Mode cradled her, he comforted her, and she let him, content for once to be held like a child. It was safe. He was safe. He would never hurt her, and he would never let her be hurt. Her father could not reach her here. Reassurance flooded over her when he kissed her, and then his fingers touched hers, touched the ring he had given her, and she met his gaze. "Did you get my message?"

Meet me tonight...

Kat looked straight into those thunderstorm eyes with wonder in her own. And then she kissed him.

It was not any kiss. There was no violence, no painful passion or concerned tenderness, or any other matter of petty emotion. She just wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him close, and kissed him. She could taste her own blood on his lips, but that meant he could taste it to, and she shared that with him willingly.

It was a kiss of trust, and for the first time, she meant it.

The small bathing chamber yielded everything he needed. His past experience had made him a most careful man; he had more than a simple first aid kit available to him here, should he ever require it. Soft cloths, gauze, antiseptics, mild painkillers and disposable ice packs and heating pads in thin cellophane arranged themselves on the counter. He had everything here; the surgery supplies were farther back and half-hidden, but they were complete.

Faith in the enduring state of his world was not something he had great quantities of. When it came to essentials - what he deemed essentials - Mode left very little to chance.

He gathered what he needed and returned to the bed, kneeling beside it and prompting a battalion of memories. How many times in that short, violent stay at Command School had he tended her wounds? Two? Three? He could not remember, and was grateful. Kat, I'm so sorry. I should have stayed. I should have taken you with me.

The uniform wasn't complicated, and she was pliable. The last time, she'd had no choice; she'd been too badly injured move on her own. This time that wasn't required. Trust had replaced necessity.

Bruises, cuts, carpet burn. Her father had been most unkind, but against the network of scars that interrupted the smooth skin at irregular intervals her current injuries were negligible. He catalogued everything as he treated it, applied chemicals and implements. For anyone else, it would have rated two days in the infirmary, at least. For Katera, it was minor damage.

He worked as quickly as he could, kissed her when she seemed to need it, and then glanced at the clock. Four minutes. They would be late, surely, even if they went now. It would be best to wait. How can I ask her to do this now? I'll cancel it. It will wait a week.

The desk was so far away.

Leaving her side long enough to get it and bring it to the bed, he set it down next to her and pulled up the messaging system. His fingers were slow, recalcitrant, and he finally shoved the desk aside and took her in his arms instead. Her eyes were luminous, catching the little light there was in the room, collecting it, hoarding it. He kissed the scar on her cheek, he kissed her mouth, her neck. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense, his face millimeters from her own.

"You'll lose yours eventually too... no wings for you, Angel. After a few years, there's no point in wearing them anymore. Pray you won't reach that point..."

Only a plaything, then, her prey. He'd watched her through slate eyes, through silver, through swirling, stormy grey, and she'd seen nothing but an enemy. Nothing but a force stronger than she was, something to conquer and destroy before it killed her first. The first time he'd touched her, and she'd cut him; and all the times after that, it seemed, would be the same.

"I won't leave you because no one else will ever understand what I've dealt with like you can. But you're right. I don't love you. I don't know how. Do you?"

She hadn't, then. What she'd felt for Jax had not been love. Her hate masqueraded as something that would keep her alive, and it had, for too many years. His life had been her fuel, but losing him had only meant she'd lost that part of her rage. His blood on her hands had been a triumph, not a fallacy, as it had been when she'd pressed her blade to Mode's throat as he'd slept. She remembered his eyes as he looked at her then. Acceptance. He would die by no hands but hers. When he had left, when she had attempted to rid herself of all that pain, he had stopped her. His memory alone had stopped her. She had survived those four long years without him because to die by any hands other than his was a mark upon their love, and the part of herself that she had lost when she'd awaken in the infirmary alone had to be returned before she could surrender in peace.

"I love you, Kat. I won't let them take you away from me, I promise."

She loved him too. It was not a weakness, now, to love him. It was her strength. A new purpose. They had suffered apart for too long so that they might be together now. He could offer her safety, security. She could offer him the same undying loyalty she'd once imagined she'd pledged to another. Charybdis had brought them together. Nothing; not Wick, not the IA, not her father, nor even death, could keep them apart. She would not let it.

He moved away to retrieve his desk, and then kneeled before her again, while she watched him with curious eyes. It startled her when he shoved it away and pulled her to him, but she nestled close as he kissed her. "I love you, Kitten." He pressed his cheek to her bruised one, and she relished the pain and the feel of his heartbeat under her fingers. And then he said the words she never-- even with his ring upon her finger-- would have expected to hear from the man she had once thought could never love a demon such as she. "Marry me. Tonight. Now."

"I'm sorry, Kat... but I have to know. Now. I won't ask you again."

"Yes," she whispered simply. "I will."

The IF did not consider weddings beyond the legal standpoint. There were questions to answer, forms to sign. Most couples chose to handle this the day before, to hold their ceremony with their friends, their religious affiliates, their family, if any, afterwards.

You are my family now, Katera, you are my religion. I will love you forever. I will hold you, you will have me, and death will not part us, nothing could keep me from your side. They did not exchange vows - they knew, and it was no one else's business - and in the space of a few minutes, Nathan Michael Terrence and Denali Katera Quistin were married.

The next moment of awareness came as he re-entered his quarters with her in his arms, lay her down on his bunk. He didn't bother with the light, and the darkness slid over them as the door shut behind him. Two pairs of eyes toughened in the dark hallways of Charybdis adjusted, and he kissed her throat with the same slow deliberation he'd tried for earlier in the evening. His restraint weakened and snapped, and he kissed her mouth, drew in her breath for his own.

He stripped her jacket, her undershirt, too quickly to be termed romantic, but his lips stayed on hers almost constantly as he ran his hands over her in the dark, shaped her into being as the clothing came away. His own he cast aside just as impatiently. His hands on her were almost rough now, and his kisses left marks on her. She was light, easy to move, taloned nails gentled to sheathed claws that dug into his shoulders as he drew her into his lap, pulled her down. There was a hiss, hers, his, he wasn't sure, didn't care.

