This fic is what happens when you hit writer's block with Chewin' the Fat, your brother gets back into Advance Wars and you get really bored. It's my first Mature fic, so those of the nervous disposition may wish to back away slowly. Plus, there isn't enough Colin/Lash to go around!

Rated M for sex, violence, poss. OOC and thoughts of suicide. I did warn you. Also, Colin and Lash's ages are ambiguous in the games, so just try to think of them as being "the age of consent" and you're good to go.

There were other, better girls out there, Colin knew. Girls with more personality like Sami. Girls who were sensible like Sonja. Girls – women, to be exact, with more curves like Nell. In short, girls who weren't the enemy, who weren't utterly crazy and didn't keep trying to stick electrodes to your skull, as if you were some lab chimp.

So why had he fallen for Lash of Black Hole?

He already knew what Olaf would scream at him if he found out. Couldn't that fat oaf see anything past his shiny rows of tanks and lines of troops? Did your country really come before feelings, as the poor boy had heard over and over again in his youth? Not that Colin would say that out loud, of course. Not in front of the man whom he'd respected and followed for so long. And in a sense, the older man was right. What he was doing, what he got up to whenever he sneaked out of HQ every weekend or so, under the old lie of sick relatives, was unthinkable. He'd be betraying his home country, in cahoots with the enemy, a disgrace to Blue Moon. All that nonsense, the same stuff they rattled off on the propaganda posters – which he designed, they often added with a hint of pride.

But he didn't feel like a traitor – at least, not in the sense of giving vital information away or leaking troop movement. He never did that, so in a sense it wasn't betrayal, just something that would raise a lot of eyebrows. But Colin didn't know what he felt like anymore – a constant, churning mix of fear and excitement seemed to be his normal state of mind nowadays. What was the phrase Grit used? Between a rock and a hard place? Yes. That was what he felt like. Except it wasn't so much rock and hard place as a screaming Olaf throwing him out on his rear minus uniform and medals, and the combined Neotank regiments of Black Hole ploughing through his bedroom wall in search of justice for their defiled comrade. One slip-up, one minor fault in his exploits, and either one of those could happen to him.

He wasn't sure how dumb old Flak or sneaky Adder would respond if they knew what Lash got up to, but it probably involved some sort of dismemberment or torture. Sturm and Hawke would simply unravel her guts and convert them into a harp – an image that made him wince every time he thought of it. He knew that Black Hole was the strictest when it came to military discipline, and what they'd do to him alone if they ever found out what he and their lone female C.O. got up to would probably be worse than anything Olaf would do if he caught them both. Images of firing squads or tanks played themselves over in his head, and once he'd had a nightmare about being court-martialled minus his clothes as Judge Olaf rattled off his sentence, while Adder stood in the wings with a surgeon's knife in one hand and smirked.

So why Lash? Why did he have to fall for the girl who almost brought his country to its knees? On the battlefield, she was a squealing maniac who whooped with glee when a Battle Copter was shot down. Off it, she stuck needles in Flak, kicked soldiers in a temper and built mad contraptions to try and conquer Macro Land.

But when they were alone together… oh, lord…

She clung to him as though he were a long-lost teddy bear or a hot water bottle on a cold night. Her kisses sent thrills down his spine, as cliché as that sounded, and her touch always left him limp, sweaty and gasping. The feel of her soft skin against his was one he wouldn't forget in a hurry. And when they actually made love… Just thinking about it was often enough for him to retreat to the toilets, where, for obvious reasons, he wouldn't come out for half an hour. And all the time, she'd whisper how much she needed him in his ear, or scream out his name as he tended to her wants, only becoming quiet once they were both spent and done. In those moments, it seemed as if his being there alone was the highlight of her whole day.

Perhaps that was why, in the end. Her life, judging from what she had told him, was now totally devoted to Black Hole, running around taking orders from Hawke, working for hours in total darkness (no wonder she was so pale) and taking the blame for whatever mechanical screw-up occurred. And what a life it was. Flak barely spoke to her, except when she was filling his blood with her latest serum, although he was probably happy to help. Adder taunted her from the shadows, sneering at her apparent madness, and was always the first to make some snide remark when their latest secret weapon was reduced to a pile of metal scrap by Orange Star tanks, or Green Earth Battleships. Red marks across her face, or the occasional black eye or bruise, told stories of Hawke's rage, for despite his calm exterior the older C.O. had no room in his world view for bunglers and failures. Often, when her face appeared on the COMMS screen, her usual manic cheerfulness was gone, replaced by dull boredom.

And then he – Colin, of Blue Moon – had arrived, and suddenly everything had changed. Their first kiss, so long ago, had been the start of… something new. And it didn't matter if they had to cross mountains, swim rivers or dodge artillery fire to see each other. As far as Colin was concerned, that something was here to stay.

