some of the most vivid -- and completely impossible -- that she had experienced in quite a long time. Even now she felt like she was still in them, lying in a warm, comfortable bed-- a bed, not a cot-- with a strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her tight, while the warm body attached to it pressed against her back. Whoever they were, they were sleeping soundly; a steady, raspy breathing came from behind her head, verging on a quiet snore... and it sounded suspiciously like Marcus.

Of course, it made sense; for a good part of every day she heard Marcus's breathing patterns, being as constantly connected as possible to him through the Tac/Com, and there was no question in her mind that the sound was ingrained into her brain, so it was only natural that it was his breath that she would be hearing. It would also follow from her dream-- being, of course, that she and her favorite soldier had shared a night together-- and it seemed her subconscious was still keeping up the charade.

Not that it was unpleasant, not at all; it was something that, deep down, she had wished since god-knows-when, and although that was her main drive in keeping Delta squad alive, a relationship between them would be altogether unattainable. Even if Marcus did return her feelings, which she doubted, because it seemed the man was quote-unquote "emotionally unavailable" at the moment, he was still an enlisted soldier, and she was a lieutenant; an officer. Any personal relations between the two of them would be illegal by Coalition law. Now, off-duty would be a different story, and although it would be frowned upon, they had the ability to do whatever they wanted. But even then, during her rare off-duty hours she hardly ever saw Marcus, or any of Delta for that matter; It had maybe been once or twice she's even seen him outside of his armor.

And yet, there was a persisting image in her brain of him stripped buck naked, muscles bulging in the glow of a soft yellow light, like he was a sculpted god or something...

bzzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzzt.

That noise. Shit, she knew that noise. She hated that noise. But what was it? Something important. But what the hell did she have that was important? Maybe Command needed her for something. It could be her pager.

Her pager.

Her dark brown eyes snapped open, her body rolling a little clumsily than she would have liked out of the bed, landing on the floor with a small thud. She winced, knowing that she had made enough noise to possibly wake her partner, and as she lifted her head slowly above the edge of the bed, she was relieved to find he was still sleeping soundly, head nuzzled into the pillow where her neck had been, arm laid across the now-empty stretch of bed where her body once was. After her relief had passed, however, the small sprockets in her brain clicked into place, her eyes locked on the face of her lover, incredibly aware of both persons states of nudity and the faint glow of an early sun coming from the window to her right.

Ho-ly shit. Her dream was not a dream at all. Her dream was real.

She swallowed, crouched next to the bed in her unclothed state, deciding to save that fact to be digested at a later time.

bzzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzzt.

Again her pager beckoned from a pile of clothing at the foot of the bed that she quickly identified as her own, and she scampered over to the pile as quietly as she could manage, rummaging through the clothing and extracting the small, square device out of one of the front pockets of her blouse. Flipping it open while she squatted on the floor, she found that Command had called her twice in the past hour, which was probably why she had been dozing; and not only that, but a rather nasty message awaited her from the Colonel himself, and by the looks of it, he was going to go nuclear if she didn't show up within the next ten minutes.

Anya tapped away on the communicator, sending an affirmative reply, and closing the mobile device. Letting out a huff of frustrated breath that rustled the unkempt strands on her face, she grabbed the small pile of her clothing and hustled into the bathroom on the opposite side of the room, wondering how in the hell she was going to get out of this.

Immediately she was hit with the smell of a male bathroom -- the soapy smell that was reminiscent of aftershave, nothing fruity or pleasant, but nothing horrible. It was relatively plain but clean, like the rest of the apartment, the small blue tiles that coated the walls without any sign of mildew, as well as the gleaming white bathtub, toilet, and vanity. A glance at the mirror told her that she couldn't possibly become as presentable as she wanted to be; her normally straight, neat hair was matted and mussed all funny on one side, her mascara was flaky and her eyeliner had smudged down under her eyes, making her look like she hadn't slept in weeks.

On second thought, she wasn't sure how much of that actually was her makeup.

Hurriedly, she slipped into her clothing from the night before, trying her best to press the wrinkles flat so that she would look at least somewhat presentable, taking as much care as possible to assure that none of the red marks on her pale skin would be too obvious while she did so, stretching up her collar to cover a particularly vivid one on her neck. As she did so, to her surprise, she saw in the mirror that her right hand was still bandaged nicely, and now that she thought about it, it didn't hurt much more than a dull ache; even though she could still see the bruise seeping into her fingers, turning a lighter purple than the previous night. The swelling had gone down considerably, and she thought it was hardly noticeable as she slipped her gloves on over the top of it.

