Author's Note: Goodbye, frat regs. We hardly knew ye.

Thanks to all my reviewers who have stuck with me so far! I'm really glad you folks seem to be enjoying this, especially since this is such an unusual thing for me to be writing. Hope I don't disappoint. Only the epilogue to go . . .

Also, a big thank-you goes out to to Irish12345, who spotted a continuity error that I had been utterly boneheaded about. Unfortunately, I get the feeling that if I changed it while I was still working on the story, it might cause more continuity errors and kill the flow. This means that I'm going to carry on making the error (oy vey, Beach Head would not be pleased with that kind of laxity) until the story is complete, at which point I'll go back and make the changes in all the chapters at once.

If anybody has the sergeant major's number, please ask him not to murder me. Please. Dead Totenkinder Madchen would mean no epilogue.

Speaking of not being murdered—no slights to Midwestern cooking intended. If you grow up eating a lot of hotdish, though (like I did) everything even slightly out of the norm tastes foreign to you. And you can't tell me he had a damn spice rack in that cabin of his.

Rating: M.

Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc., and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

Chapter Four

Snake-Eyes was a commando and a ninja. By twenty, he had seen more death than most people see their entire lives. And despite his small-town upbringing, he was far from naïve: spend enough time in Saigon, or even in the students' dormitories at the Arashikage compound, and you're quickly disabused of any lingering notions about propriety.

As a rule, though, his knowledge and experience of most good things came with equal amounts of bad luck. Even Tommy—Tommy, the eternally optimistic, the sarcastic bastard confident in his own ability to make the world bend to his will—had commented on it. Throwing snake-eyes was supposed to be the losing symbol. Even if Snake himself was an uncommonly skilled ninja, capable of gutting a man faster than that man could blink, he had only come to ninja training in the first place because he had nothing else left. His bad luck should have dictated that Shana O'Hara might be grateful for his saving of her life, but wouldn't want anything more from a man who now looked like the walking dead. As her footsteps faded away down the hallway, Snake-Eyes stood alone in the dojo, conscious of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Still—until that inevitable moment, it would be one of the best things that had ever happened to him. If the loss of his face had kept Scarlett alive and one more grave in Arlington empty, then it was proof that good could still come from bad. That was his reasoning, anyway.

But as he braced himself against the wall and began to climb upwards, levering aside the grate in the corner of the ceiling and slipping into the ventilation shaft, he knew he was lying again. He'd gotten good at that. In his arms, with her lips against his and the feeling of her skin under his hands, Snake-Eyes had gone a little crazy. Maybe he still was. But he wanted more, desperately, and he would do almost anything to find himself there again. And if to get it, he had to tell himself that it wouldn't all break down eventually—well, he'd do it.

Time passed far too slowly. Snake-Eyes passed it meditating in the ventilation ducts, sitting in lotus at the intersection between two of the largest shafts and trying to clear his head. A ninja was a master of his environment. A ninja was a master of himself. A ninja could assume a cleansing trance or a healing coma at will, and certainly did not count the seconds. Ever.

Finally, incapable of concentrating and hoping desperately for a distraction, Snake-Eyes climbed upwards two levels and slipped into the smaller duct just above General Hawk's office. Even here, though, the ducts were still large enough to admit a person. He battled briefly over whether to tell the general that assassins could get in this way, or to keep the secret to himself and have the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop whenever he wanted to . . .

It couldn't keep him distracted for long, though. One of the dangers of being too efficient. Puffing out an angry breath, Snake-Eyes flattened himself against the ground and peered down through the slits in the grate.

Scarlett was sitting in front of Hawk's desk, legs crossed, her hands resting on the arms of the chair. She was giving a personnel report, it sounded like: reviewing the status of G.I. Joe and recommending courses of action in various cases. Two of the greenshirts they had scouted for the armored division were turning out to be utterly unsuitable and would have to be replaced as soon as possible. They should encourage tech training in all Joes, especially for sensitive undercover operations: Breaker was a brilliant technician but, in her professional opinion, about as subtle as a tap-dancing rhinoceros.

