Author's Introduction:

There really is a reason Scarlett is so torqued off at Flint in Third and Long.

First Down

A G.I. Joe Renegades story by Firestar9mm

Part Two: Touchdown, Turn Around

Every night I see you standing on the corner
Shaking that thing like you're playing Pop Warner
Touchdown, turn around, play by play, keep the score
Would you turn me down if I'm not what you're looking for?

I never knew you threw so hard

(Hellogoodbye, Touchdown Turnaround)

The second time it happened had been inevitable.

Switching drivers in the Coyote while on the road looked a hell of a lot like a Chinese fire drill—the Joes would all exit the vehicle and reshuffle themselves into it as fast as possible so that no one nearby could get too good of a look at them before they were safely back inside. It was much easier and safer to just switch places after they'd completed an errand on foot, but Duke had been complaining about Tunnel Rat's driving for nearly the entire time the field medic had been behind the wheel. The blond sergeant's complaints were not without merit—T. Rat switched lanes without signaling, tailgated other vehicles, and played with the radio when he should have been paying attention to the road. In the interest of both shutting Duke up and saving them from getting into an accident, they pulled over in the breakdown lane and switched places, Duke taking the wheel while Roadblock moved up to the passenger seat. Scarlett got stuck sitting next to Tunnel Rat.

"Sorry, T. Rat, but you're going to get us pulled over, and all of the local police have our pictures," Duke declared as he adjusted the seat to fit his taller frame. "And if that doesn't happen, you're going to wreck us."

"I'll cry all night," Tunnel Rat chuckled, relaxing on the rear bucket seat next to hers.

Something occurred to Scarlett, and she frowned at him. "You didn't want to drive. You drove dangerously on purpose," she accused. "You knew Duke would get spooked and take over."

Tunnel Rat's knowing grin told her she was right. "Actually, I was bettin' on you, but Duke's fine."

Scarlett suppressed an urge to kick him. "You jerk."

"Look, everyone wins," Tunnel Rat said, smiling beatifically. "We don't end up roadkill, I don't have to drive, and you, sweet Scarlett, get to sit next to me."

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather sit next to a bio-viper. You smell like roadkill."

Tunnel Rat looked down at his fatigues. "Hey, give a guy a break, Red. I've been wearing these fatigues for a week—and so have you. I'm bettin' you don't exactly smell like a rose, either."

"Knock it off back there," Duke said, in that leader's voice. "Tunnel Rat, you definitely win the award for Smelliest Joe, but Scarlett, your pants make you look like a member of a teenaged girl band."

Scarlett glanced reflexively down at her fatigues—one knee was blown out entirely, and she'd lost a belt loop or two on the way, leaving holes in the battle-worn fabric. Scowling, she held her tongue.

"None of us is exactly at our freshest here," Duke continued. "Maybe we can find a laundromat or something in the next place we stop."

"Negative," Scarlett said. "We can't be wasting time waiting for our clothes to dry. Someone will spot us."

"Then quit your bitching," Duke said evenly, and she met his cool blue gaze in the rearview mirror with a blazing look of anger.

"I wouldn't be upset at having clean clothes," Roadblock said amiably. "Maybe we could stop at an S-Market."

"That's a worse idea," Scarlett exploded, but Roadblock laughed, her harsh tone rolling off his back.

"I'm just kiddin', Red. Lighten up," the big man said. "I gotta better idea where to get new duds, anyway."

When they stopped in the next town, even Scarlett had to admit that Roadblock's idea was a good one—there was a Goodwill shop and a laundromat in the same shopping center, along with a Cinnabon, a barbershop and a pharmacy. As was his habit, Duke took charge immediately. "I vote that we all pick up a few civvies at the consignment shop—stuff that'll wear well and help us blend in, and once we've changed clothes, we can put a load of laundry in. It won't kill us to stay here for an hour or two," he said when he saw Scarlett about to protest.

"If I volunteer to stay with the clothes, can I have a Cinnabun?" Roadblock asked, looking wistfully at the pastry shop with an almost adorable mispronunciation of "Cinnabon".

Tunnel Rat also looked excited at the idea of sugary pastry. "Sure, buddy," he said, clapping the bigger man on the shoulder. "You put the clothes in, and I'll run get us a couple and bring 'em back."

"No," Scarlett said firmly. "Too risky. People are going to start wondering if we hang around here too long."

But they weren't listening to her. "I wouldn't mind a haircut and a shave," Duke said, scratching at the five o'clock shadow he was sporting.

"There's a pharmacy here," Scarlett pointed out. "Instead of wasting money on pastries, maybe pick up a pack of disposable razors like I did three towns back."

All three men gave her incredulous looks, all for completely different reasons:

"Do you not have a soul or something?" Tunnel Rat demanded. "Is there anything you can't suck the fun out of?"

Roadblock shook his head sadly. "Pastry ain't never a waste of money, Scarlett."

"You had a razor this whole time and didn't tell me?!" Duke said in disbelief.

Scarlett chose to answer the last question first. "I'm not going to lend you my razor. That's disgusting!"

"You could have at least given me one of your extras," Duke challenged.

"No way, Grunt!" she said. "I need them. If one gets rusty, I have to throw it out or I'll get a staph infection."

"A staph infection would run out into traffic to get away from you!" Tunnel Rat joked.

Scarlett whirled on him. "You're a walking staph infection!"

"Enough!" Duke roared.

Every Joe fell silent and turned to look at him.

Tersely, the blond sergeant flipped down the glove compartment and fished out their stash of money. He set aside a few dollars, then began peeling off bills with choppy, angry movements. When he'd made four identical stacks, he handed one each to Tunnel Rat and Roadblock, then one to Scarlett, keeping the last one for himself. "Here. Everyone gets the same amount of money, and I don't care what you do with it as long as you've got some clean clothes to wear. Roadblock, this is for the laundromat," he said, handing the few dollars he'd set aside first to Roadblock. "They're sure to have a change machine. Get fabric softener."

"Roger that," Roadblock chuckled.

Duke put the rest of the money back in the glove compartment. "O.K. Goodwill first, then we change clothes and give the fatigues to Roadblock. After that, do whatever the hell you want until the clothes are washed and dried, and we reconnoiter back here at nineteen hundred. I don't care if you buy food, razors or goddamn magic beans, but get whatever will make you all stop complaining for five minutes."

And with that, the blond sergeant slammed the driver's side door open, then jumped out of the Coyote, striding across the parking lot to the Goodwill shop. He did not look back.