And then there was Katera.

Four years had been lost between them, and they had no way to get them back, but he was willing to try.

Much later, when his muscles were pleasantly sore and he lay with her body against his left side, her left hand thrown over his chest possessively, his left wrapped around her shoulders and idly stroking her arm, he closed his eyes and kissed her forehead and decided four years was a long time, too long to make up in a single night.

Katera Terrence...

She was careful not to wake him as she turned in his arms, the tip of her nose brushing his, her lips mere centimeters from his own as she parted them to taste his breath, his scent. Her hands moved of their own accord, fingers tracing the lines of his body, the muscles that lay lax in his sleep, the points where he had been shot, the faint scar upon his brow. She watched him breath, watched how his lashes were pale against his skin, brushed back the spiky hair that fell across his forehead, and then kissed him as if he were the most precious thing she owned, because he was.

I have forsaken everything for you, and it has been worth it. There was no Jax. Ryan never touched me. Gabe and Sol are nevermore. And my father cannot take this from me. My hate was enough to bring you to me, and I have no need for it any longer. I will only need you. I will only love you.

A sound at the door unwillingly pulled all of her attention away from him, and she reached for her dagger, waiting, eager, for a chance to fight from him. But footsteps came and footsteps left, and she finally raised her head from its resting place on Mode's chest and glanced toward the door.

There was a sheaf of papers there.

Mode was still asleep when she pulled away and dropped silently to the floor, making her way toward the door. Hesitantly she picked them up, as if afraid they would bite, as if they would burn, and her fear was warranted as she scanned the little note attached.

My little Katera-
You didn't really believe I'd
let you stay, did you? You
have signed the forms. We
will be leaving this afternoon.
I suggest you pack your
things.

She did not need a name to know whom that note was from, and she threw aside frantically, her hands shaking as she stared in disbelief at the name written as consent on the official I.F. resignation forms.

This is an official notification of my resignation as a soldier of the International Fleet.
---Denali Katera Quistin

Her knees gave way and she sank to the floor, trembling, but it was not with fear. It was not anything close to acceptance. It was rage. She tore her eyes away from her signature upon those papers and looked to Mode as he lay in their bed, stared at him with all the furious possessiveness that would never allow him to be taken from her. She would die again before she could let that happen, and Kat was not one to give up quite so easily when everything she loved was at stake.

Slowly, deliberately, she tore the resignation order into shreds, and left them scattered on the floor.

Then she returned to their bed, but this time she moved behind to curl around him, to wrap her arms around him in a gesture of protection, and the dagger was held in her little hands as she cradled him to her and rested her cheek against his back. Her eyes fell closed once more, her heart slowed, and she smiled quietly to herself, her lips pressed to his skin.

Working in the IA had accustomed him to dealing with nearly every type of paperwork the IF dealt in, and he recognized this as a fragment of a resignation packet. He doubted Vaisou would have dropped off any orders that involved resignation paperwork in his quarters. The computer network was far more secure, and what reason would Vaisou have to deliver them in person? And what reason would Katera have to tear them up?

The answer, of course, was that it wasn't Vaisou, had nothing to do with Vaisou. There was only one person alive that could have set Katera off like that so quickly. Quistin was making a final attempt, and Nathan doubted the captain knew how final it was.

He dropped the scrap, took his desk from the floor and returned to Katera. She was watching him guardedly, but she pressed herself against his back and put her chin over his shoulder to see what he was doing when he lay down again. Her hand came down over his stomach, and he took it and kissed her palm reassuringly as the system came out of standby.

The network requested his password, and he gave it. He had high access, even for an IA officer. Vaisou had given him VonStarnburg's old account, on the ridiculous premise that it was "easier than making a new one". Like everything else Vaisou did, it was merely a device to remind him of his place, what had happened, what could happen. Overuse had its sideffects; Nathan was growing immune to such things.

One resignation entered in the past twelve hours, and rejected. Name not valid. Nathan smiled slowly and let the screen stay up so she could see why her father's last attempt to separate them had failed. The resignation forms had been made out for Denali Katera Quistin.

Not Denali Katera Terrence.

He turned to her after he was certain she'd read it and pushed her gently down on her back, studying her face carefully before holding her gaze with his own. "I have to take care of this, Kitten," he said softly. "Now, before it gets any worse." He didn't ask her to stay in the room, though he very much wanted to. Quistin was not likely to be a gracious loser, and he'd caused Katera enough pain already.

She tired of this. Hadn't four years of suffering been enough? She had paid for her crimes, and he for his. The past was an unpleasant memory-- one that had brought them together, perhaps-- but its details were painful and best forgotten. Her father was one of those details. He should have disappeared along with the Jax and Ryan and the rest.

"You will not be remaining here with him. I have spent the last four years ensuring that you will not be near him again, and since he is staying here, we are not."

Should have, but hadn't. And did not want to.

"Don't fight me, Kitten, or I'll kill Terrence just like you killed Jax."

Mode continued to watch her, and she sighed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and looping her legs around his waist, to tug him down beside her and hold him. He didn't resist, and it wouldn't have mattered if he had. She didn't want him to move. Life should have frozen, should have given them a moments peace to celebrate their union, but still it continued to try and separate them. Her nails dug into his skin as she clutched at his back, her teeth marking the smooth expanse of his throat, and she hurt him until he shoved the desk aside and hurt her in return.

He tried to kill me... let's kill him first...

Hatred? Never. Anger? Perhaps...but what right did he have to be angry with her? Everything he said, everything he did, everything he thought, it was all his responsibility, not anyone else's. How about some of the less attractive options, Nathan? Relief, maybe, that she withstood you like that and still loves you? Not likely. She's taken worse. How about satisfaction? Is there a point in lying to yourself? Is there salvation in denial?

He grit his teeth until they ached and the pattern of thought slowly faded away, and he replaced it with consideration for her request instead.

She wanted to come. She wanted to see. He could give her that. An audience would keep him in check, even if it was Katera, and that was comforting to him - and he wanted her to know that she was safe. He didn't want her to have to take his word for it. His own response to her aggression had sorely shaken his faith in his ability to control himself. He wasn't sure he wanted her to trust in him.