"And frankly, sir," she said, shaking her head a little, "we need a PT instructor. Badly."

"I was afraid of that," Hawk replied. Snake-Eyes couldn't quite spot him at this angle, but he could see the general's fingers, knit together where they rested on the desk. It was definitely a security risk: the extremities, especially ones with such high rates of bloodflow as the fingers and hands, were viable targets for poisoned darts. "How bad is it, Scarlett?"

She shook her head. "It's not good, sir. We're shaping as best we can for the time being, but no unit runs well without a designated instructor. We need somebody specific we can hate for dragging us out at six AM, sir."

There was a laugh from the general. "Good news on that front, then. I just received confirmation that we have an interested party. Sgt. Slaughter. Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation, sir."

"What do you think of him, then?"

"I think we could definitely hate him, sir."

"Good for us. Unfortunately-" the hands shuffled a couple of papers, and Snake-Eyes heard Hawk sigh. "Where was it—damn paperwork. Unfortunately, Slaughter is committed . . ."

"About time, sir."

Her deadpan statement elicited two laughs this time—one from the general, and one from Snake-Eyes. Twice in less than an hour? He put a hand over his mouth and froze in place, still not quite ready to believe that he had heard himself make a sound again—even if it was just the hoarse wheeze that seemed to be the only way he could laugh. Hell, he wasn't even ready to believe that he was finding things to laugh at. Silently cursing his loss of focus, he forced himself to stay silent and listen, searching for indications that they had heard him. But no, Hawk was talking again, and Scarlett's eyes were still focused on Hawk.

"-committed to his current post for a further six months." More paper shuffling. The general's tone was dry. "Am I going to have a problem with insubordination here, Scarlett?"

"No, sir."

"Look, sergeant." A sigh from General Hawk. "I went into this unit with my eyes open. There's only a few of you so far, and I'm already surprised we had that many lunatics in the United States military. Unit specifications call for an operating force of forty. I'm not going to pretend I can keep that many under control, so be careful.

"It's hard to crack down on bad behavior. The way things are set up right now, if someone making fun of an instructor or otherwise breaking regs isn't caught by someone ranking them, it's as if the incident never happened. A bad system, but it's the only one we've got." Snake-Eyes could practically see the meaningful eyebrow-raising, and took a breath to keep himself from laughing again. He knew he liked Hawk for a reason.

"Understood, sir. I apologize for speaking out of turn. I'm sure Sgt. Slaughter will be an excellent PT instructor."

"When he's finally free to join our little asylum, that is. In the meantime, the hand-to-hand sessions and interim PT instructors will have to do. And speaking of hand-to-hand . . ." Hawk's voice was casual, but not casual enough to fool the silent eavesdropper. The ninja's eyes narrowed slightly behind the mask. "How's our commando doing?"

"Sir?"

Snake-Eyes made a mental note to work with Scarlett on her breathing control. Her facade was good, but he could hear her the rhythm of her breathing change, and even if Hawk couldn't spot it, a ninja could. Who knew if she might encounter one of the lost Arashikage students some day? Better safe than sorry.

"Snake-Eyes." The general wasn't buying it either, but probably for different reasons. Snake-Eyes mentally chalked up a couple more points to the man's deduction skill. "He won't talk to the medics, but he has to teach hand-to-hand with you. How's he doing? Am I going to have an insane commando on my hands?"

Two pairs of eyes were resting on Scarlett now. Lying flat in the vent, Snake-Eyes forced himself to remain detached, sternly ordering the tension to leave his muscles.

Once, a long time ago, his mother had caught him lurking in the bushes and listening in on a telephone conversation that his grandfather was having. She'd hauled him bodily out of the shrubbery and made him apologize: eavesdropping, she said, was "uncivilized." Her words. It might have amused her to know that, thanks to one of the oldest civilizations still existing on the planet, her son was now the most effective eavesdropper in the entire United States.

He could hear the faintest note of nervousness in Scarlett's voice as Hawk questioned her. Worried? Apprehensive? It was difficult to tell: she controlled herself wonderfully.

