CHAPTER TWELVE: REMEMBERING THE PAST

Checking into a hotel would have been very, very awkward.

With how they were dressed… well, Snake-Eyes was sure that anywhere outside of Las Vegas, they'd have drawn attention to themselves. Or maybe Mardi Gras. Or Halloween. With him dressed for out-and-out war in head-to-toe black commando garb, carrying a two-foot-long sword and a bandolier of knives and charges, and her in a red leather bustier, an incredibly short, red skirt, and matching boots and gloves… even in the run-down Peach Tree Hotel, a full hour away from Club Honey, they would be… memorable.

Snake-Eyes liked run-down hotels, though: they generally had good, old-fashioned metal keys, conveniently labelled with the room number, rather than keycards. He always told himself that one day, he'd learn at least the basics of programming the darned things. Otherwise, security wasn't something that worried him in most places: it was a simple matter for him to sneak in and steal a key while Scarlett waited for him in a secure location. Once they got her into some normal clothing, they could pay for a room later.

But for now, this would work.

Scarlett sat on the side of the bed, suddenly, painfully, aware of exactly how she was dressed. She'd always hated the fact that she blushed like only a redhead could blush—as red as her hair, and just as noticeable. He seemed like he was busy drawing the blinds, his face turned outwards towards the window—she figured he was making sure no-one was following them—but… Scarlett scooped up the bed sheet and wrapped it around her body anyway, tucking it just above her breasts.

"You know, I knew it was you," she murmured.

Snake-Eyes slid the blinds closed and turned to face her. Since it was the first time he'd stood still and stopped examining the room since they'd arrived, she could only guess that he was satisfied with the security of their accommodations—for now, at least. But he raised his shoulders in a brief shrug, as if he were asking, "How would you know that?"

He did have surprisingly expressive body language, considering the fact that she couldn't see his face: she immediately knew what he meant. "Your missing ring finger, on your right hand," she responded, biting her lower lip. "Well, that, combined with the mask. Most people don't wear masks at clubs…"

He cocked his head at her, and she could almost see his eyebrow tilting upwards. To her surprise, Scarlett heard herself chuckle. "Hey! Club Honey isn't that kind of club!" And her smile lingered around her lips when she shrugged. "I just, I don't know... I just, kind of, suspected. I'd always had a feeling I might see you again, you know..."

Snake-Eyes pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen from one of his pockets. He wrote something down and handed it to her.

"Are you OK?" it said.

"Yes," she replied, smiling. "Thank you."

As he set his pen to the paper again, she added, "You know, I'm not just talking about today. I mean… I never got to thank you for… well, you know. Saving my life way back when. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. Sometimes I even forget. But sometimes it's really rough, even after all these years. The nightmares… but… I owe you everything, Snake-Eyes, and I am so grateful..." Her words trailed off, and to her surprise, she felt her eyes welling up, emotion coming in roiling waves. Outside of nights when she woke up screaming, it'd been years since she'd cried over her past.

She laughed, rubbing her eyes with her one free hand. "Ah! Darn it… I'm sorry." She sniffled, once, and scrubbed the tears away. "Everything is just coming back to me. I wasn't... well, you know, I visited you in the hospital after the accident. The doctor was nice, but you were still unconscious… you probably don't remember it. And when I tried to come back the next week, I couldn't find you, or the doctor. It was as if you'd both vanished."

He'd meant to keep writing, but it just hadn't seemed right, not when he could see the way her eyes were still glistening, and her lips were curving in that odd, wistful smile—too old for her fresh, young beauty; he'd been startled to find, once she'd washed off her makeup, the dark-kohl eyes and the blood-red lipstick, that she was prettier without it. Instead, he put his notepad down on his knee and… listened.

She slowly peeled her gloves off her hands, trying to feel more like Shana and less like Scarlett. "So... let me thank you now, okay?" she asked softly, and he had the strangest feeling that she could see his eyes, right through his visor and his mask, when she reached her hand out for his.

At first, he just didn't know how to react—what she wanted—what he wanted. But she was looking at him with that soft, naked gaze, her hand loose and welcoming.

He reached out his own hand—their fingertips brushed. Her fingers slid across his as she reached for him—the sensation was… soft? Indescribable. The barest pressure before her hand settled fully against his. He could practically feel the warmth of her skin, even through his thin, black gloves, and it sent a startling, unexpected tingle down his wrist.

For a moment, he wondered if he were shaking.

Then he remembered those slender fingers skimming the laces of her corset, brushing a thumb across her belly-button ring as she danced…

Hastily, he gave her fingers a quick squeeze and dropped them, reaching for the note that he'd written and holding it out to her.

She offered him a small smile—forced, but there nonetheless. She was a little saddened that he couldn't even bear that small of a gesture, but… he'd been through a lot. And what he'd sacrificed… she got that probably better than anyone. She reached out for the note with her free hand, keeping the sheet tucked close against her body with the other. The smooth material of his gloves flicked across the very tips of her fingers as she took the bit of paper—she felt goosebumps prickling down her wrist, following a tingling curve down her shoulders and coming to rest in the small of her back.

She read his note aloud. "We have to lay low for a while. You are in danger, and we can't go back to the team." Puzzled, she raised her chin to face him. "Danger? I don't understand what's going on—what happened in the club? Why can't we go back to your team? Weren't they the ones who helped protect me the first time…?"

She watched the rise of his chest, in, out, a sharp heave, like a deep breath—maybe a sigh. No, too fast for a sigh. And she watched the jerking motions of his pen across his pad of paper, the rigidity in his shoulders through the thin black material—was he… angry?

"Snake-Eyes? Are you okay?" she asked, quietly. There was a palpable tension vibrating through him, she thought.

He finished writing, stood up straight for a moment, but didn't respond to her question. Instead, he folded up the note and gave it to her.

She unfolded it and read it aloud. "There is a traitor in my unit"