It was for this reason that he tried to pull away a bit roughly. He almost wanted her on guard.

Promise me that you won't let me hurt you, Kitten.

The roughness failed, and he sighed and nodded, kissed her cheek before sitting up. He couldn't be rough with her now. Before she'd almost seemed to want it. Now it seemed out of place, and he did his best to put it out of his mind as he typed a concise set of orders into his desk and sent them off. That helped to focus him on the task at hand instead, and by the time he was done and dressed he was calm and cool, ready to do what was to be done.

Ready for Robert Quistin.

He waited until she was dressed as well. There was no need to hurry; the MPs would probably have quite a time collecting the Captain without violating any of the rules he had laid down, and he wanted everything to be in place by the time he arrived. He was uncomfortably aware of how eager he was for this encounter, but that very eagerness dampened his discomfort. He deserves it. Whatever he is given, he deserves that and more.

And a quiet, snide little echo answered him. How convenient.

And that was precisely what was driving Kat to madness-- sheer boredom.

Alone in their room, she paced. It was an unsettling motion to watch, frantic energy and spirit barely contained in the slow, repetitious movements she made. In all that time with Mode, while she grew content and secure once again, the little beast inside her had been furious. It fought against all the rules and love she had tied it down with, and it paced more fiercely than Kat could ever do it justice to as she moved about the room. It wanted out, for amidst work and duty and marriage, there had been no place for blood and hate and conflict.

Just once? it begged, while rational thought dismissed the idea harshly. No. It's not Charybdis, it's not safe here... and being sent back isn't worth it. Losing him isn't worth a little play.

Kat made a growling sound of frustration, her green eyes sharp and hungry for what she knew she couldn't do. She had long ago refused the thought of hurting Mode; she wanted it, wanted his rage, but she couldn't bring herself to fight him. He hated it, and she loved it, and she hated herself for loving the pain he caused them both.

Bereft of this outlet for her anger, she'd turned to the hope of other sources. Just as she had at Charybdis and Command School, Kat wanted to hunt.

No one has to find out. He doesn't have to know. Surely somewhere amongst these thousands of people is easy prey. It's just a little rumble. Nothing serious. No killing.

It had been an easy enough urge to ignore at the beginning, but as time wore on, so did her restraint. Twenty-one years of constant conflict, and for the first time it was forbidden. Of all the little things she could change for Mode, this was the most difficult, and it was starting to show. Her control slipped when she least expected it; bringing out sudden, irrational flashes of rage at whoever she happened to be speaking to at the time, making her hands shake as she clung to Mode at night instead of reaching for her dagger, and manifesting itself in moments of a nearly unbearable desire for pain, when it was all she could do not to scream at bloodlust's denial.

I'll go crazy if I don't. I want to, I need to... he'll understand. He loves me. He knows I can't just stay like this.

...right?

She stopped her pacing, but she had to do something, and that something was destructive as Kat swept her arm against her desk, knocking it to the floor. The crash and break was sweetly satisfying, and that one taste was not enough; she threw a pair of Mode's boots against the wall, kicked a chair over, reveled in the mess, and had just dug her dagger from under the bed and pulled it from its sheath when the door opened. She froze abruptly, her eyes wide with surprise, and turned her head slowly to look at who stood in the doorway.

Mode. He'll know, don't let him know!

Since the problem with her father had been solved, there had been a quiet, comfortable peace between them. His life was ordered, and that was something he cherished. His job was unpleasant, but there was a certain pride to be had in doing it well, and having the warm security of her presence to return to when he was done with it was his reward. Her playfulness, her strength, the way she clung to him when she slept...he had come to depend upon them as permanent. He was happy, and he thought she was, too.

It appeared he had been mistaken.

He swallowed and looked at her knife and then back to her face. Her expression was already altering, guilt replacing the unreasoning fury he'd hoped he'd never see again, but the damage was already done, and he barely heard her explanation as he gathered his wits once more. He grit his teeth together and stepped into the room to allow the door to close, but he didn't come any closer to her; she still had the knife, and the last time he'd seen such a look on her face she'd been interested in using it on him.

The rest of the room came into focus - the tumbled chair, the broken computer. He unconsciously gave her a wide berth as he moved towards the desk, set the chair upright and the crouched to carefully lift the fractured terminal and place it back on the desk. Something about straightening what she'd done seemed important to him. She was watching him, and now there was nothing but concern in her tiger eyes, her small hand still wrapped around the dagger but hanging forgotten at her side.

Don't look at me like that. Please, please, I didn't mean for you to see this. I didn't want you to ever fear this from me again. Please, Mode.

She couldn't bring herself to speak, and he continued to watch her warily as he moved wordlessly about the room, cleaning the aftermath of her temper. Her eyes never left him, her anger forgotten, and when he finally straightened and stood staring at her from across the room, the dagger fell from limp fingers and clattered on the floor.

I don't want to hurt you, I don't, I don't, believe me, please...

The distance between them seemed far greater than it really was, and Kat managed to move only a few feet closer before she paused, hesitated, afraid that he might turn her away. When she reached out to him, he didn't pull back, and it was enough of a reassurance that she threw herself at him, clung desperately to him and bowed her head, buried her face against his chest and tried not to cry.

Even still, through all the guilt, it burned, and she needed more. Kat hung onto Mode as if he were the last safe thing on earth, but behind his back, the tips of her nails dug into her palm, and added to the remorse in her eyes.

Smoothing her hair away from her face with one hand, he tilted her face up so he could look down into her eyes. There was guilt there, and pain, but there was something else as well, something frighteningly familiar. She looked...she looked hungry, but it wasn't a kind of hunger he understood. He didn't want to place it, didn't want to try to figure out the implications; that was his job, and this was his home. It wasn't supposed to be like that.

His first impulse was to push her away, and he cast that aside in favor of the second. He kissed her, his eyes falling shut and hiding the gleam that still pulsed in her own. He felt her hands tighten into his uniform, and he pressed her to his chest and kissed her more desperately, and if there was something other than love in her response, he didn't see it.