"No lie, sir," she said. "He's been better."

"That much I knew. I've got half a dozen incident reports in my inbox right now, mostly from greenshirts complaining about the ghost in black now apparently haunting this base. Give it to me straight, sergeant. Is he cracking up?"

"No, sir." Snake-Eyes might have expected some hesitation, and from the looks of it the general had too, but her answer was heartfelt and direct. "I've spoken to him today, actually. I think he was just having fun, sir."

"Having fun." The general sounded weary. "Well, I'm not sure what else we can expect from someone who had a pet wolf. Thank you, sergeant. That'll be all."

"Yes, sir." She stood, saluted, and left the office. Moving soundlessly (the new skinsuit lived up to its reputation), Snake-Eyes slid past the vent and followed her.

She dropped off a report with Breaker and then headed towards her room, walking briskly. When she reached the door of her billet, though, she stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders as if to steady her nerves. She bit her lip as the door slid open.

When she saw that the room was empty, she let out a little sigh. Her shoulders slumped a bit, and she turned back towards the door. Her way was blocked, however, by the ninja which had just dropped down out of the ceiling.

"Jeysus Keyrist!" The Georgia came back into her voice in full force as Scarlett jumped, almost hopping back a couple of steps. She put a hand to her heart and shook her head, trying to calm herself.

[Sorry!] Snake-Eyes signed quickly. [I did not T-H-I-N-K you would T-U-R-N.]

"Okay . . . you got me that time, Snake." She puffed out a breath and looked up at the ceiling. "Ventilation ducts?"

[Not big enough in Q-U-A-R-T-E-R-S. I was in the M-A-N-T-E-N-E-N-C-E S-H-A-F-T.] That drew a grin from her, surprising Snake-Eyes a little. [W-H-A-T?]

"You misspelled 'maintenance,'" Scarlett pointed out. The ninja shook his head in mild exasperation. He had never been very good at spelling, frankly, but it hadn't hampered his ability to communicate before. Scarlett seemed to see his annoyance, though, because she moved to change the subject.

"Don't mind me. I was just teasing." She tucked her hands into her pockets, still smiling a bit. "Is everything all right? Why were you in the maintenance shaft, anyway?"

This was a good tack to take: common and conversational, as if nothing had happened before. Snake-Eyes had been annoyed and impatient during the meeting, waiting for General Hawk to be quiet so that he could have Scarlett all to himself again, but now that they were face-to-face again it was suddenly awkward. Less than an hour ago, he had had her pressed up against the door of the dojo, and now he was fumbling just to communicate. He shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts.

[I was . . . ] What had he been doing, anyway? Spying. Blatantly. [S-N-E-A-K-I-N-G.]

Scarlett quirked an eyebrow. She wasn't buying it, and Snake-Eyes could tell she wasn't—but she didn't ask. For a moment, there was a strained quiet in the small room. Snake-Eyes couldn't quite meet her eyes, and Scarlett crossed her arms, seemingly on the verge of saying something but unsure of how to continue.

Finally, she broke the silence with a shake of her head. "Look at us, Snake," she said softly. "Right back to square one. Like kids."

Come to think of it, this particular breed of awkwardness was a bit familiar. He smiled a little under his mask, amused despite himself by the whole business. [Like S-C-H-O-O-L,] he signed.

"Too much like it." She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I was actually pretty shy back then, you know. My sister was the social butterfly. Me, I never would've had the guts to talk to the big campus ninja."

Another laugh—and it was startling, how easily they were coming now. Scarlett grinned again, just a little, as Snake-Eyes caught his breath. [You,] he signed, pointing a threatening finger at her, [will be death of me.]

Her lips tightened just a little, but almost before he caught the fleeting expression, it was gone again. "That's how the clan O'Hara shows affection," she joked, folding her hands and bowing mock-solemnly. "It is the way . . . of my people."

[C-A-R-E-F-U-L,] Snake-Eyes warned. [You do not W-A-N-T to S-T-A-R-T clan war.]