Suddenly embarrassed, Scarlett turned to Tunnel Rat. Offering her hand, she said, "You don't smell that bad."

Tunnel Rat smiled, readily shaking her hand. "Sometimes you're not a total bitch."

Roadblock started laughing first, Tunnel Rat second. And despite herself—despite everything—Scarlett joined right in.

All the Joes cheered up at the prospect of clean clothes, even Tunnel Rat. "Snake Eyes shoulda come," Roadblock joked. "He coulda got himself a new trench coat."

"Snake Eyes is better at surviving in rough conditions than any of us," Scarlett informed them sanctimoniously. "He's going to be just fine."

Tunnel Rat was busy having fun in the clothes. Whipping a brown trench coat around his shoulders, he stalked down the aisle towards Scarlett. "How's this look? Am I a ninja yet?"

Scarlett frowned, but mockingly, her lips twisting in a way that showed her amusement. Despite his earlier blowup, even Duke was cheered up by the irrepressible medic as he selected different items and camped it up for the rest of them. "Whaddawe think of these?" Tunnel Rat asked, holding up a pair of chinos. "Are they gonna make me look fat?"

Roadblock gave that great bass chuckle of his. "T. Rat, you're gonna need a hell of a lot of Cinnabuns to ever look fat, man."

"Well, then we'll get a hell of a lot of Cinnabuns," Tunnel Rat declared, adopting the common mispronunciation of "Cinnabon". "Hey, check this out," he said, grabbing a beret from the top of a circular rack and replacing his worn cap with it. Pulling it jauntily over one ear, he started strutting around, saying, "Look at me, I'm Flint." Puffing his chest out importantly and deepening his voice, he pointed at Scarlett. "Lady Jaye, we're gonna catch those filthy no-good Joes, or I'm not the Big Man On Campus around here."

Roadblock laughed, and Scarlett smiled despite issuing an immediate order to keep his voice down. But Duke's smile faded, a quick blink telling Scarlett something wasn't right. Tunnel Rat, preoccupied with his joke, continued undaunted. "I'm Flint. I think I'm a big shot 'cause I was some small-town football hero. I can throw a pigskin seventy-two yards so I think I'm great, and you should, too. When I get outta the army I'm gonna have a chain of auto dealerships and bore every customer with stories about how I coulda gone pro."

Roadblock laughed harder, and Duke seemed to shake himself out of his paralysis. Laughing stiffly, he waved Tunnel Rat over. "O.K., funny guy, enough of that. Come on, let's get out of here and change clothes. Scarlett's right, we shouldn't hang around in one place too long, anyway."

Scarlett frowned. The look on Duke's face before he'd forced that laugh hadn't been amused, and as for admitting she was right—well, that was a sure indicator something was wrong. She felt like pressing him, but he'd gone to some trouble to hide his concerns, whatever they were. She stayed quiet as they paid for their purchases.

Back in the parking lot, she stood guard at the Coyote while the men changed their clothes inside it, overhearing a fair amount of bumping and jostling as all three tried to do so in the enclosed space.

"Ow. Can you watch it, big guy? That was my face." Tunnel Rat.

"Sorry, man. I got big elbows." Roadblock.

"Just hurry up, you two." Duke was clearly still upset. "Sometimes I don't know how you two made it through Basic with the way you—ow, goddamnit!"

Scarlett was unable to stop a smile, but forced her face into its usual sobriety when the door of the Coyote slid back. Tunnel Rat hopped out nimbly, followed by Duke, and Roadblock brought up the rear with a stack of clothes in his hands. Scarlett noted that it wasn't just their fatigues—she could see a couple of crinkled tube socks in the pile, and crumpled near the top of the stack was something plaid that had to be a pair of boxer shorts. Scarlett was unable to help wondering exactly who those belonged to, then shook herself out of it.

"I'm wondrin' if we should even keep these," Roadblock said, casting a critical eye on what he held. "They've seen better days."

"They've seen the worst days," T. Rat argued.

Duke's blue eyes darkened, and somehow Scarlett knew his thoughts mirrored her own-that the worst days may be yet to come. "I think we should keep them. We'll wash them and they'll be as good as new." All three Joes arched brows at him, and he amended, "Well, not good as new but at least clean. Maybe we can mend them. Either way, we should hang on to them."

Scarlett was inclined to agree. Sure, their fatigues were ripped, dirty, bloody, but at least they had fit. By contrast, the three men she knew to be fire-hardened, capable soldiers now looked almost adorably bedraggled. Tunnel Rat's khaki pants were crimping at his waist beneath the web belt he'd taken off his discarded fatigues, and there was room in the legs—if Scarlett had had to guess, she was sure she could have fit comfortably into the pants along with him. They were too long over a pair of less-than-reputable tennis shoes, dragging on the ground. He'd rolled back the sleeves of his button-down shirt over his forearms, showing their lean muscle; Scarlett was sure that the cuffs had previously dangled past his wrists.

Roadblock's problems were at the other end of the spectrum, and he'd been forced into a pair of denim overalls that looked—there was no sugarcoating it—downright comical on his huge frame. He'd had better luck with a dark t-shirt that had a little bit of give, and even still its tortured sleeves strained over his broad shoulders. He'd swapped his combat boots for a pair of work boots that were in decent shape; Scarlett marveled at the fact that the shop had had any shoes in his size.

Duke had kept his combat boots on, either because he hadn't found shoes in his size or hadn't seen a need to change his footwear. Scarlett was inclined to think it was the latter—she was sure that the steely, combat-oriented Joe wanted to keep his boots on in case of an emergency. His jeans were a little baggy but fit better than anything Tunnel Rat or Roadblock had on. The real problem was his shirt—a buffalo-checked nightmare that was loud enough to set off car alarms as he walked by. He'd rolled the sleeves up like Tunnel Rat had, and the collar was open wide enough to show the crew-necked shirt he wore beneath it, but there was just no saving the print.

"Not bad," Scarlett lied as they took their posts outside the Coyote, ready to guard it while she got dressed. "You guys feel better?"

"Nah, these are too clean. They're itching the hell out of me," Tunnel Rat said cheerfully. "But I'm gonna go find some mud to crawl in and then they'll be perfect."

Scarlett rolled her eyes, but Duke smiled at the field medic.

"You're crazy." Roadblock shook his head. "Wish I could shower, man," the big man said wistfully.