Surely he would understand, if I did... if it were only a little slip. Just once. I'd never have to do it again, not if I could get just one last taste...

Lying to herself was so much easier than lying to him, but still, it didn't hold for long as she wrapped herself around him, made him carry her to their bed so she could repent. Everything that it was in Kat's instinct to do, she denied, and in a rare moment she was gentle with him. If he noticed, he made no comment, and her guilt eased away as tenderness replaced it.

I'd give anything up for you. But if I try, and I can't, would you forgive me for being weak?

The moment the door slid closed she was against him once more, awkwardly trying to climb into his arms until he finally picked her up and carried her to the bed. Kat didn't want to talk. She just wanted him to pet her hair and soothe her, because anything she said would only make him angry, and anger wasn't something she wanted to deal with now, not from him.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I don't want to tell you, and I'm even more sorry that I'll have to, because you deserve to know. I could lie to anyone but you...

He disengaged from her clutches to hold her at arms length and look at her in worry, and Kat closed her eyes and tried to kiss him, so that she wouldn't have to explain, and so that he wouldn't have to see the regret in her gaze.

He'd run through as many different possibilities as he could think of on their walk to the room, but none that he could think of would produce this reluctant clinginess, a lack of tears and an unwillingness to leave his side. He would have to ask directly. He didn't want to upset her, though, and so he held her close to him while he spoke.

Listen to yourself, Kat. Telling him to behave. Just spit it out.

He was being gentle, and she appreciated it more than he probably knew as she nuzzled her face into one of his hands and sighed. He was worried, and she was terrified to tell him, but the concern in his eyes helped lessen the reluctance in her own, and she finally spoke.

"Wick is here."

Wick.

He had been aware that she would be coming, but he hadn't given it much thought. Wick didn't even need to know he was alive, and he didn't want anything to do with her. Dealing with Wick inevitably brought out the very worst in him, and that wasn't something he was going to allow ever again. Wick's presence wasn't what made him angry now - for he was angry, extremely angry. It was that Kat had known she was there before he did, and had gone to speak with her without consulting him first. She'd told Wick he was here, and even cut some sort of a deal, as if Wick could be expected to keep her word. And after all of this, she had the gall to come to him and beg for rationality?!

You've committed enough irrationality for both of us today, Kat. All you had to do was avoid her. Now I'll have to watch her, and you, and it'll be like that until she leaves. Maybe longer. And it's your fault.

His hands clenched in the blankets.

And you were afraid I was going to be irrational.

And what would that have done? He would have found out eventually, and hiding it from him would have been worse than a lie. He had to know. Now he'll be careful, just like I'll be careful, and maybe this time there won't be a battle. Kat closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, both to avoid seeing his anger and to hide hers. Why won't you understand?

"I see," was all he said, but the distrust and displeasure in his tone hurt her. It hurt her enough to unlock her own fury, and she pulled away from him, stood up and paced around the room in circles and finally ripped her nails across her arms. She couldn't hurt Wick, she couldn't hurt Mode, she couldn't hurt anyone but herself, and Kat needed a little pain to help her think clearly.

"You don't trust me," she hissed, her voice rising as she talked. "She found me, I didn't go looking for her! I didn't tell her anything, she figured it all out herself... it's kind of hard to miss, Mode, when I have your name!"

The next moment he was standing with her elbows in his hands, surveying the damage, his remorse replaced by real fury. There were few things that could bring him close to the edge of losing his temper as quickly as seeing his love intentionally injure herself. It was something he'd only seen her do once before, and he had to remember to keep from hurting her further as he looked down into her eyes and tried not to snarl.

No, not the least bit irrational.

I forgot, I... I didn't really mean to...

"I'm sorry," she whispered in return, rubbing her cheek roughly against his when he finally released her and crushed her to him. "I just got scared."

They held eachother until Kat felt secure enough to pull away, reluctance at having to let him go evident in her expression. "You'd better go back to work," she said, at the same time he tried to say the same thing, and it made her grin tentatively at him. He returned the smile, and Kat threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Once he was back in his office, he did two things. The first was to run back the video feed of Katera's day, from the moment she'd left their quarters in the morning to the moment she'd run into his office. The second was to requisition access to the Command School video files.

He wanted to know why Kat seemed to trust Wick, and he wanted to know what Wick's intentions were. It would make it much easier to deal with her, if she became a problem.

It was foolish, to think of Mode leaving her, but for all its irrationality she let herself fall prey to her fear. He'd left his belongings in the room and so she refused to leave, knowing that if he wanted his things then he'd have to face her first. It made perfect sense for the first two days, but as time wore on and still Mode remained away, Kat found herself trapped by horrible possibilities.

What if he won't forgive me? What if he hates me?

She'd returned from the infirmary three days ago to find him gone. That much she'd expected; the betrayal in his eyes needed time to fade, and she needed a chance to soothe herself, to mute the defiance and guilt and rage that had sprung up the moment she saw Wick laying bloody on the floor. But she believed he would come home before long and demand an explanation, and she waited, anxious and angry all at once.

When she woke in the morning and found that he hadn't returned, she began to worry. The secretary in the IA sector faced a furiously shaken Kat and, surprisingly, managed to stand her ground, giving only the refusal that Lieutenant Terrance was occupied and couldn't see visitors.

Couldn't or wouldn't held no distinction in Kat's mind, and she took it like a stab to her heart. Mode didn't want to see her. She retreated dully to her bed and cried her fear into the pillow, and still he was gone when morning of the second day crept past.

Now it was night, the evening of the third day, and Kat could stand it no longer. She idly stroked the scar upon her wrist and tried to reason away the need, but it was too insistent.

Just once... she promised herself as she drew a thin line down the underside of her arm, but once turned into twice, then thrice... and soon enough the carpet below her soaked red with her pain, and Kat buried her face into bloody hands and cried.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for knowing your enemy and I'm sorry for breaking my promise. But don't leave me, please. I couldn't bear it a second time.