"Ninjas versus Georgians. I'd watch it." She crossed her arms, still smiling. "I have three brothers, all black belts." Snake-Eyes snorted, and she waved a hand. "All right, all right, we both know you could turn them all inside-out. But the O'Haras have cuisine on their side. My aunt alone could feed your entire clan into submission, easily."

[U-N-L-I-K-E-L-Y. Ninjas do not like S-P-I-C-Y food.]

Her jaw dropped, and for the first time, Snake-Eyes saw her genuinely flabbergasted. "Spicy? You actually think Southern . . ." The laugh bubbled up from deep inside her. "My God, Snake! I never knew a man who lost his taste buds in 'Nam before." She mopped her face, trying to catch her breath. "That's it. You've been deprived. Next time I have a day off, I'm kicking those poisoners they call cooks out of the kitchen and making some real food."

Snake-Eyes held up one hand defensively, signing with the other. [No. No. I C-O-N-C-E-D-E. A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G but that!]

Still chuckling a little, Scarlett leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. "My God," she repeated. "If only we could get a terrorist to knuckle under that easily."

It probably should have worried Snake-Eyes that, although he sometimes couldn't spell "maintenance," he knew the short-form ASL sign for "cruel and unusual punishment." And "violation of the Geneva Conventions." But they were both laughing, and it was hard to give a damn.

She was leaning against him when he tentatively ran one gloved hand through her hair. The practical knot she had worn in the dojo was completely gone by this time, and owing to the mark he had left on her neck, she hadn't pulled it back when she was meeting with General Hawk. Now he brushed the long red strands aside to reveal it: small, red fading to pink against her white skin. It might have been a birthmark or an insect bite. For a moment, her blush almost obscured it.

[Sorry,] he signed again. Scarlett put a hand on his, obscuring the little mark.

"Turnabout is fair play," she said softly.

Once again, her fingertips glided over the surface of his face. She slipped a hand under the mask—tentatively, almost fearfully—and pulled its edge up. Snake-Eyes lowered his head a little, watching her eyes as she tugged at the sleek fabric. Smooth fingers with the merest bite of harsh callouses left warmth in their wake as they pulled the mask away. A soft tug, and his face was once again bare to the world.

This time, she kissed him. The touch of her lips was as sweet now as it had been hungry before, barely a gentle brush that nevertheless left Snake-Eyes' heart pounding. Moving almost of their own accord, his hands moved upward, cradling her face between them. Their breaths were coming more quickly, sounding harsh in the enclosed space.

The mask slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. Neither of them cared. Refusing to listen to his own pessimism, daring his bad luck to interfere now, Snake-Eyes wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss. The gentleness was beginning to slip away. She gave a soft little moan, low in her throat, and clutched at his shoulders even as she pressed herself against him. Her pulse fluttered wildly, more than it ever would have in a fight—and he knew, he felt like he knew everything, and bad luck be damned.

There was no more hesitation. Her hands shook a little, nervous and impatient, as she fumbled with the stiff clasp of his baldric. The strap gave, and the katana fell to the floor with a thud that would have made any other ninja wince at the disrespect shown to the weapon. Snake-Eyes didn't care. Scarlett wasn't going to win this one. He slid his hands up under her tank top, and Scarlett leaned back, raising her arms and letting him strip the shirt off her. Her bra quickly followed.

For a moment he paused in spite of himself: she was a sight like nothing else, wearing nothing but her dark green shorts, her skin creamy white and scattered with small bronze freckles. The temptation to seize her was almost overwhelming. Snake-Eyes was a ninja, though, and he was determined to learn everything.

He studied and tested her. The pulse point of the throat wasn't nearly enough any more; he wanted to hear the full range of her, the deep vibrato of the moans and the grace notes of the sighs. When he rolled a thumb over a pressure point, stroking it gently instead of striking, she shuddered just a little. A drop of sweat slid down her collarbone, and when he nipped at where it had gone, her breath caught her in throat with a hitch and she bit her tongue.

