CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PROTECTOR/STALKER

Scarlett awoke from sleep and into sunlight: the first thing that she saw was was rays of light trying to pierce through the slats of the closed blinds, barely managing to skip across the floor next to the old radiator. She was… comfortable, which surprised her—tucked in, cozily, beneath the sheets. Looking at the clock set by the bedside, she realized it was a quarter to eleven. Oh, wow. Talk about sleeping in.

As Scarlett slowly drifted out of sleep, she noticed that the room was empty: Snake-Eyes wasn't there.

She stretched, luxuriously, pointing her toes… and realized with the soft brush of cloth against her calves that her boots were no longer on. "Oh, my..." she whispered, blushing. He must have taken them off after she'd fallen asleep against him. Even more embarrassing to her, she remembered that she was still in her red leather bikini. Which shouldn't have been a surprise—after all, it was all she had—but… was, somehow. An unpleasant one. She sat up and tucked the blanket higher around her, wrapping it around her torso.

She must have looked like such a little tramp to him!

It was about this time that Snake-Eyes returned to the hotel and entered the room. Once again, he made sure the room was safe and that no one had followed him. The last thing he wanted was to endanger Scarlett again.

Snake-Eyes carried a duffel bag with him, and set it on the bed next to Scarlett.

"Good morning," she chirped, automatically, before looking down at the bag. He gestured towards it. "Oh! For moi?" she asked, putting her hand to her chest just over the bed sheet. As she grabbed the bag and started to open it, she looked up at him—his dark mask, dark clothes, the ridges of muscle and weaponry that crossed his chest—and grinned. "Huh! So what kind of EQ did you bring me? Oh, I hope you remembered the AK-47 I asked for!"

Under his mask, Snake-Eyes felt his lips curve into an involuntary smile.

She laughed—she actually laughed, her cheeks pink with delight, when she opened the bag and tugged out the contents. He watched her carefully—on the one hand, as long as she had something to wear that was at least a decent fit, it really didn't matter what it was, but… she actually seemed to enjoy his selections. He'd picked up a simple black blouse, a soft, dark green skirt, and a pair of sandals that looked like they had enough strap on them to tolerate some walking. "Oh, my favorite color!" she said, holding up the skirt. "Well, I'd probably look better in this than holding an AK-47, anyway."

He heard her quick exclamation of delight as she dug back into the bag and found the small paper bag with her breakfast in it—she pulled out a bagel and took a quick bite, sighing happily as she swallowed. "Snake-Eyes, thank you! I'm famished." Then, after a brief moment eyeing the bagel, she turned and grinned at him. "You know, I'm pretty sure this is the first time any man's brought me breakfast in bed?"

He probably would have laughed—she was a funny little thing, wasn't she?—but instead, found himself staring. It was both convenient and comforting that she was so relaxed around him—after all, she barely knew who he was—but even he knew he must have seemed creepy, the way he wasn't able to take his eyes off her. He had the advantage of his mask, of course, but… still.

He just couldn't help it: she had the same smile now as she'd had in that tournament picture, when she'd been all of fourteen years old. It was just… strange, startling, to see that same innocent joy in a woman dressed in small scraps of red leather and laces. She had definitely changed in some very amazing ways, but her smile had not been not one of those changes. It remained lovely, wide, wholesome -- the same as he remembered.

In fact, he pulled the picture out, pointing to that photographed smile. She laughed again, tossing her head back. It bared her white, white throat, that dark velvet band of her necklace, again. "Why, you little thief! You got this at my house, didn't you?"

Snake-Eyes crossed his arms, nodding. Then he raised his arms and leaned forward slightly as if to say, "So whatcha gonna do about it?"

Her smile was sly, but her eyes were delighted when she looked back up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Hah! You little flirt!"

After looking at the picture in her hand, she added, "Well, I suppose my smile hasn't changed at all since then, huh. That's what you meant, didn't you?"

He nodded.

When she finished her breakfast, she stood up, holding the blanket around her and scooping up the duffel bag. "I think…" she glanced down at the blanket trailing on the floor, the bare curve of her shoulders, "I'd better go make use of your presents, huh?"