"Nothing's perfect," Duke sighed in answer. "Maybe next time. We're lucky to have this."

For some reason that hurt to hear, and Scarlett frowned as they left her alone in the Coyote to change. She'd found a pair of dark jeans that probably belonged on a teenager, but the cheap denim was a spandex blend; it had plenty of stretch and promised to be comfortable. She'd seen sneakers in her size in the shop, but like Duke, she'd elected to simply keep her boots on in case they needed to fight or run. She'd childishly selected the thin gray sweater because it had felt soft under her fingers, and the slight scent of mothballs wasn't enough to deter her from the comfort it promised. She'd refused to even consider undergarments from a consignment shop, and wrinkled her nose at the idea that they'd likely have to stop at another S-Market in the near future. Still, it was better than the alternative—the first time she'd complained about her lack of clean underwear, she'd woken up the next morning and found several new, serviceable pieces in her pack. There hadn't been any doubt as to how they'd gotten there, but when she'd asked Snake Eyes where they'd come from, he'd simply shaken his head, giving a sign that she shouldn't concern herself with it. The sensors still on the garments confirmed her suspicions, and she'd given him a very cutting little speech about how they were supposed to be the good guys, and good guys weren't thieves. Snake Eyes had managed to convey with some difficulty that she didn't seem to have such a conscience when it came to blowing up buildings or breaking and entering, and Scarlett had argued that it was different when Cobra was involved. He'd showed her the S-Market tags on one of the new bras, and she'd flipped out for an entirely different reason. "You can't do that again," she'd exploded. "They'll catch you, goddamnit."

She wasn't sure what had disappointed Snake Eyes more—that she'd assumed he wasn't skilled enough to keep out of Cobra's clutches, or that she'd seemed so unappreciative of his efforts to do something nice for her. He'd disappeared and hadn't come back for three nights, during which she'd missed him sorely.

Right now she pulled on the last clean pair of panties she had, making a mental note to ask Roadblock to wash the rest of them along with the fatigues. She frowned as she remembered how she'd found the broken sensors beside her pack the morning after she'd argued with Snake Eyes about it—he'd left them there on purpose, and she'd marveled at how someone who couldn't speak always managed somehow to have the last word.

She hadn't told Duke about that either—the all-American boy scout would have hit the roof if he'd known the items were stolen, and she'd been briefly unsettled by the idea that she and Duke would have been in agreement for once. But she hadn't been strong enough not to wear the clothes—she'd needed them, after all, and she supposed that had proved Snake's point after all. She'd felt guilty for hurting her silent friend's feelings, but when you broke a rule once, it got easier to break it again and again, and she didn't want to end up a criminal—not really. She knew Cobra was evil, and anything that could be done to derail their mad schemes was a good errand, but maybe it wouldn't be a Cobra store they stole from next time. She wondered how many Cobra operatives had begun at the end of their ropes, swearing that they'd just do one job, one thing to get back on their feet, and were now firmly entrenched in the ranks of the enemy.

But she and the rest of the Joes were still on the right side. She didn't want to even put a toe over that line—and she didn't want Snake Eyes to either, especially not for her. It had been one more thing she'd felt responsible for.

Like the fact that they were even here at all.

Now that she was alone, she could let her face fall at the memory of Roadblock's wish for a shower. Even at 300 pounds of muscle and sinew, Roadblock was a gentle giant—he wore his heart on his sleeve, and that heart was solid gold. He was the one who complained the least while they were on the road, often acting as though their situation was one big road trip. He was always ready to lend a hand or shift a burden, and even Scarlett's acid tongue seemed to have no effect on him. Things just seemed to roll off his back, so for him to vocalize his displeasure at a situation, it had to have been wearing on him pretty hard. Even he had a right to be tired and frustrated, but it had come as a bit of a surprise.

Not for the first time, Scarlett wished that one of the Coyote's features was time-travel—she'd go back to the day they'd infiltrated the Springfield lab and go in by herself. She was still angry, and surer than ever that Cobra was evil and had to be stopped, but the more she got to know the men she traveled with—the more she came to like them—the sorrier she felt for dragging them into her war.

Scarlett realized she was sitting down on the floor of the Coyote's cab, in her new-old jeans and her stolen bra, her fingers playing idly with the strap of Roadblock's breastplate, which was stacked as neatly as possible against the wall of the cab. Duke's was beside it, and Tunnel Rat's was discarded sloppily in a corner. Scarlett straightened it and placed her own among them.

Idly, she pulled the thin gray sweater over her head, enjoying the feel of it against her skin, wishing it would chase away the chill inside her. She couldn't believe how happy she felt to simply be in clean clothes, even if they were hand-me-downs, even if she wanted—needed—a hot bath.

Because Duke was right, of course—they were lucky to have even this—but she hadn't liked the weary tone of his voice, or the looks of resignation on both his and Roadblock's faces. She suddenly wanted Roadblock to have a shower, and Cinnabons, and anything else he wanted. It wasn't right that they had to live this way, for who knew how long, and she was going to make Cobra pay for it if it was the last thing she did.

She realized she'd lost track of how long she'd been sitting there, and quickly pulled on a clean pair of socks and her boots, gathering up everything she wanted washed. When she came out of the Coyote, Roadblock was patiently waiting to take her pile of clothes. "T. Rat went for Cinnabuns and Duke went to the barber's," he explained when she saw her looking around for the other Joes. "I'm gonna go take these in."

"Want me to?" Scarlett said, feeling suddenly guilty that he'd gotten stuck with that detail. "I can put the clothes in. Go meet up with Tunnel Rat."

When Roadblock smiled, it was always genuine. "Nah, Scarlett, I'm cool. T. Rat's gonna bring me a Cinnabun, and to be honest, I'm looking forward to puttin' my feet up for a little. Go do something nice for Scarlett."

That made her feel even worse. She didn't need lessons in looking out for number one. She'd been taking plenty good care of herself this trip, and she'd known the risks from the beginning, but these men hadn't known what they were getting into. Now they were getting shot at, hunted down, their families threatened, their names dragged through the mud, and it was all her fault.

"I'm...I'm going to the pharmacy," she said stiffly. "Want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good," Roadblock said amiably. "If I think of anything, I'll leave Tunnel Rat here with the clothes and go pick it up."