But Scarlett was never one to remain passive: she let out a low growl and caught his hand before it could go further. "Nice try, buster," she said. Her eyes were blazing. She put her palms on his chest and pushed, and Snake-Eyes found himself pressed back against the wall, her body sliding up against his. She let out a hiss of impatience as her roving hands encountered one of the knife-belts buckled around his waist.

"You, she murmured against his cheek, "wear far too many of these, Snake."

[Ninja. Prepared.] he managed to sign. She smiled up at him through heavily-lidded eyes as she unclipped the belt with an audible snap. More weapons tumbled to the ground, and she laughed a little at that. Snake-Eyes considered that a challenge.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as one gloved hand slid up her leg. There was a nerve cluster there, on the inside of the thigh, and his fingers glided expertly over the sensitive skin. Scarlett shuddered violently, biting her lip, breath coming fast. He could feel the tips of her breasts peak where they pressed against his chest, but his eyes were fixed on her face: the full, parted lips almost coral in color, the eyes dipping closed as he twisted his fingers just so . . .

She let out a shuddering breath and clutched at him, raggedly whispering something that even his hearing couldn't detect. Snake-Eyes, never any good with words, wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. But, reluctantly, he raised one hand to sign.

[If you want to S-T-O-] he began. He got no further. Scarlett took his hand in both of hers, peeling the glove away and pressing a kiss to the sensitive point at the center of the palm. Her tongue flickered against it, and for a moment, Snake-Eyes couldn't breathe.

That was answer enough. She wasn't small, but Snake-Eyes picked her up easily, her long velvety legs wrapping around his waist in an unconscious gesture that made it almost impossible for him to think. They tumbled onto the small bed, Scarlett beneath him. She caught the zipper of the skinsuit between trembling fingers, clumsy in her eagerness, while he tugged at the waistband of her shorts.

And she was whispering in his ear, her voice hoarse and thick with emotion, and he cut off those words with a kiss as he sank into her, and there was no helicopter or fire or Vietnam jungles, just him and Shana and the warmth and no more battles to fight.

They lay curled together, spent. The bed was too small for two people, but Scarlett was almost on top of him, and Snake-Eyes wouldn't have moved her for the world. Her could feel her heart fluttering against him, and the softness of her breath against the hollow of his throat. The once-sleek red hair, now completely disheveled, shone dully in the low light of the room.

With a sigh, she shifted a little and raised her head. Snake-Eyes caught himself tensing again, wondering if his bad luck was about to bite back, but she was smiling a little.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

His hands were resting in the hollow of her back, and even if he had wanted to move them, his tentative command of sign language had totally left him. Instead, he lowered his head a little, letting himself smile back. I should be thanking you, he mouthed. She caught the words and blushed a little.

"One of us had to do something. I think we were both going a little crazy." She sighed again and laid her head back down, but kept her eyes open. Her expression was almost wistful, and Snake-Eyes looked down at her, curious. Her next words surprised him.

"I'm not going to make a big deal out of this, Snake," she said quietly. "I know you like your privacy. No pressure."

He wasn't sure whether to be astonished or, frankly, a little offended. After a moment, though, he shook his head. You changed your mind, he said, and Scarlett's eyebrows shot up. Before, you said I shouldn't be alone.

"It's just that . . . I meant . . ." She huffed out a breath and tilted her head, blinking as a strand of hair fell into her eyes. "That's not the same thing, Snake."

I know what you meant, he added. It felt strange to be speaking, even soundlessly—mouthing words and having her respond to them, his hands resting quietly on her back rather than fumbling their way through an awkward sign alphabet. One more little moment of normalcy, one more mask stripped off. I don't do anything lightly, Shana.

For a moment, Scarlett was still. Then she dipped her head, pressing a kiss against a shallow above his heart.

"I could tell, you know," she said. "The first day we were on the mats. You were too good. You let me win." It wasn't an accusation or a rebuke, just a simple statement of fact. "It's strange . . . caring so much about someone who can win that easily. With that kind of skill, I thought your life must be charmed."

Right now, he said, I am.