As she stood, even though she was covered by the blanket, she noticed him watching her with that same sharp intensity—it was as if she could see his eyes sliding down her covered body, even through his mask.

Scarlett raised an eyebrow.

He quickly turned away, knowing he had been caught, and feeling either a bit awkward or guilty about it. Or both. Snake-Eyes honestly hadn't been in this situation before, and he wasn't quite sure how to handle it. This certainly wasn't the same little girl that he had saved some years ago. Out of respect for her, he remained with his back turned as she glided from the bed to the bathroom.

Oh. So… was he really… looking at me… that way?

Scarlett felt that hated blush starting to creep over her cheeks as she turned towards the bathroom. She'd thought at first that it was maybe just her own fancy, but the way he'd turned his back to her so pointedly… She glanced at him, one last time, over her shoulder, but he was still facing away from her, his head dipped, as if a little embarrassed. She was unable to keep a shy smile from curving her lips as she went into the bathroom to use the shower and change clothes.

But the smile faded when she glanced at herself in the mirror, and saw Scarlett looking back at her, rather than Shana. She'd tried to get most of her makeup off the night before, but there was still some liner smeared around her eyes—her hair was in a teased, tangled fluff of waves around her head. Her outfit was… well, that hadn't changed, and that wasn't for the better. He really must think I'm some kind of deviant, maybe some sort of slut. I mean… the first time he sees me in ten years, and I'm wiggling my butt onstage? I knew I should have never taken that job, no matter how badly we needed the money.

But she'd been desperate. The accident had taken away her father's ability to walk, but more importantly, his ability to teach martial arts: he'd, reluctantly, been forced to sell the dojo. With the last of their savings gone, and her father's house on the brink of foreclosure… she'd known she didn't have many other choices. Dancing made surprisingly good money—for one thing, she made more on tips than any other girl in the club—and there was nothing else that paid quite as well, not for a nineteen-year-old without even a college degree. She couldn't let the house she'd grown up in just get claimed by the bank, and all of her father's will to go on with it.

Not even the full ride that Yale had offered her—and which she'd deferred, her heart in her throat, her hands shaking a little as she'd written the letter—were worth that.

Her Pa didn't know she'd taken this job, and he certainly wouldn't have approved of it. Disability wasn't enough for him to get by. She hated lying to him. But he was a proud man: the only reason he let her help with the bills at all was that he thought she'd gotten some kind of long-term paid internship at a law firm in town.

Finally, she spoke to Snake-Eyes, right through the door. Maybe it didn't matter, but… but she wasworried about setting the record straight. Was that silly of her? But she was. "You know, I don't dance as often as you think, Snake-Eyes. I'm actually quite embarrassed that you saw me up there on stage. I wish I could explain to you..."

Her voice trailed off. He'd been so kind, but… there were limits to kindness. And nothing she said would sound like anything but an excuse.

Oh, for Heaven's sakes, just shut up, Shana. He doesn't want to hear it, and you're sounding more ridiculous by the minute, she thought. Besides, he can't answer you, and probably wouldn't even if he could. I mean, what could he say?

It was just that the girl he'd seen on stage wasn't her, not really, and 'Atlanta's Own, Scarlett' definitely wasn't the girl that she wanted her rescuer of many years before to see. Scarlett was only her stage name; she was Shana O'Hara, and would always be. And what must he have thought of her, after seeing her doing that? And he was being such a gentleman, turning around while she walked from the bedroom to the bathroom, giving her the only small bits of privacy he could.

Stripping off her skirt and leather corset, she sighed, dropping them onto the bathroom floor. It felt good to have them off: though the outfit was designed to not dig unattractively into anything while she danced, it was meant to be sexy, not to be comfortable. The leather was too warm for the Atlanta humidity, and she'd had it on for quite awhile. She couldn't wait for the warm water from the shower as her naked body pulled back the curtains, and turned on the water. It took a while for the water to warm up in the cheap hotel, but once it did, she eagerly stepped in, instantly feeling the warm water cascading down her back. Tossing her head back, rinsing her hair, it occurred to her that she had probably never had such a relaxing shower before in her life. Even if it was in a cheap hotel, and even if she did have a lingering doubt of her image in the eyes of her rescuer.

