>>26 >>27 In my mind, they were already together and Sniper just didn't know about it so it was never a part of Mercy, but darn it, now I want to write post-green bean Heavy/Medic comfort sex... >>28 Homigosh, okay, I got an epic glee-face reading that, plus, like, a weird high-pitched nervous giggling and hands-fluttering-to-chest. Thank you. (Also, tsch, I can totally see me writing a 'to everyone who read my fanfiction' in the dedication page like a dork... my fictional publisher would be all 'You can't do that, you are a crazy person', and I'd say 'But I love the people who read my fanfiction!'...) Also, to everybody else who commented but I didn't say anything directly to you, I still love you/all the comments, and thanks! ~~~Bonus Dell Conagher, with some hetero lovin'~~~ After he leaves the war, he goes back home to Bee Cave, gets himself a job teaching at UT over in Austin and a pretty little wife. He, at least, thinks she's the most beautiful woman on earth. He'll admit he might be a little biased. Morgan Conagher, nee Brand, makes the best chili in all of Bee Cave. He's tempted to say in all the world, but again, he knows he's biased. She's perfect for him, though, his little firecracker, and she likes listening to him prattle on about science-- says the teleporter he built to bypass the dangerously rickety stairs down to the root cellar makes life like Star Trek, giggles and tells him when other girls had crushes on Captain Kirk, her favorite was always Scotty. And she keeps the house nice, volunteers around town now and then, and other wives in town all say she must be a lovely little woman for him, except for her 'misfortune'. 'Misfortune', the only word they use for it. "Sometimes down at the beauty parlor, I swear I wish that Maisy Dickens' dryer'd overheat and set her hair afire." She says, Sunday night, as they stand side by side in the kitchen with him washing and her drying. "Does she think I'm deaf?" "Well, if Maisy Dickens wasn't lucky enough to be raised by college professors, I guess she's got nothing better to talk about than other people's problems." Dell says mildly. She giggles a little at that. Her old man had been an English Lit professor, her ma a librarian-- also at UT, though of course her folks had made the commute from Sunset Valley. They were pleased to see her marrying a man with eleven PhDs, even if they were just a little put out he was in the hard sciences and not the liberal arts. "Anyway," He continues. "We can adopt. Sure there are plenty of kids need a couple willing parents. Don't matter one bit to me if it's not mine, so long as it's healthy and you're happy." "You'll be a good daddy, Dell Conagher." She kisses his cheek. "You want a boy or a girl? Guess we might have some say in the matter, after all." "I want one of each. At least. How many orphans you think there are in Bee Cave? We'll bring 'em all home." "We don't have room." She laughs. He loves that laugh. "We'll build on. Have big family barbecues and picnics." He strips off the rubber gloves he'd been wearing, so he can put his arms around her waist without mussing up her dress. He's already looking forward to teaching them to build model rockets, and planes and trains... buying little chemistry sets, showing his kids how to ride a bike and fix a car... With the dishes done, it's time for his round of letters-- he tries to write a couple times a month, even if he doesn't always write everyone. He'll tell Solly about how things are going, the general Americana stuff he knows the man misses while he's still running around blowing things up someplace. He'll tell Sniper about the last camping trip he took with the wife, and about their plans. He'll write Scout, too, remind him it's not too late for college, if he tries hard enough. And he'll be sure to write Demo this time, tell him he's going to be adopting. He'll write to everyone about that. Some of his old teammates he writes oftener than others, but he ought to tell them all that he's heading for fatherhood. ---/-/--- After he's done writing his letters and she's finished a few chapters of Bradbury, they turn in together. He kisses her neck. "Remember when we met?" "Better than you do." She teases. "Now, you know that's not true... couldn't be. I remember seeing you in the hardware store that time. You were buying a tank of propane and some tools. Wearing dungarees and a work shirt. I thought you were prettier than the breath of spring." "Poetry. The Brands have rubbed off on you." "Don't know if it's