Nodding, Scarlett escaped to the pharmacy, unable to stand up straight in the presence of that selflessness anymore. She tried to avoid the cameras that were installed on the ceilings in certain aisles, but lingered as long as she dared. The pharmacy was oddly comforting to her with its bright lights, colorful labels, the easy-listening music piping over the sound system. She selected aspirin, bandages, toilet paper, and a number of travel kits—the plastic zippered cases that contained tiny bottles of mouthwash, shampoo and conditioner, little tubes of toothpaste and midget bars of soap. She had a stash of these things in the Coyote already, collecting them whenever she had occasion to stop in a pharmacy or convenience store, but she lived in fear of running out. Being on the run was bad enough, being disavowed was humiliating, but damn it, she was going to be clean at least. She also picked up the cheapest can of shaving cream she saw—a large, green-striped can of Barbasol—and a pack of disposable razors, the single-bladed kind that were more for convenience than comfort. No sense in running out of those, either—they were inexpensive, and she hadn't been kidding about the staph infections.

When she finally decided to check out, she was four people back from the register, but right before she made it to the cashier a twinge of guilt made her step off the line and go back into the aisles. Grabbing another pack of disposable razors and another canister of shaving cream, she balanced them precariously on her stack of purchases and made her slow, careful way back to the register, where she had to wait behind an additional six people.

Once she was checked out, she tossed the receipt in the nearest trash can. Through the large plate-glass window of the laundromat, she could see Tunnel Rat sitting happily on one of the tables used for folding, a boxed Cinnabon in his lap and a fork in his hand. Roadblock was sitting in a metal folding chair, enjoying his own Cinnabon, his back to the door—something Scarlett would have thought foolish were T. Rat not keeping an eye on the outside. The medic waved cheerfully at her with his fork, and Roadblock turned to see what had gotten his friend's attention, offering Scarlett a smile. After a minute's hesitation, Scarlett waved back before continuing on to stow her supplies in the Coyote. Slipping into the back of the truck, she stuffed her treasures into her pack with the rest of her stash, leaving the extra can of shaving cream and extra pack of razors in the plastic pharmacy bag to take with her. As she turned to exit the vehicle with the bag in hand, she noticed a few items she hadn't seen before—someone else had apparently been to the pharmacy, too. A large, unopened flat of bottled water sat against the far wall of the cargo bay, along with two brand-new first aid kits, the deluxe kind that had extra bandages, lots of gauze and small bottles of antiseptic. There were also a few large bottles of aspirin, a kettle, a heating pad and a treat, too—a pack of twenty-four cans of Coca-Cola. Scarlett's throat burned with longing for the sweet, sugary bite of the soda, but she refrained from taking one—she felt guilty for making such a big deal out of hoarding her supplies, when whoever had bought this stuff had clearly used their portion of the money to get things that could be shared.

But she was trying, she assured herself, twisting the handles of the plastic pharmacy bag in her hands. She would try—starting now.

Her next stop was the barbershop. The bell above the door jingled as she entered, and both the barber and the client he had in the chair—not Duke; an older man with muttonchop sideburns, one longer than the other because she'd interrupted them—looked up curiously.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" the barber asked kindly, holding his trimmer safely away from his client.

"I—er—I'm looking for my friend," she said lamely, holding up her hand above her head to indicate height. "I thought he might be here. A blond guy. Six foot two, eyes of blue?"

The barber nodded, pointing to his right. "He was here earlier for a haircut and a shave, but he's gone now. He didn't say where he was headed."

Scarlett frowned. He hadn't been back at the Coyote and she hadn't seen him through the window of the laundromat. "Okay. Thank you." She turned away, but just as she was about to exit the shop, she was struck by an idea. Spinning, she asked, "Where would I go to see a football game around here?"

The barber shut off his trimmer, as though he were so surprised by her question that it wasn't safe to have a bladed implement near his client. He waved in the direction of town. "Only football team that plays around here is the Bulldogs over at the high school, straight down on Elm. Keep going down Oakland—it's the fourth left—but you're a bit early, honey, the season doesn't start till—"

Scarlett interrupted with a nod, the compass needle in her brain already swinging to plot her course. "Thanks. Thanks a lot," she said over her shoulder, pushing her way out the door as she broke into a jog. The little bell sang her on her way, along with the barber's farewell of "Good luck, sweetie."

It was actually the fifth left, but Scarlett didn't have any trouble navigating her way to the school and similarly, the football field. The sky was the yolky color of the hour before dusk, as the sun sank lower in the sky, with only a hint of robin's-egg blue left over from the afternoon. She wasn't sure how she'd known that Duke would be there, but she wasn't disappointed—Duke was standing at the Cyclone fence bordering the field, that hideous buffalo-checked shirt like a stain on the dying day, one arm thrown languidly above his head and fingers hooked into the misshapen chain-link diamonds. The fence was warped and bent inward in places from years of kids leaning against it; the chain link had been ripped away from one of the supporting posts, leaving a ragged hole, but Duke remained outside the field, looking in.

Scarlett had been jogging; now she slowed to a walk, but if he heard her, he gave no sign. Carefully, she orbited him, recognizing the posture and the expression on his face—she was sure she'd looked like that plenty of times herself in the last few months. He was trying to think back—trying to remember when his life had been normal.

He looked...spent.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say and a thousand more she felt like she should say, but all that came out was a conversation starter she hadn't even planned on, a nonchalant inquiry that had cut the line in her brain.

"Running back?"

For some reason, it was the right thing to say. He laughed and turned to her, acknowledging her presence for the first time. "No. I was the QB."

"Were you any good?"

"Hell yes I was good," he chuckled. "Best day I had, I shrugged off three defenders to run it into the end zone." His eyes went pleasantly hazy, remembering. "Seventy-two yards. Like it was...nothing."

Like it was yesterday, Scarlett finished in her head. She wondered if he could hear the cheering still, in the far-off land of memory he currently dwelt in. But his smile faded, and his eyes swept the field as if just realizing it was empty, a different field, a different state, a different year. She could see the chill grip him as reality seeped in.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what had happened—he'd been good, had clearly been going to be something; something had happened. But she realized she already knew—even as her own voice wanted to ask what happened? her memory provided the answer, Duke's own voice like an echo in her memory.

You sack me, Flint.

"Flint," was all she said aloud. She realized she should have known—even before they'd pulled a few dazzling escape attempts and had made Flint look incredibly foolish, something that only fueled his desire to apprehend them, he had appeared to have been taking his job as their hunter way too seriously. But if it were just one more skirmish in a long-standing rivalry—that made a hell of a lot more sense. Frowning, she asked a different question. "How long has this been going on, exactly?"