The little demon that guarded her rage took one look at her misery and screamed its displeasure. It wanted out, it wanted destruction, and Kat's sobs turned to a scream as she gave in to her desire to break.

Like a small child she threw everything she could lay her little clawed hands on; a chair, the desk terminal, her clothes and Mode's boots and anything that wasn't bolted to the floor. She was still crying and muttering incoherently when she ripped the blankets from their bed, and retreated to an old sanctuary, doing something she hadn't felt the need for until now.

Kat hid in the closet, in a jumble of sheets and blankets, and couldn't stop crying.

It's my apartment too. It's our apartment. I don't have to ring the bell...but I've been gone for three days. What...what if she doesn't want to see me right now? What if she needs the chance to tell me to go away? He shrugged in frustration and finally reached out and touched the bell. The chime was audible even in the hallway, and he tried to compose himself and look apologetic.

The door remained shut.

I know she's in there. Does she think I won't come inside if she doesn't answer? Now he felt foolish for ringing the bell. With a pass of his hand he opened the door and then stepped inside. His eyes adjusted quickly as he surveyed the room.

Everything was in shambles. There were several dents in the wall, and everything that could be knocked over or broken without tools had been. The desk was cracked and on the floor, and the only furniture left standing was the table. It wouldn't take too long for him to clean and make repairs, but it still looked like a formidibale mess.

Katera wasn't there.

He relaxed a little and set the wrapped package down on the table before he heard a small scratching noise from the closet. He glanced towards the bed they shared. The blankets and pillows were gone. His expression softened. She wasn't gone, or ignoring him. She was hiding in the closet.

Are you scared of me, Kat?

That idea made him sad, and he approached the door to the closet and turned the handle. She was inside, tangled in the sheets and blankets, shifting, but still asleep enough not to know he was there. He knelt down on the carpet and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. I'm here, Kat. If you want me to leave, I will, but for now, I'm here.

"I thought... you wouldn't come... back," she mumbled sleepily. "'m sorry... 'bout... breaking..."

"Breaking?" He whispered back, and Kat managed to clumsily untangle herself enough from the nest of blankets to reach a hand out to him.

There were long scratches on the insides of both arms running from above her elbow to her wrist. They were bright red and they looked relatively fresh; she'd probably done it today.

He released her stiffly, and then took one of her wrists in his hand and moved her arm unyieldingly so he could see them better. She hissed, and he realized how tightly he was gripping and released her. She yanked her arm back and tried to drawn herself into the smallest space possible, and he took deep breaths and tried to reason with himself.

I was gone. She was here by herself with no one to speak to and no one to comfort her. What right do I have to judge her? What right do I have to tell her what she can and can't do to herself?

But there was an answer to that question, and his restraint began to waver.

I love her.

You were gone a long time. I had to do something.

He tugged at her arm, his fingers digging into her skin, and it hurt. The pain was enough to shake Kat from the last remnants of tired compliance, and she hissed, backing away to curl more securely in her blankets. She shouldn't have touched him, she shouldn't have let him see, but the need to be close to him had made her careless about her indiscretion.

It was only a partial truth, however, to say that she was angry at herself for breaking her promise to him. The accusation in his eyes both reprimanded and angered her, and part of her wanted him to be furious. Part of her had been quite eager to displease him, because having him furious over her injuries meant that he cared, and after three days without him, Kat was in desperate need of that reassurance.

His hand made a fist, and he put his elbow on his knee and rested his forehead against the backs of his closed fingers. He breathed deeply, listening to his heartbeat. When he looked up, she was watching him.

I could try to explain it to her. I could try to make her understand...but I don't know if she would. Too much weakness in one evening makes her angry and restless, and that will just make the problem worse.

He drew her into his lap. She was reluctant, but that's where he wanted her, and that's where she ended up. He wrapped his arms around her to keep her there, outside her own, tightening until she was pressed against him and he could look down into her eyes centimeters away from his.

Then he threatened her.

Nothing could have prepared her for his words, and Kat stared up into cold grey eyes, fury and hurt in her own as he played upon her greatest fear. Neither death nor torture nor even the thought of Charybdis again could have frightened her more, but imagining him gone, hearing him threaten to leave her... it was too much.

You can't leave me. You're supposed to love me, all of me, like I love you... and now you want to leave. You want to leave me, just like Jax and James did, because...

"No!" she hissed at him, her tone almost angry enough to hide her fear. "You promised, you promised!" Kat fought against him until he let her go, and then she pushed him away violently, her face contorted with rage and her voice thick with defiant disbelief.

She looked down at her arms and choked on her words, turning away from him before speaking. "Then you don't love me, if you'd leave." That thought brought a fresh wave of fury, and Kat kicked at the desk she'd left broken on the floor, looking for an outlet for her pain. "You were gone." She paced frantically. "Six months. Six months I haven't done anything, and then you left, and I had to, I had to do something."

His expression was unreadable when she turned to face him once again, and his lack of understanding made her fear turn unreasonable. It was a saving grace that she didn't have her dagger in hand, but even without it there was a painfully sharp edge to her anger, and she tried to hit him, tried to make him hit her back.

"You hate me," she cried, pulling away again. "You..."

"No one ever has to do anything," he replied icily. "For six months you've managed to act civilly. I'm proud of you. If you think that's an excuse for doing this," he caught her wrist and twisted her arm so she had to look at the scratches, "you're mistaken. You destroyed our room. That's acceptable; it doesn't get either of us in trouble and it doesn't damage anything important. This," he pulled her wrist up and then threw it away from him, "is never alright. You knew that already."

He'd told her he loved her many times, but she had always just taken the level of his devotion for granted. She would kill to keep him safe, and thus surely he would do the same. She would endure anything, if it meant she could be with him, and certainly he felt that way. But he'd never told her, not in words, not out loud. When he turned away and repeated all the things she'd ever wanted him to say to her, she began to understand.

It would kill me to lose you. It almost did. She looked down at the scar on her wrist with sad acceptance. When you were hurt, I would have killed anyone to make you better. But... but I can't imagine if you'd hurt yourself.