poetry." He blushes a little, slips a hand under her nightie. "Didn't have the nerve to talk to you 'til the grocery store." He'd run into her, in the aisle with the barbecue sauce-- not in Bee Cave, or even in Austin, but in the little town of Teufort, where she'd left Texas only to run into a man from the same county she was born in. He still remembers like it was yesterday, the two of them walking down the little boardwalk and talking. She'd had long red hair and a voice like Lauren Bacall, and hips he was not above noticing, even if he was too much of a gentleman to ogle them much. He'd talked about his work, a little, when she'd called him out as 'one of those mercenaries always causing trouble outside town', and she'd been honestly fascinated. She'd told him about the time she was seven years old and got hit by ball lightning, how her parents swore it was a miracle she didn't die, not from the lightning itself or from the way the rain wasn't enough to stop a wildfire starting out back of their house. She told him she'd been looking her whole life for the same feeling she'd got back then, of ball lightning. She'd said her parents were Arthurian scholars, mostly, and he'd said that sounded about right. She'd said they named her after the wicked sorceress, and he'd said maybe she was a sorceress after all. 'Because of the lightning?', she had asked him. 'Because I can't stop thinking of you for a minute', he'd answered. He remembers all of it. When he makes love to her, he strokes and kisses across her whole body, and he's never once shied away from her old scars. The one that winds down her leg looks like a bolt of lightning itself, and when he traces up her calf, up her thigh, along that bolt with his tongue, she comes undone something fierce, and he loves that. Even when she'd cried and told him it might be why they weren't getting pregnant-- especially then, especially then he'd been sure to love every inch of her up. And she... he thinks she's the only woman on God's green earth who would, but she holds his hand-- not his normal hand, but the one he'd built after chopping the real one off in a fit of scientific curiosity. Even without a glove, she will. Shivers when he skates robot fingers across her naked belly and rolls into his touch. He never takes that for granted. ---/-/--- Scout's reply reaches them first, a parcel with a small baseball mitt, and a letter. 'You can teach your kid to catch even if he's a girl', the letter says, and 'Ma says you oughta send pictures'. He gets a sentimental congratulations from the Demo next, and a reply from Solly. A package from the Spy arrives not long after those, with a bottle of champagne and a child-sized white afghan. The Medic writes him back as well, his letter hot on the heels of the package from Spy. It's full of general medical advice for new parents and the million potential early childhood mishaps to come, as well as a few congratulations, from himself and from the Heavy. 'He did not feel confident in his ability to write eloquently in English, but we live near each other now, you know, so I promised to pass along the sentiment', he says, and 'The pictures from your wedding were lovely, I am sorry I was unable to attend'. The Sniper's letter reaches him last, but it's had the longest to travel, and it's the one he's looked forward to most. 'Glad to hear it, mate! Sure you'll be a great dad. I might be swinging through the US in a month or two, if you think you won't mind a houseguest for a couple nights. I'll be sure and bring some gifts from Uncle Sniper for the little nipper-- guess you'll have to let me know before I come over how big the kid is, boy or girl, that kind of thing' "Honey," He folds the letter up. "How do you feel about company?" "Yesterday I accidentally made enough potato salad to feed ten men. Mind drifted off and I just kept peeling potatoes, chopping 'em up... Company'd be swell, who you expecting?" "... Well, nobody for a couple months..." He blinks. "Ten men?" "It's a mite more than I usually make." "No kidding." "I'll drop the leftovers by the firehouse, those volunteer boys'll like it." She says. "Yup." He nods. It's August now, and they keep busy trying to keep the county from burning to a crisp. "Bet they sure will." 'Stardust' is playing on the radio, and he puts all thoughts of potato salad and brush fires out of his head and reaches for her. "Mrs. Conagher, might I have this dance?" "Why, Mr. Conagher, I do believe you might." She smiles. "I do believe you might."