She rummaged through the sparsely filled drawers of the vanity, finding a barber's comb that she took to her short-cropped, messy hair, wincing as she pulled out a knot here and there, finally brushing it back decently and tying it in her normal, tight bun, with a hair-tie that she had left in her pocket. In addition to the comb, which she left on the side of the sink, she found a small box of q-tips, which she used to touch up her makeup while her mind ran through the fastest way to get herself to Command.

As she had discovered the night before, it was quite a walk to the Com center, at least 30 minutes if she was speedy, so walking was out of the question. She could call someone to come get her, but seeing as it was still early morning, 0430 according to the small digital clock that was sitting on the back edge of the sink, she doubted anyone would still be awake, or willing, if they were, to come get her. She could call the Traffic Controller, Jim, and see if he could send a small transport to pick her up; they had always gotten on well and she was fairly sure the old man would have no problem doing her a little favor, maybe even keeping it from Hoffman. Yes, that's what she would do.

Dubbing her appearance mediocre, she walked briskly out of the bathroom, pausing as she looked to the bed, finding Marcus had rolled over on to his back and was now snoring openly. He looked like a completely different man from this particular vantage point, his face relaxed, not contorted into his constant scowl, his face still young despite the scars; his wild hair uncovered and equally unkempt, some of the longer strands stretching below his eyebrows. She rather liked how he was now, it reminded her of the less-tortured soul he had once been, and she bet this was the first time he had slept soundly for a lengthy period of time. She was glad, almost flattered, that he would let her see this side of him, and it made her feel that much worse for leaving before he woke.

Anya snuck out of the room, making sure she had all her things, and strode quietly into the living room of the apartment, light from the windows on the far end of the room now illuminating the room clearly, even though the sun wasn't visible yet over the buildings of Jacinto. Glancing at the time on her pager, she hurriedly found a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling a short note for her sleeping lover before she left, closing the door behind her.

It's amazing, how the slam of a door can sound so much like a gunshot at five in the morning.

At the sound of the door's slam, Marcus's eyes snapped open, his military mind going on overdrive as adrenaline fired into his bloodstream, causing every muscle in his body to tense as he descended into full survival mode. He slunk slowly out from under the bedsheets, crouching on the side of his bed and searching under the box spring for the pistol that he knew he'd hidden there.

His hand touched metal, and he grasped the .45; small compared to Boltoks they were allowed to use in the field, but sufficing as he stood up slowly, still in the nude, the cautious steps from his over-sized feet making no noise whatsoever as he pressed his back up against his bedroom wall, peering around the door opening with the gun steady in his hand, ears alert for any noise whatsoever, any indication of movement at all.

He stood there for ten, twenty minutes maybe. There was no movement, no sound, other than his hushed breathing as he peered at the living room, watching the shadows, looking for bullet holes in any surface. His sharp eyes came to rest on the door, re-playing the sound in his mind, putting the pieces together as he glanced back at the vacant bed he'd just gotten out of. Hell, he thought, grumbling at himself and stretching, his body creaking and cracking as he rubbed the side of his face with a gnarled hand. That was no gun, it was the fucking door.

He flicked the safety on the gun and tossed it on the rumpled bed, breathing out deeply ans remembering the events of the previous night as he felt his fight-or-flight panic subside. He and Anya, they had... shit, he didn't know what to call it, but it was the first time he had felt alright in a long while, the best sleep that he'd gotten in years. It had been a long time coming, really, Anya was... she was everything. There was no other word he could explain it with. But where the hell was his pretty little Lieutenant now?

Wait. His lieutenant.

What the fuck was wrong with him lately?

He slid into both his boxers and jeans, picking up his skullcap up from the floor and tying the piece of cloth around his head, unconsciously centering the death's head emblem with two fingers as he walked out of the bedroom, wondering why Anya had left him alone. This morning should have been different, he should have woken to her soft kisses, maybe gotten in a round of morning nookie before she had to go back to Command. If anything, she should have woken him before she left, and he could have kissed her goodbye.

He frowned as his sharp eyes fell upon a small piece of paper laid on the corner of the island in the kitchen, words hastily scrawled across it in black ink. The scowl on his face deepened as he picked up the note, reading the hurriedly formed words.

I had to leave, I'm so sorry. H.A. gave me a call.
Didn't want to wake you, I know how little sleep you get.

Thank you.
For everything.

~ A.

She even had the nerve to draw a little heart next to her initial.

Marcus resisted the urge to crumple up the note and throw it in the trashcan, simply folding it neatly into fourths and placing it in his pocket, grunting in frustration as he walked back into his bedroom, grabbing a shirt and hastily throwing it on. He needed to go somewhere, do something-- if anything, he needed to get his mind off this damn girl.

Shit, he thought, grabbing his jacket off the door. I need to find a new damn bar.