Kat sat down heavily on the bed beside him and tried to find her anger again, tried to be anything but weak as she stared at his back.

You're lying. If you really loved me, you wouldn't take yourself away from me.

She looked at her arms. The scratches were harsh against the pale underside of her skin, and suddenly the sting wasn't pleasant anymore. She didn't want it anymore, didn't need it. But that's exactly what I'm doing. Trying to kill you by killing myself. I always do that.

He held her and was held until he could move again, and then he shifted so he could pick her up and set her on her feet as he stood up. Her uniform came away under his insistent fingertips, and he let her tug his clothing away too before he led her to their bathing cubicle and shut them in.

It was dark; he hadn't bothered to turn on the light. The confined space and the lack of light immediately made him restive, but Kat was there, distracting him from the caged sensation. He kissed her, and he didn't flinch when the cold water hit his back, just kissed her and shielded her until it became warm enough for him to put her under it.

He'd bathed Kat before. Last time, he'd been thorough and efficient. This time he was thoroughly inefficient, lingering with her under the falling water long after either of them needed cleaning, each going over the other in the absolute dark of a chamber within a chamber with no windows.

The room was cold when they came out again, and after they'd dried each other and he'd collected the package from the table they retreated to the bed, burrowing into the blankets. He caught her hands when she sought to distract him and put them on the box instead. After the pitch black of the shower stall, the room contained more than enough ambient light for both of them to see clearly, and she looked at the colorful wrapping while he toyed with her hair.

"For us," he said in a warm whisper.

Eventually they disentangled themselves from one another, undressed, and he tugged her to the shower. It was dark and warm and wet, and if she couldn't see him, then at least she could feel him, as he kissed her and held her and made her smile in the dark.

She wanted more, when they were finally curled together in their bed, but he surprised her with a brightly wrapped box. The sudden present reminded her of birthdays, of Charybdis, and the thought made her wary as she tugged on the ribbon and looked up at him.

"What is it?" Mode smiled down at her and told her to open it, and as Kat's curiosity was far greater than her skepticism, she set about ripping the paper to shreds and opening the box.

There was a bottle inside, a pretty one, with two little glasses nestled in tissue paper beside it. Kat carefully lifted out the bottle, holding it up to what little light there was in the room as she tried to decipher the contents. Something pink was all she managed to determine, and when Mode gave her an encouraging nod, she twisted off the cap and gave an explorative sniff.

"I decided," he said in playful tone near her ear, "that since they think we're grown-ups it might be fun to pretend. Don't drink it too-" he paused as she downed her glass and tilted her head back to look at him with a grin that he couldn't keep from returning. "...fast," he said ruefully, and kissed her.

"Why not?" She located the bottle and refilled her glass.

"Because if you drink too much of it you might get sick." The rapid pace the second glass disappeared at told him she was unconvinced, and she was reaching for the bottle again when he snatched it first. "You need to learn to take turns," he said in mock disapproval, and hesitated momentarily before draining his drink. It did taste like strawberries, a little carbonated and a little like juice, with an undercurrent he guessed was probably the alcohol. He felt no immediate effect from it except a slight warming, and he poured his second glass more confidently before relinquishing the bottle to her.

Kat gave him a slightly sticky and very sweet kiss before upending her glass again, and it wasn't more than a few seconds before she refilled her cup and grinned. "Your turn!"

It was fun to pretend, even if their little game kept getting interrupted by kisses. At first Mode attempted to regulate the amount she drank, but Kat was apt at stealing sips and, having a fondness for anything sugary or sweet, was very aggressive when it came to wheedling another glassful from him. Eventually he gave up and let her have her way, and Kat was peering into the nearly empty bottle with disappointment when she finally realized why he'd said not to drink it too fast.

She felt a little funny, and made a face, even going so far as to set the bottle down and look to Mode. He seemed a touch blurry, and she squinted at him, first out of one eye and then the other, before deciding that maybe she was blurry, and giggled at the thought.

"I want more," she purred as she crawled back into his lap. He grinned and kissed her, taking some of the sugar away from her lips. "I think you've had enough, love," he admonished her, amused when her efforts to reclaim the bottle made her tilt too far to one side for balance. He wrapped an arm around her to keep her upright, and she tried to look menacing and failed with a hiccup that made her giggle like a four year old. "Pleeeeease?" she asked beguilingly, and he looked at the small amount that remained in the bottle. After all that she'd drunk, he doubted that much would make any real difference.

He poured the last of it into her glass, and she slurped it noisily. He took her glass away when she was done and put it with his own and the bottle next to the bed, and then kissed her. She tasted like strawberries and sugar. Her kiss was uncoordinated but extremely enthusiastic, and she yelped and giggled when he tickled her side. He grinned and rolled her to her back and started to kiss her neck.

I almost wish it had worked on me. She's...happy.

She huddled in the shower, the temperature turned up as far as it would go, and despite the scalding heat it felt as if she would never get warm. It was dark in the bathroom, the lights deliberately off because they hurt her eyes, and in the steamy, wet gloom, Kat cried.

Everything had been perfect, just absolutely perfect, for the past year. She and Mode had managed peace-- balanced, happy, utter peace-- and for the first time Kat was content with it. He had her and she had him, and life left them alone. It was all she could have asked for.

Until recently. It had started three weeks ago, as a little twinge of nausea that she dismissed, thinking it must have been something she ate. Then it came back, stronger as time wore on, often accompanied by headaches and shivering and sleeplessness that frequently left her awake during the nights and sick during the days.

Kat couldn't explain it, and didn't want to. She hid it all from Mode, and like a wounded animal she preferred to suffer alone. The moment he left in the morning she would rush to the bathroom, bowed over the toilet and crying, and when he was around she found convenient excuses not to eat, not to sleep, and not to let him touch her. If he had any idea of how sick she really was, he certainly would have sent her to the infirmary, and Kat would rather be miserable than subject herself to a doctor's whim again.