After quite a while, she stepped out of the shower and started drying herself off. Shana looked in the small, pockmarked mirror at herself, crossing her arms over her breasts, turning her face from side to side. She'd been told by countless boys—even more men—just how gorgeous she was; she understood that, without vanity. She knew she was sexy: genetics had given her a nice, shapely figure; years of martial arts and dancing had given her a better one. But now, for the first time since, well… since she'd been old enough to appreciate that men would like what they saw when they looked at her, she wondered: maybe, in this case, was she not pretty enough?

Shana pulled out the clothing from the bag. Well, it looks like he has good taste. She blinked at the tags, and her mouth quirked in a rueful smile. And a good eye for size.

She shimmied into the blouse, adjusted its little lacy sleeves and the built-in shelf bra comfortably. Oh, it felt so much better than that horrible leather thing… if she got out of this alive, there was no way she was going back to dancing in that outfit. But as she reached for the skirt, holding it up to her hips, she realized that she was lacking something… crucial.

Her dancing skirt hadn't exactly been a real skirt—it had a few convenient straps that kept her, well, as decent as she could get onstage at Club Honey. But it was too minimal for her to wear any underwear under it, and, well… he'd forgotten to acquire panties for her.

Scarlett brought her hands to her lips, and closed her eyes against the flush creeping up her cheeks again. For heavens sake, she had to stop blushing like this in his vicinity, or else he really would suspect something! She even turned around to glance quickly over her shoulder, knowing full well that the door was—of course—closed.

She chuckled at just how silly she was being—he'd forgotten to get her a bra, too, after all, but that didn't seem like as big a deal: thanks to the built-in shelf bra in the blouse, she didn't, strictly speaking, need one for… decency. "Um… how about we just assume that he… well… simply forgot," she told herself, quietly, sliding the skirt up over her hips. So far, he'd been the perfect gentleman, after all.

Fully dressed—or as dressed as she could get, anyway—she stepped out of the bathroom… and almost ran into him. Shana jumped back, startled. Walking out of the restroom to find a black-dressed commando close enough to touch definitely wasn't a situation she was used to. And really, she had no idea what she should say to him—so it was much to her own surprise that she found herself comfortable enough to start laughing. "Snake-Eyes, don't startle me like that! So... are you watching me that closely since you're worried about me, or are you my very own personal stalker?"

She couldn't see his amused smile underneath the mask.

Snake-Eyes took a step towards her, and handed her a note that he must have written while she'd been in the bathroom, changing.

Unfolding it, she read out loud the words he'd written for her: "You don't have to explain anything to me. Truthfully, I'm impressed with what I've seen of you—you have a real inner strength and positive outlook on life. You are stronger than you realize."

Shana smiled. No matter what he'd seen, he was willing to recognize her for who and what she was? Oh, of course she'd been hoping more for a "You are SO gorgeous, no matter what you do!" but… that was half her vanity, half a girlish crush, talking at high volumes. She was old enough to understand what that gentle, unconditional acceptance was worth… even if she wished, a bit, that he could look at her like a woman, not just a person.

"So, my protector-slash-stalker," she grinned at him, and Snake-Eyes felt himself smiling, again, underneath his mask—he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who felt comfortable enough around him to tease. "What's our next move?"

Snake-Eyes wrote down for Shana, "You stay put. I've already paid for the room, so you'll be safe. Give me two hours. If I'm not back, call 313-555-9280 and ask for Stalker. He's my teammate. Memorize this phone number, and burn this message, right now." Snake-Eyes was pointing to the candle on the desk.

"Wait… you're not leaving me again, are you?" A shadow crossed her eyes, like the memory of violence, and loss.

He nodded. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, as if to say, "You'll be okay."