Duke laughed, but not like it was funny. "He got me good the night of the state championships. Hit me like a goddamned freight train. Blew out my knee."

Scarlett couldn't help glancing down at his strong legs, hidden by the ill-fitting jeans he wore. "How long did it take to get back on your feet?"

"Long enough that I lost my shot at a college scholarship," Duke sighed.

He didn't have to explain any further. As surely as she'd known he'd come here, Scarlett knew that if there'd been enough money to send him without one, he'd have been in school. That scholarship had to have been his only ticket out of a town as small as this one—his key to something more, and in the blink of an eye, it had been taken away from him.

Unbidden, Scarlett suddenly remembered her cozy, quiet single-study dorm room, the way the buttery afternoon light used to spill over her twin bed, the library path she'd walked in the evenings while the cooler fall breeze played with her hair. Those days were long gone now, but she'd had the chance—she'd had the choice.

For Duke, there'd been no choice.

As if suddenly realizing what he'd admitted to her, Duke straightened up, affecting a nonchalant air. "It wasn't a big deal. I was never one for books or exams, anyway."

Scarlett wasn't fooled. It had been a big deal. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"For what?" Duke shrugged. "It's ancient history."

She suddenly realized that he was embarrassed. It wasn't like him to lose his cool, and he'd just admitted what had to have been the biggest disappointment of his life to her.

"So you joined the Army," Scarlett concluded.

"That was Flint's idea, actually."

Scarlett's brows disappeared behind her bangs. "Wait a minute. Flint helped you enlist?"

Duke smiled, but again, not like he was amused. "You have no idea how pathetic I look on crutches."

Confused, Scarlett narrowed her eyes. "So you and Flint were...friends?"

Duke sighed, turning a far-off gaze back onto the football field. "I thought so."

Scarlett felt numb, and the plastic pharmacy bag fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers. When the fatigues had hit the fan in the Springfield labs, Flint hadn't even let them explain-he'd just been ready to bring the hammer down. "That arrogant son of a bitch," she exploded. "You'd think after all that he'd have at least listened to you back in Springfield. He doesn't know me from a hole in the wall, but you—you'd think he'd have listened to you."

Duke made a face. "Maybe, but he's used to me making him look bad. He wasn't about to take a chance this time."

That made sense, too. It wasn't just about the fact that no one knew the truth about Cobra, or that Duke had gone AWOL, or even about the heinous crimes the Joes were wrongfully accused of. It was just plain personal.

"I'm sorry I called him an arrogant son of a bitch," she said shortly. "I should have added that he's an arrogant, childish, petty son of a bitch."

Duke smiled, but the expression was brief. "The thing is, he's not, really. Your perspective's all screwed up. You've got to look at it from his point of view."

Scarlett felt like stamping her foot. "Who cares about his point of view? He ruined your football career, and now he's ruining your military career."

"Well, to be fair, I'm ruining my own military career," Duke pointed out. "And in Flint's eyes, it's not the first time I've tried. There've been times I disobeyed orders, times he tried to pull strings for me, and I've embarrassed him because I haven't let him."

Scarlett narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe for one second that you disobeyed orders for the hell of it. You don't do anything without a damn good reason," she declared. "And if you didn't let him cut a corner for you, I'm sure it's only because you felt like you didn't earn it. You're the world's biggest boy scout, Duke—even now, you're trying to defend the guy who's hunting us down like dogs."

Duke just shook his head. "You see a guy who's hunting us down, who refuses to listen. But Flint sees himself as a guy who's just been trying to help me for years, and despite his best efforts, I keep throwing it back in his face. It's got to sting a little, especially since we keep giving him the slip. He's insulted."

"You're telling me the guy wants to throw us in jail because his feelings are hurt." Scarlett's voice was flat; she pointed towards the empty football field. "He's acting like you're both still in high school—still out on that field."

"Can't say as I blame him." The faraway look in Duke's eyes tugged at her heart, despite her best efforts to steel it against him. "Things were a lot simpler back then."

For a minute, Scarlett was able to picture the Duke of the past, able to place that confident stride in a high-school hallway and envision that muscular arm attempting to stretch nonchalantly across the back of a girl's seat in a movie theater. A boy with big dreams and a bright future, with a mother and father who were proud of him.

Now…

Now this.

Duke sighed through his nose, leaning against the fence once more.

Her decision was impulsive, but its execution was slow; she was not a casual toucher and was unsure of how to use her physical presence as a comfort. Hesitantly, she slipped her arms around his waist, pressing the line of her body against his side.

She'd meant to tell him she was sorry, for the destruction of his dreams, for a life on the lam, for every little hurt. But she just rested her head against his shoulder, squeezing gently. Held on. Held on.

Duke shifted slightly and Scarlett stiffened in embarrassment, thinking she'd pushed too far, but before she could retreat in discomfort, he'd turned in the circle of her arms, not away but towards her so he could pull her more tightly against him—so he could hold her. Scarlett went willingly into the embrace, her eyes closing as he tucked his chin over her head.

"Don't be sad for me," he whispered into her hair. "Scarlett, it's all right."

"It was your life," she whispered. "And we ruined it. Flint started it…and I finished."

Duke tightened his hold on her. "Don't say that."

She shook her head against him, buried her face in that awful shirt so she wouldn't have to look him in the eye. "It was your life," she repeated helplessly, breathing in the scent of mothballs and aftershave and soap that clung to him. "Even if you thought it was small…even if it wasn't the life you wanted…it was yours."

"It didn't have you in it." Duke's voice was warm and sure, his arms strong around her.

Shocked, Scarlett lifted her head, searching his face. There was still something wistful in his eyes, but this time it wasn't for the field they stood in front of, or for days gone by—it was for her. For now.

"Don't…don't be ridiculous," she faltered softly, frightened by the way her heart gave a queer, quick little beat at his words, at how tenderly he was looking at her. "I'm the one who got you into this."

Duke stroked his knuckles down her cheek, using the gentlest touch to tilt her face up to him. "And I never even said thank you," he said, his eyes darkening with emotion. Scarlett's imagination tried to run away with her, insisting she could hear the ocean, when intellectually she knew they were standing somewhere between Nowhere and No Place in the Midwest. All she could see was blue, and then he closed the remaining distance between them to press his lips to hers.

