AN: Who has two thumbs and the heart-stopping, knee-weakening possibility of bribing bugsie to update driving her? THIS GUY.

Chapter 11

The low, droning rumble of an airplane overhead slowly dragged Scarlett from slumber. She stretched, like a contented cat, wiggling her toes against the heavy fabric of the sheet. The sheet! This wasn't smooth, cool linen, it was… cotton, she supposed, as she came truly awake. Thick, durable cotton. It scratched her skin lightly, but its weight felt almost pleasant, all the same. She rolled her shoulders and turned her head. The blanket still hung from the rope, a silent testament that none of this had been a dream.

She felt uncommonly refreshed and well-rested, in spite of her meager surroundings. If she really thought about it, she might have discovered that it was because of the homey cabin, rather than in spite of it. It was adequate—no more, and no less. The narrow bed was rather hard, but supportive enough, the furnishings old, but well-kept. The place was clean. It was certainly different from the sumptuous rooms to which she was accustomed, but it was comfortable.

She couldn't put her finger on it—the only explanation she came up with sounded foolish to her unanalytical ears; that she felt more real here; preposterous, really—so she pushed it out of her mind. Whatever it was, she felt happy. Happier than she had been since… well, sometime before she had jumped off of Pa's yacht, to be sure. Pleased with this realization, she stopped trying to untangle her emotions. The why of happiness never mattered as much as that it existed at all.

Pleased—and pleased with being pleased—she felt downright charitable, and wanted to share her cheerfulness with the reporter. Rhett, she silently corrected herself.

"Hello," she called softly, in case he was still asleep.

He didn't answer.

"Hello?" she said again, as silence continued to greet her. "Mister?" That sounded wrong, but she wasn't used to thinking of him as anything other than… well, him, yet.

The cabin door opened, and he—Rhett—walked in.

"Oh, hello!" she called, leaning forward to where she could just see past the "Wall".

He peeked around the blanket at the same time, and her heart did something funny as she looked into his face. And below that face— her eyes briefly slid over his broad shoulders, set off by a perfectly-tailored shirt and waistcoat. He moved with a graceful ease almost incongruous with his large body, as he stepped forward more, delicately plucking the blanket out of his way with long, tan fingers.

"What's the matter, are you not up yet?" His voice vibrated with the restless energy she'd noticed briefly the night before. He must be eager to begin work on his story. She respected that drive, and a small part of her thrummed with the same excitement at having a mission.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Eight o'clock," he answered, his voice short with urgency but not annoyance. He turned around and riffled through the paper bag he'd set on the table. "Here," he said, his hand closing around an object before he tossed it to her.

She picked up the little packet and turned it over in her hands, finding a wooden toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste. "A toothbrush!" she exclaimed, "why, thank you!" Her eyes drifted over his shoulder, and she saw her dress, not where she left it, but neatly pressed, hanging on a hook against the wall. "Oh, and my dress! You've had it pressed!" She smiled at him, a genuinely artless display of gratitude, unaware that such an expression made stars dance in her eyes—the kind of thing one noticed, if one wasn't a cynical, world-weary reporter, of course.

"Come on, come on," he said, more gruffly now, turning back to the room's tiny stovetop. "Breakfast'll be ready in no time," he muttered, and cracked one egg neatly into the hot pan.

Instead of being offended by his abrupt descent into impatience, an idea bloomed in her head. Why, he seemed almost discomfited by her thanks, annoyed at her bright mood. Perhaps he hadn't slept as well as she… Determined to press further, her eyes gleamed, her dimples deepening at the thought of ruffling his aloof feathers.

"What a sweet thing you were to get it pressed," she nearly purred.

He turned back to her, his dark eyes resting speculatively on her face for only a moment. "Hey listen, brat: I'm going to count to ten. If you're not out of that bed by then, I'll come over there and get you out of it myself."

Scarlett's eyes widened, but she tossed her head in nonchalance at the absurd threat.

"One, two, three, four, five," he counted. And quickly, too.