Every night, she held him like he was a million-dollar ticket to somewhere far away from Adder's taunts, Hawke's cane and Sturm's hateful glare.

And that was how he liked it.

There were other, better boys out there, Lash knew. Boys with muscles or motorbikes. Boys who could fix giant death rays. Boys that didn't constantly stand to attention and salute, who didn't stammer occasionally or blow all of their money in trying to foil your plots. In short, boys who weren't the enemy.

So why had she fallen for Colin of Blue Moon?

He was shaped like a stick figure drawing in some kindergarten child's art project. He walked as though he'd spent half of his baby years strapped to a blackboard. Looking at him, you'd hardly believe he knew how to fire a rifle, or direct a regiment of basic infantry – the medals looked like toys against his chest. And the fact that he was the heir to a cubic buttload of money and had a mansion in the sunny south coasts, with added butler and expensive car, didn't interest her in the least. Not when there were giant guns to be built, muscle-enhancing serums to be brewed and soldiers to be kicked about for dropping the culture dishes again. And yet… she couldn't help herself. Every weekend, as the first light of Saturday broke over the horizon, she'd slip out of her bedroom and sneak away from HQ for the sole purpose of seeing him, just so she could touch him, kiss him, hold him. It didn't matter where they met, just so long as she could be near him.

The others hadn't yet asked where she went during those two days of sheer boredom, when there was nothing to do except watch reruns of Top Tank on TV. Perhaps they didn't care – as far as they were concerned, she was off perfecting another of her wacky side projects. Like the Battlesuit. Oh, yes, they liked that one. Sturm had shown a special interest in it, and was probably filling out those pesky forms to get the science department ready for it. She hated paperwork – why couldn't they just let her build her cool new guns right away? Adder, meanwhile, had suddenly taken to lurking in random dark corners and waiting for her to show up. She would be walking down to the lab, humming cheerily to herself, and just as she turned a corner or opened a door there he would be, wearing his best snide Adder smirk. Sometimes he'd have a cup of coffee. He always pretended he hadn't heard her coming, but these little meetings were getting so frequent as to be annoying. Perhaps Sturm had set him up to keep an eye on her – the man couldn't trust her as far as he could spit. Not that he could spit with that ridiculous mask on. Apart from that, the others paid little attention to her, and sometimes she felt like an awkward house guest.

It was worse for her when Black Hole lost again, their troops driven back by Green Earth artillery or gunned down by Yellow Comet's Battle Copters. Those were the days when Adder sneaked into her laboratory and made a snide recap on the demise of her latest commissioned weapon. The days when Hawke, in yet another of his newfound fits of rage, beat her and smashed her about the face with his cane and screamed half-formed curses and threats, reducing her to a sobbing heap in the corner of whatever room he'd dragged her into. The days when even the normally chatty Flak wouldn't speak to her, simply sitting in a dignified silence as she applied the electrodes to his skull. Mealtimes would be dull, silent and full of annoyance. The TV in the barracks would be off, the soldiers silent and withdrawn. And Sturm would always be glaring at her through the eyeholes of his mask, radiating obvious disappointment, and she'd feel even more insignificant than ever.

It was on one of those days when she'd picked up the knife, intending to end it all.

But by some miracle Colin had been there, to soothe her and prise the thing from her hands. It had been their first kiss, that day, and every weekend after that they had gone another step further – from the sweet kisses, the touching and exploring, to the loss of clothing and finally the panting, sweat-covered tangle on the bed. When he wasn't tending to her desires, or cooking her breakfast in the abandoned log cabin they'd found in the woods on the border, he was telling her about how special she was to him, and she'd realised – she couldn't be all that worthless and hated. Not when his lips were tracing feather-light kisses down her neck, not when his hands were massaging and rubbing, and certainly not when his body was sliding back and forth against hers as they made love, his quiet moans in her ear. But wars were wars, and no matter what they always had to leave each other's arms as Monday morning drew near, casting longing glances back as they set off for home.

Perhaps that was why, in the end. He'd understood what she was going through, how little the others cared for her and what she needed the most. Perhaps he'd always known, ever since the incident with the knife so long ago. It felt as though he was patching up the wounds, taking away Hawke's rage, Adder's disdain, Flak's annoyance and Sturm's disappointment with her. He wasn't like the others at all. For one thing, he was brave enough to dodge under the noses of fat old Olaf and dozy Grit to see her. He was polite and kind – far removed from the tactless, barrack-room humour of Flak. He was someone to trust. Someone she could share her sadness with, someone to hold her up and keep her going. And, above all, he was someone to make her feel better about herself.

Every night, he held her like she was a glass bauble, some precious thing that could shatter any moment.

And that was how she liked it.

...Geez, must have got something in my eye for a second there. Rate and Review, as always! :D