It was such a soft kiss, she let it happen, and when he traced his tongue over her lower lip, requesting entrance, she opened her mouth to him without hesitation to let him deepen it. There was so much she still didn't understand—why he didn't blame her or Flint for the misfortunes they'd visited upon him, why he was trying to comfort her when his problems seemed so much more complicated than her own. But none of that was as surprising as the realization that she was kissing him back—kissing the tired, guilt-ridden soldier who'd held Weems' dog tags in his hand beside the Coyote, kissing the hero who was always ready to lend a hand when civilians were in trouble despite the danger it put him in. Kissing the small-town boy whose dreams of college courses and state championships had been shattered along with his knee.

Duke slid one hand down her back to press her closer to him, his tongue caressing her own, exploring her mouth almost leisurely. His mouth was hot and sweet, his arms a fortress, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt…good. Felt safe. Something that had been packed cold and tight in her heart uncurled, relaxed, and she felt her body curving into his embrace, her hands pressing against his strong back. Her legs threatened to fail her, but she couldn't bring herself to be afraid. Duke was there; Duke would hold her…

Oh, God, what were they doing?

Abruptly, she pulled away, not just breaking their kiss but backing out of his embrace entirely. She was instantly cold without his arms around her, but forced herself to get a handle on her emotions, panic lancing through her at how quickly she'd lost control. She raked her bangs off her face as she put distance between them, trying to forget how his mouth tasted, trying to ignore the tang of aftershave she could still scent.

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I'm—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

Duke seized her wrist. "Why?"

His grip on her wrist was hard, as though he didn't trust her not to run away, and a familiar feeling of irritation filled her with a chill of a different kind. "You're right. You shouldn't have," she said, tearing her wrist out of his hand.

There was an answering anger on Duke's face as he stepped into her, bringing himself dangerously close again. "You weren't complaining a minute ago."

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she hadn't been complaining because her mouth had been otherwise occupied, but the sensory memory of his tongue sweeping past her lips to caress hers tugged at something deep and hungry inside her; no need to bring it up. She just swept him a freezing glare.

"In fact..." Duke's blue eyes were smoldering, meeting her ice with fire. "...I think you liked it."

Scarlett bristled, feeling an unwelcome rush of blood to her face, but she'd kissed him back—she had no argument for that. She was wishing she was back in the Coyote, alone, where it was safe to give her emotions free reign. "What do you want me to say?" she burst out finally.

"Anything." His answer was soft. "Just..." He seemed to fold in on himself, becoming once more the tired boy wondering how his plans had all collapsed atop him. "Just don't pretend that there's nothing to say."

The pain that knifed through her was frightening in its immediacy. Intellectually, she knew that now was the time to put an end to this once and for all, but she couldn't stand that hurt look on his face—was ready to do anything to chase it away.

She spoke slowly, deliberately, trying to steady herself, and even still her face flamed with a blush as she reluctantly gave him ground. "I am attracted to you, Duke. I would be a liar to say otherwise."

But he didn't look happy; he folded his arms across his chest like a bratty child. "Well, for someone who claims she finds me attractive, you seem to spend a lot of time acting like I've got a communicable disease, so that isn't exactly flattering."

It was Scarlett's turn to be annoyed and hurt. "What were you expecting?" She pointed out onto the football field. "We're not in high school. Were you hoping I'd scribble your name in a heart in my notebook or try to pass you a note during study hall? Grow up, Duke."

Duke's eyes caught fire and he flushed. "I was hoping maybe you'd stop denying what's between us."

"There is nothing between us," she hissed, putting all the force of her frustration behind it. "There is no us, do you understand?"

Duke laughed, a brittle sound, and threw his hands up. "No, Scarlett, I don't understand. You admit you're attracted to me. And I, for reasons even I don't understand, am attracted to you."

That stung. Pressing her trembling lips together, Scarlett rolled her eyes, hoping to hell that the sudden moisture in them would stay out of sight. "Now who's being unflattering? Backhand full of knuckles with that one, Duke."

He laughed again, but it was a far different sound this time—something amused and surprised that he couldn't hold back. "You see? That's it."

Scarlett narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What's it?"

"You." His smile was razor-sharp. "You are caustic and ruthless and sarcastic and hot-tempered..." He trailed off, those blue eyes resting so kindly on her, even as he listed her flaws. "...and funny, and smart, and brave, and pretty, and..."

She waited, her heart rate picking up against her will.

"And I like you," he finished, almost helplessly, smiling and shaking his head. "I can't help it, Scarlett."

Scarlett wanted to tell him to try to help it, tell him how foolish he was. How idealistic, and stubborn, and irritating...and kind and strong and clever and damn it, she liked him, too. She felt her resolve weakening, and his physical proximity was making it even more difficult not to just walk back into his arms, let them both feel as good as she'd felt in his embrace. She stepped back, intending simply to put distance between them once more, but she stepped on something, something that rolled and then gave way under her foot, dropping her heavily to the ground. To Duke's credit, he attempted to catch her but came up with a handful of air, and she ended up sitting in her own surprise, seeing her confusion mirrored on Duke's face as he looked down at her.

"Whoa," he laughed when he regained his equilibrium, offering her his hands. "You all right? What is that thing?"

Scarlett ignored the offer of help, casting about for what she'd tripped on. It was only then she remembered the plastic bag from the pharmacy, which she picked up with one hand, pushing off the ground with the other to get herself to her feet. Frowning, she realized she'd stepped right onto the can of shaving cream. Shoving the bag at Duke, she tried to disguise her embarrassment with anger. "It's for you, Grunt."

Duke's blond brows arched in curiosity as he took the bag, and it was almost worth it to see the smile curve his mouth as he saw its contents—the extra pack of disposable razors and the extra can of shaving cream she'd purchased in the pharmacy. "Thank you," he said gently, and there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. "You didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did." Scarlett turned back towards the fence, wrapping her arms around herself, a poor substitute for his embrace. It was like he was reading her mind—like he could see inside her head, her hurt, and she hated it. She was fairly sure he was the one who had bought the supplies she'd found in the Coyote, and if he'd bought any toiletries for himself she hadn't seen them, but her impulsive decision to purchase the items for him had never really been about that—she had wanted to prove to him that she could do something for someone other than herself. That she could be...nice.

She heard Duke's smile in his voice, far closer than she was comfortable with. "You know, you're cute when you…care." He laughed.

Turning back towards him, she shook her head helplessly, unable to force her voice above a defeated whisper. "…Of course I care. But…"

The look in his eyes was impossibly tender, as if it pained him to gaze at her and yet couldn't tear himself away. "Come here."