She took his hands, holding them cupped in her slender fingers, clearly anxious. Her fingers were softer, warmer, without the gloves. "Where are you going? I want to come with you."

He shook his head: No.

"Let me help you."

Snake-Eyes frowned, and gently tried to tug his hands free from hers. Her grip tightened, and he shook his head again, gesturing with his chin to the notepad peeking pale out of an unbuttoned pocket. "Oh," she blinked, sheepishly, and released his hands.

He pulled out his notepad, wrote briefly, and offered it to her. "Need to find the traitor."

Scarlett frowned back at him. "Hey, you were the one who told me about my inner strength. Did you mean that, or were you just trying to make me feel better?"

Snake-Eyes didn't respond at first. She continued, "Okay, so I'm a bit young and inexperienced, but I can help. And I want to help. They hurt me, just like they hurt you."

It was true, she'd lost a lot to the terrorist organization that had taken his face, his friends. But at the same time… she wasn't combat-ready. She just wasn't trained for this.

She shook her head, once, and looked up at him with eyes that were darker than just green, and… fiercer. She might not have been trained, but even in a frothy skirt and little sandals, her hair a messy, finger-combed cascade around her shoulders, he could see the same slow-burning strength that he'd seen in a little girl faced with impossible circumstances. That strength had grown with her into a banked flame, and when she reached out for his hands again, her grip was firm. "Snake-Eyes… I'm sure I know Atlanta a lot better than you do. And I don't know how good you are with computers, but…" her mouth flickered in a small smile, "I bet I'm better. What happens if you need help?"

Most of his missions with the team were solo operations—the idea that he might need help from a noncombatant was… well… but this wasn't exactly the typical mission. He also had to admit, he didn't like her staying in one fixed location for more than a twenty-four hour period. It was always best to keep on the move... and if he left her here for any extended lengths of time, the odds of her being found would go up dramatically. Reluctantly, slowly, he nodded his head.

To his surprise, she squealed, and let go of his hands—only to throw her arms around him and hug him tightly, her right leg kicking up behind her. He hadn't been expecting that at all—but she was warm and soft and laughing, and when she let him go, he realized he'd enjoyed the impromptu embrace.

It'd been a long time since anyone had felt free to touch him so casually, either. He'd certainly never had anyone squeal as if he'd just offered her to the keys to a brand-new Dodge Viper. Or… whatever it was young women squealed over.

And he had to remind himself that, in his early thirties, he was quite a few years older than she was, as a matter of fact, and there were certainly parameters that needed to be made clear before they were going anywhere. Regretfully, he disentangled himself from her and reached for his notepad, again.

"Rules:

1) We find Stalker, and ONLY Stalker. He's the only one we can trust right now.

2) If I point behind you and no one is behind you, or if I wave to you, it means to run. Don't wait for me. No matter what.

3) Stay no more than 5 feet away from me at all times."

Shana frowned, a little. She was still excited that she would be going with him—maybe they'd even find clues about who and what had killed her mother. But… seriously? A list of rules? Yes, she was nineteen, and no, she hadn't been trained by SWAT, but… being treated like she was still nine years old set her teeth on edge. He meant well, probably, but… did the man not know how to just ask?

Still, in a way, it was… kind of funny. No more than five feet from him? Is he serious?

Shana eyed him, cocking her head. Well… he thought he was, anyway.

"Yes, daddy," she sighed, crossing her arms and tapping one sandal on the floor—but when he glanced sharply at her, she was smiling, ruefully. She caught his eye and smiled, wider—that same brilliant, happy smile that was becoming so familiar.

This is against my better judgment, but at least I can keep an eye on her this way, he thought.

Making a motion with his hands as if striking a match, he pointed to the candle, and then to all of the notes that he'd written for her.

"I get it, I get it," she chuckled, waving a hand breezily at him—but she carried the pile of notes over to the candles. And had to work hard to hide her little smile from him when he stepped closer to her shoulder to watch, critically, as the flame devoured the bits of paper with small puffs of smoke. Pushy, aren't we, sir?