Her eyes widened further, and she could only imagine how he planned to get her out of the bed. Yanking the covers off, and tickling her feet until she was weak from laughter, breathless with… her cheeks tingled—breathless with laughter, naturally—what else? God's nightgown, he was still counting! Six, seven…

"Eight." She kicked her feet which suddenly seemed tangled in the sheets, and her heart pounded in anticipation—no, fear—as he began to walk toward her, saying, "Nine."

She scrambled up, awkward and ungainly, and blushing for no reason she could think of, she cried, "I'm out, I'm out!" just as he said, ten. He smiled then, a picture of amiability, and her heart thumped in an odd pang, as if she had been thwarted in some goal.

"You'll find the showers and— things, right in back of the second cottage," he called over his shoulder, having turned back to the stove disappointingly soon.

"Out— outside?" Scarlett asked, stunned. She, Scarlett O'Hara, use an outdoor shower? And— an outhouse? "Like a— a cave person?" She did not realize she had spoken that last utterance aloud, until Rhett's laughter rang through the cabin. She had two opposite and simultaneous reactions to it, and grimaced that he was laughing at her, even if it was an altogether very pleasing sound.

"Certainly, outside," he replied with ease. "All the best homes have 'em outside." He was looking at her again, and his eyes twinkled with good humor. She had the distinct feeling that he wasn't laughing at her for this. She smiled tentatively back at him.

"I—" she started, but her mouth was suddenly very dry. She licked her lips. "I can't go out like this," she said, picking lightly at the pajama top.

"Like what?" Rhett asked.

"Like this," she repeated, gesturing again to the pajamas she wore. They were surprisingly comfortable, an ignominious softness against her skin. "I have no robe," she elaborated.

Again to her surprise, he didn't tease her about this explanation. "Here," he said, plucking his robe from a hook by his bed. "Take mine," and he held it out for her. She expected him to make a jest at her request for a robe. It was a little silly, she supposed, to need a robe when her—well, no, his, weren't they?—pajamas covered her perfectly well from neck to tiptoe. What was the point of a robe, when you were already dressed? Etiquette was silly, sometimes, she mused, but if society dictated…

All these thoughts flew through her mind in the space of a breath, but she realized he was still holding the robe for her to slip into. How damnably nice he could be! She took quick steps toward him, and shrugged her arms into the sleeves. It wasn't her size, of course, and hung loosely around her in folds. Rhett tugged the sides together toward her neck to help her in, and rested his hands very lightly on her shoulders for a moment. "There," he muttered, more to himself than to her, it seemed. Her shoulders relaxed, and she sighed.

Rhett turned back to the business of breakfast, and Scarlett asked him, as she shoved her feet into slippers, "The showers, and… things— behind the second cabin?"

He nodded, and leaned over his bed to pick up something. "Use this towel," he said, offering it to her.

She smiled, and suddenly the room seemed to buzz with electricity, as if the same restlessness driving him this morning had leapt from him to permeate the cabin. His attention was on her, as it had not yet been this morning. (Not that she missed it.) He was looking her up and down, and she felt like she was wearing no robe at all.

His eyes continued to rove around her face, and she swallowed. "Where's the shower?" she asked drily, determined not to be put off by his quicksilver moods.

He reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It never curled, but it did frazzle in sleep, especially when she didn't have the time (or the brush) to do her hundred strokes every night. "Your hair's cute like that," he said, and his thumb just rested on her cheekbone. His touch was surprisingly gentle, for such a worldly man, and— "You should never comb it," he finished.

"And I suppose you'd like to do it for me," she smirked, matching his bantering tone on instinct that moved faster than common sense or propriety. Rhett's shout of laughter echoed again through the cabin, even as she clapped her hand over her mouth in dumbfounded horror. Of all the terribly improper things to say to a strange man! The terrible intimacy of him brushing her hair, oh god, why did her tongue move faster than her brain? And why was she thinking how very nice it would be if he did brush her hair? "I'll find the shower," she muttered, desperate to get away from his smiling face.

As she moved past him, opened the door and scurried away, he leaned toward her—toward where she had been, anyway. And as her legs propelled her toward the back of the second cabin, she thought she might have heard him whisper, "Wouldn't you like to know?"