Scarlett's chest felt tight, her pounding heartbeat threatening to drown out the alarm bells ringing in her brain. She told herself firmly to walk away, willed her feet to carry her off, but the command died somewhere on the way from her brain to her legs. "We can't," she gritted out, hating how helpless she sounded.

"Can't what?" he asked softly. "Can't talk about something other than fighting and running? Can't get close?" he said, even as he stepped dangerously near to her once more. "Can't want each other?"

For the first time, Scarlett allowed herself to acknowledge it as well. She did want him—even now she was distracted by the memory of the taste of his mouth, was cold without his arms around her. Her muscles had tightened with desire at his command for her to come to him, her mind traitorously providing fantasies of the two of them alone somewhere safe and secluded, bodies entwined intimately.

And he was making it clear he wanted her, too.

"Duke, you've got to put this out of your head," Scarlett said carefully, shaking her head. "You're just…tired. We've been through a lot. We're all stressed and worn out, and you're just feeling a little…confused."

"The only thing I'm confused about is why you're not in my arms," Duke said, his voice gravelly with desire. "And the only thing I'm tired of is of trying to pretend I don't feel this way. I'm done talking. If you don't want to be kissed until you faint, Scarlett, then go back to the Coyote."

Scarlett's chest tightened as she considered that statement. She knew she should do just as he suggested and leave, but she couldn't seem to make herself do the sensible thing. She did want to be kissed, until she was lightheaded and her lips were swollen and aching, wanted those big hands to stroke and stir her, wanted him to kiss her everywhere. And what she wanted even more than that—what she wanted most of all, so much it hurt—was to simply be held. She wanted him to hold her.

Making her decision, she steeled herself and stepped into him. Duke's eyes widened slightly, but he stood his ground with a slightly shuddery breath as she slid her hands up his chest, feeling the hammer of his heartbeat, as hard and fast now as it had been in the alley behind the bar. Lifting her face to his, she asked softly, "Is that an order…Sergeant?"

Duke managed to hold out for about ten seconds.

All it took was one determined step forward and he had her wound hopelessly in his embrace, one strong arm around her, his other hand cupping the back of her head as he pulled her to him for a ferocious kiss. Scarlett's own hands came up to cradle his face, stroke the short velvet roughness of his hair as she opened her mouth to him. Duke made a pleased sound deep in his throat, nudging his knee between her thighs. Obeying the gentle prompting, Scarlett wrapped her leg around his, gasping against his mouth at the evidence of his desire pressed against her.

Duke laughed at her reaction as he broke their kiss. "Still think I'm confused?" he teased, breath warm against her ear.

"I think it's—ahhh." Scarlett shivered as he pressed harder against her, taking her earlobe in his teeth and biting gently before sliding a languid, open-mouthed kiss down her neck. "I think it's just been too long since you've been with a woman."

Duke pulled back slightly, eyes smoldering, and he tightened his hold on her, jerking her against him so she could better feel him stretched hard and ready beneath his ill-fitting jeans. Scarlett was unable to hold back a soft whimper, her own body tightening in lustful anticipation. "It's for you," he insisted. "I want you." His lips closed determinedly on hers and he ground his lower body eagerly against her. Scarlett cradled his face, mewing softly against his mouth, her thumb pressing against his strong jaw. Clutching his muscular bicep with her free hand to steady herself, she arched into his embrace, enjoying how he responded with a groan and redoubled his efforts. When she finally broke away to catch her breath, Duke resumed trailing kisses down her neck, nipping playfully, laving the tiny pain away with his tongue before sucking gently on her sensitized skin. Tensing, Scarlett speared her fingers through his hair to pull him carefully away before he could leave a mark. "Oh, no…don't…Duke, wait…"

She'd only meant that she didn't want to have to explain a hickey to the others, but Duke mistook it for her changing her mind entirely. Pulling back slightly, his eyes froze over; his voice was thready with need. "Honey, if you're having second thoughts, you'd better tell me, before…"

The endearment made Scarlett's heart flutter traitorously, but she was confused by the rest of it. "Before what?"

Duke's breath was short; he shook his head. "No, you're right. You're right, we should stop."

Scarlett blinked rapidly. He wanted to stop? After all that, all the teasing and the flirting and the petting that was driving her crazy, he was pumping the brakes? He had to be kidding.

"Stop?" she hissed, the fire in her now one of rage. "Had enough already, Grunt? I should have known!"

Her hands went to his chest, to push at him, but before she could Duke was kissing her hard enough to bruise, tongue forcing her lips to open. Scarlett fought briefly, but she wanted him too much to deny him—to deny herself—and every sweep of his tongue against hers wound her tighter.

"You really have no idea how much I want you, do you?" he said, voice ragged in a way that hinted he might be coming apart just as she was. "I will never get enough of you, Scarlett. So if you don't want to be flat on your back with me inside you in about ten seconds, yes, we should stop."

Scarlett shuddered. He was still a grunt, still more spit than polish, and yet the blunt description of his intent only fueled her own lust, a blush warming her face at his praise.

Oh, what the hell, she thought. Why not?

Her pulse picked up as she considered the pros and cons. This was going to have to be a one-shot deal—their lives were constantly in danger, and survivor sex was not something you could keep up indefinitely, especially when you were living out of an assault vehicle with the rest of your small band of misfits. And there would be no keeping this a secret from the misfits if it continued, so it was better if she and Duke just got it out of their systems once and for all.

Now that she was allowing for the possibility, she could admit to herself that it was in her system—that he was—and had been for a while. She didn't love it, but she couldn't bring herself to take too much blame for it; he could be very charming when he put his mind to it, and under the steel exterior he wore to command his men beat the heart of an all-American boy. It didn't hurt that he was pretty damned cute, too. And she was just as tired as anyone of hiding from Cobra, of being disavowed and humiliated, of running for her life. Didn't she deserve ten minutes of something that didn't...suck?

She initiated the kiss this time, and he let her explore his mouth almost leisurely, purred in pleasure as she tried to soothe him with her mouth, her hands. All thoughts of leaving had abandoned her; she wanted to be close, wanted this, wanted him.

"Scarlett," Duke entreated, his whisper as seductive as the serpent's must have been in the garden, as frayed as her own weakening resolve. "Say it."

"Duke…"

Their gazes dueled for one more moment before he repeated it, this time in a voice caught between commanding and pleading. "Say it."