At least, that was what she told herself. Suddenly she was too hot, and had to switch the water to ice again, to soothe her headache. All too soon, she was freezing, and eventually she had to give up on the shower and limp to the sink again, spitting nothing but saliva and bile, as she had already lost what little she'd eaten for breakfast that morning.

I... I don't want to be sick. Make it go away.

Completely and utterly miserable, and all too exhausted, Kat wrapped herself in the sheet she'd left on the floor and dragged herself back out into their room. She thanked God that there had been no work today, and that Mode had been called in anyway; it gave her nearly an entire day to rally her strength for his return. The bed was cold and uncomfortable when she buried herself into it, but Kat could have cared less, and she curled tighter around herself and tried to justify her silence.

If he knew, he'd make me go. I don't want to. I'm scared that there's something wrong... there's nothing wrong. I've lived through worse. I'm just a little sick. A cold. The flu. Nothing is wrong.

No sooner had she begun to drift asleep than the door slid open, and Kat winced. He wasn't supposed to be home yet! She pretended not to notice, tried to hide, but his face appeared in front of hers, and she had to conjure a lie.

"...Kat?"

"Just tired," she croaked. "Go away."

He knew she hadn't been feeling well for the past week or so. He also knew better than to suggest she go to the doctor right away; Kat shared the aversion to the medical profession of almost everyone who'd been through Charybdis. That was one of the reasons he kept such an extensive medical store in his quarters...but those supplies were geared towards violent damage incurred by fighting or injury. He didn't have any diagnostic tools.

She was curled into as tight a ball as she could manage, but he slipped his hand against her forehead despite her muffled sounds of complaint. She felt like she might be running a low-grade fever. That meant her body was trying to fight off some sort of virus or bacteria. It wasn't just a simple cold.

He left her in the bed and stepped into the bathroom. The mirror was still steamed, and there was a faint scent of bile. His worry turned into full-fledged concern. Kat was sick. Kat was sick.

Kat was going to the doctor.

Leaving the little room and going back to the bed, he didn't try to move her again. He curled around her, though, and put his arms around her. Once he was close to her and felt how warm she was he discarded the idea of letting her sleep it off and go to the clinic in the morning. Kat was tough. If she was practically incapacitated, this had been going on long enough.

She let him curl around her, huddling closer to him when he made to hold her. It'd been easier to ignore it when he didn't know, but now that he was aware of how sick she was, it was all that more miserable. He stroked her hair, and Kat tried to pretend that she hadn't heard what he said.

"You're not just tired." Am so. Can sleep it off. "You're sick, Kitten." I am not. Not sick. Just tired. "You need to see a doctor."

No. I won't go, I won't. There's nothing wrong.

"Notgonna," she muttered, trying to tug away from him but failing as he tightened his arms around her to keep her from escaping. "'mfine..." The sudden movement made her stomach turn, and Kat had to claw at him until he let her go. She immediately fell off the bed and bolted toward the bathroom, and it was a good five minutes later that she finally emerged and slumped in the doorway, too tired to walk back to the bed.

Mode came and picked her up, wrapped the blankets around her again and laid her down, and Kat tried to be grateful, but it was too much of an effort. When he left her to call for the doctor, she didn't even protest.

All she managed was a muffled hiss when the doctor appeared in their room, and a half-hearted swat at him when he started to draw blood from her arm. It scared her, being this weak, and Mode had to soothe her more than once when she tried to kick the physician away. It didn't matter, and it didn't help; he got his way, and when the other man left with promises to message them with the results, Kat sullenly withdrew from Mode and sulked in the comfort of her pillow.

Not ten minutes had passed before her mood shifted again, and suddenly she was lonely. Why'd he have to leave? Didn't he know how sick she was, couldn't he tell that she needed him? Irrational resentment began to build as she huffed and gave the mattress a childish kick... and then just as quickly her equilibrium gave a twist and she retreated to the bathroom to retch over the sink.

Mode... please come back... It hurts, it hurts.

She fell asleep on the bathroom floor, the tile cold and soothing to her fever, but it was a restless sleep and she woke not long after. The crook of her arm was sore, a little bruised where the doctor had drawn blood, and Kat touched the spot and pouted. There wasn't anything wrong. He hadn't had to do that; it was completely unnecessary, and Mode was just worrying for no reason. She'd wake up tomorrow and be fine, perfectly fine. He'd see.

A little of her nausea lifted this time, as she pushed herself upright, and Kat managed to shuffle her way back into their room. Propped up in bed, she discovered that sitting didn't make her head spin, not right now, and she was beginning to feel as if maybe she'd been overreacting to this entire silly thing when the desk beeped.

Uncharacteristic optimism told her that it was only the doctor, reassuring her that it was nothing but a simple virus, and Kat plodded over to the terminal to read his missive.

It was not a simple virus.

There's a mistake. There has to be. I can't... that isn't possible. No. No. I won't do it. She sank to the floor and closed her eyes. If she didn't see, it wasn't true. I... I don't want to be like my mother.

Kat was pregnant.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Terrence..."

No.

She screamed it the second time and struck out wildly with her fists, hitting the desk, hitting the chair; when that wasn't enough, she hit herself, and the pain shook her awake. When she managed to struggle to her feet, her head spun and the room whirled, and Kat toppled over again.

This time she gave up on walking and instead crawled to the bed, reaching up to tug the blanket down to where to lay. She curled on the floor, hidden from view of the door, hoping that Mode wouldn't come back, that he wouldn't see her if he did. She was afraid; of him, for him, and for herself... and it frightened her so badly that, for once, Kat wasn't capable of anger.

They can make it go away. They must do it all the time. Then... then I won't die. I'll be fine, and Mode will never have to know. He wouldn't want this anyway, he wouldn't. He'll be angry. I won't tell him, and I'll get better, and it'll be like I was never sick.

She entertained the idea briefly, too briefly for her own liking, before she was forced to admit that it was the single violence she knew she'd never do. Daddy always told me he wished I never was born. I can't do that. What if they'd done that, to me?

If only Mode would return and make it all better. He could decide, and she would be spared the choice... and maybe it'd all go away.

The room was empty when he got there, but he frowned when he saw the desk. The little terminal was crooked and pressed up against the wall, but it was still on and intact. A cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach; Kat was upset, and it probably had something to do with what the doctor had told her. It can't be that bad.

He turned it so he could see the screen and read the letter the doctor had left her.

There was a minute of silence as he re-read it.

But I thought...well, I suppose...well. He sat down at the table somewhat abruptly and stared at the screen. I thought we were still on meds. He was too shocked to be anything but puzzled at first, but the idea began to sink in and brush some of that shock away. A baby. A family. A child...my child and Kat's. A baby. A baby. Our baby.

A smile began near the corner of his mouth and spread until it covered over half of his face, and Mode laughed, bewildered excitement and happiness bubbling out of him. He hadn't laughed like that in a long time, and his side began to stitch, but he couldn't have cared less. Kat? Where was Kat? They should be celebrating!

There was a stirring near the bed in response to his outburst, and he bounded over and scooped her up, forgetting that she might have been upset by the letter. She wiggled and he pounced onto the bed with her, grinning at her like a halfwit, and kissed her passionately. She was too surprised to respond immediately, but he made up for it.

Our baby. We'll have a family, someone to love us, someone to love.

He... he's happy. He thinks this is good. The memory of her mother hadn't given Kat the opportunity to feel anything but fear at the realization that they were having a child, but seeing Mode so pleased wiped away a little of her anxiety. She could feel him grinning against her throat as he clung to her, and a tentative smile found its way to her own face. A baby. Our baby. Maybe... maybe it'll be alright.

"...die?" He said the word like he wasn't sure what it meant.

Die?

He touched her shoulder. Kat shrugged off his hand, and he gripped more tightly the second time and tried to roll her over. He looked worried and scared, but Kat was running on a far higher peak of emotion that wouldn't allow for temperance. It was only after he asked her again that she finally realized that maybe he didn't know, but that didn't make her feel any better; if anything, it scared her more.

Feeling relieved and somewhat ridiculous, Kat looked up at the uncertainty in his eyes and nodded. It was her baby, their baby. Mode's baby. Silly, girlish ideas filled her head at the thought of a child, and she smiled, gradually at first, until he crushed her to him and she could kiss him.

Me. Katera Terrence, Kitty Quistin, Kitten. Having a baby. Of all things, a baby. With Mode. Our baby. A child for us.

They went shopping for food next. There wasn't a great deal of selection to be had, but most of it was fresh. Kat got seven different kinds of refined sugar. Mode bought more toothpaste.

Later on, after they'd spent time comforting each other as a reward for enduring the doctor's visit, they snuggled together and he fit himself against her back, his arm curved around her waist. Her energy level had peaked somewhat earlier in the evening, and she fell to sleep quickly, but he stayed awake for a long time.

A baby.

His hand moved lower on her stomach, and he closed his eyes and smiled.

He got up and altered the thermostat for the fifth time since he'd been home without a word. Kat was fitful tonight, and there was no use arguing with her; she was just trying to get comfortable. It wasn't her fault. It wouldn't be long now, anyway; the procedure was only a few weeks away. Then maybe things could get back to normal. He hoped.

Kat had been touchy for the last two weeks. He'd done what he could to keep her content; once she'd really started to grow he bought her whatever kind of food she wanted, and slipped her vitamins when he cooked for her to counterbalance. For almost the entire sixth month, she'd had a healthy, happy glow, and while she'd still been a little moody, she'd been healthy, on the whole. Now she was getting irritable again. The novelty of being pregnant was wearing off, and he knew she was more tired of it than he was of trying to satify her whims. She was the one carrying the child; he'd gotten off easy.

He adjusted the temperature up a couple of degrees and then went to sit behind her. She was grumpy, but allowed his embrace with a quiet exasperated noise. He knew better than to move away, though; if there was one thing that could bring about a fight more quickly than anything else, it was to move away from her without being ordered to.

There was a small, quick vibration against the palm of his hand that rested on the side of her large stomach, and he forgot all about any irritation and grinned. Soon it would be over, and the little room that had been his study would be a bedroom instead.

Heat washed over her face, and she was no longer cold but hot, a trickle of sweat running down her back and making her shiver. It was so difficult to be anything but uncomfortable lately; as if having a stomach the size of a watermelon were not enough, she could do nothing to control her temper. Moods came and moods went, and one was here right now. Kat pushed him away, using the momentum to stand, but the moment she gained her feet she lost balance and sat heavily back down on the bed.

Her vision was grey with little white flowers blossoming around the edges, and she squinted her eyes, trying to see clearly. It took longer to pass than it should have, but Kat ignored it. She was getting quite adept at ignoring the little pains and irritants that had plagued her recently, and not solely because she was accustomed to such things. No, Kat's fear was growing rapidly in proportion to her swelling stomach, and her method of coping was to simply pretend it wasn't there.

Nothing wrong.

When the world stopped swimming, she turned her back to Mode's carefully intent gaze and managed to stand again. Her body felt heavy, weighted down as it was, and she plodded across the room to the thermostat. A vicious twist and the air began to cool, and Kat shuffled toward the bathroom this time.

She slammed the door, and stood staring in the mirror at her reflection.

Her face held a flush that did not seem healthy; there was a strange pallor underneath the color, and her eyes were tired. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and Kat bared her teeth at her reflection. Then the baby kicked her, and she laid her hand against her belly just in time for something that was not a kick.

What... what was that?

She winced, but when she waited a good three minutes and it didn't happen again, her concern began to dissipate. The pain had faded rapidly, and it was hard to dwell on it if she couldn't even feel it anymore. She must have imagined it. Explaining away the pain made her feel better, and after splashing cold water onto her face, Kat wiped her sleeve across her forehead and returned to their bedroom.

"Mmrrrrrrrrgh," she muttered at Mode, but ambled over to him anyway and tried to crawl into his lap. He had to help her up, as there was quite a large obstruction between them, but after some careful maneuvering and quite a lot of angry grumbling (at least, from Kat) they managed to cuddle up together.