A possibility that had never occurred to her before this moment flared brightly in Scarlett's addled mind—despite his aggressive stance, he wanted her to make the decision for herself; he was giving her a chance to run. For the first time, the idea that she had a choice made surrender truly possible; the hungry look in his eyes promised he'd even make it pleasurable.

She whispered it against the lips he brushed against hers—"Yes"—and his eyes darkened with desire before he moved with determination to take her mouth, the kiss brief but no less passionate for it.

Breaking away, he took her hand, urging her to follow him. "Come on."

Still lightheaded from confessions and kissing, Scarlett allowed him to tug her through the broken part of the fence. "Where…?"

"Trust me," he said, his smile sweet and secret.

The sun had just set and the field's lights remained off, leaving it blanketed in darkness as they hurried across it hand in hand, like two teenagers, to the bleachers. Scarlett tensed up as Duke led her beneath them, shuddering more from desire than from the chill of the coming night. She tried to bluff through it with wit, but the quip was shaky. "Reliving your glory days?"

Duke was unruffled—in fact, he seemed amused by her remark. Now that he knew he had her, he seemed in no hurry, something that had her fraying at the edges, not just because she needed the ache inside her soothed, but because they could be caught at any minute and she'd shoot herself before explaining anything to the others. "Just wanted some privacy. No one's going to see us here."

Those words emphasized exactly what they'd sneaked away to do, and Scarlett felt suddenly awkward and fumbling, unsure of how to proceed now that she wasn't playing keep-away any longer. Luckily, Duke was having no such stage fright—he had her back in his arms like lightning, going so far as to lift her off the ground as he carried her further under cover. Scarlett made a soft sound of surprise against his mouth, clinging to him tensely even as she kissed him back, caressing his tongue with her own.

"Put me down!" she said as sternly as possible, but her voice betrayed her, shaking at being caught off-guard by his actions.

"Thought you'd never ask." Duke grinned, and Scarlett gave a very undignified yelp as he dipped her back, grinning, as though he would lay her down on the grass beneath the bleachers. Before she could scold him, his brow furrowed and he stopped mid-motion, holding her securely, albeit at an awkward angle. "Hold that thought," he said, and brought her back upright before setting her feet on the ground.

Incredibly, Scarlett felt like cheering when he unbuttoned his shirt with jerky, impatient movements and took it off—not just because it was a treat to see his hard arms exposed and his chest straining at the a-frame shirt he wore beneath it, but because the shirt was so goddamned ugly. A giggle bubbled up in her chest at the thought, but she stilled when she saw his true intent—circling her, he spread the shirt on the grass so she'd have something to lie on. The gesture touched her, and she immediately elected to disguise that by frowning at him.

"I'm guessing this isn't the first time you've taken a girl under the bleachers."

Duke's eyes never left hers. "It's the first time I've been under them with you, and that's all that matters."

Again, her heart fluttered traitorously at his words, and she distracted herself by settling on the ground, tucking her legs beneath her. She was expecting Duke to immediately pounce, but instead he knelt beside her, shifting his weight back on his heels, just looking at her.

"What?" she asked, uncomfortable under his affectionate gaze. No one had ever looked at her that way—like she was something rare and lovely in a shop window that he wanted to buy for thousands of dollars. "Getting cold feet?"

"No," he answered immediately, stroking her cheek gently, almost reverently. "It's just…" He shook his head and laughed.

"What?" she asked again, feeling nervous now. "What's wrong?"

"You'll think it's stupid," he said dismissively, shaking his head.

His shyness baffled her, especially after all they'd disclosed to each other this evening, to say nothing of the fact that they'd sneaked here simply for a roll in the hay. "Try me."

He kissed her instead, taking her in his arms and bending her carefully back onto their makeshift blanket. It was briefly awkward for her to untangle herself from her sitting position, but soon she was lying beneath him, legs spread slightly to cradle his hips. He was careful to brace himself on his forearms, but she pulled him down to her impatiently; she wanted his weight, wanted to feel every hard, muscled inch of him against her. Duke purred at her aggression, crushing his lips to hers and moving against her with a languid, deliberate grind of hips that wasn't enough, not nearly enough, the friction of their clothing tormenting her as he teased her with a rhythm she was aching for him to continue inside her.

"It's just…" Breaking their kiss, he dropped his head to her shoulder almost bashfully, nuzzling her collarbone, murmuring his confession into the space where her neck and shoulder met. "…I wanted a bed for our first time."

Scarlett wasn't sure what exactly about that set her heart to racing—the odd, traditional sweetness of such an idea, the fact that he'd clearly fantasized about her, or the word "first". Quickly, she tried to steel herself against the sudden ambush of emotions, announcing matter-of-factly, "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it's this or nothing, so you might want to get on with it."

"There is nothing disappointing about you." His expression frightened her more than anything that had happened before this—his face was patiently, almost delicately affectionate, and his touch seemed incongruously gentle for hands so big. "And I haven't waited this long to let it end that quickly."

Scarlett's heart began hammering harder, and from more than simply kissing and petting. "Waited"? How long was "this long" exactly? What was that even supposed to mean?

But Duke didn't give her too much time to worry about it; he settled contentedly atop her, fondling her through her flimsy sweater as he explored her mouth with his tongue. Scarlett realized she was writhing beneath him, arching into his hands, wrapping her legs around him. Duke gave a pleased groan as she squeezed him, nuzzling at the sweater's low v-neck, kissing down between her breasts. The loose sweater dropped off one shoulder, and Duke took the opportunity to nudge her bra strap down her arm. Scarlett gasped as he slid his mouth over her breast, her nipple tightening, stiffening beneath the stroke of his tongue. "Oh..." she breathed, then sternly tried to collect herself, an unwelcome blush heating her face.

Duke looked up at her, his blue eyes warm with affection. "Don't be shy," he murmured, his lips brushing gently at the hardened peak as he spoke , making Scarlett's answer shaky.

"S-someone will hear," she hissed, but with far less force than her usual submachine delivery.

"I'll hear," he purred, drawing her nipple into his mouth and sucking hard on it. Scarlett moaned softly, unable to keep quiet as he reached up to slide his hand past what little of the bra still remained on her, thumbing her opposite nipple to attention before kissing a line across to soothe the stiffened peak in the heat of his mouth. Scarlett shuddered hard, biting down on a whimper.

Perhaps Duke had finally gotten it through his head that their time here was limited, or maybe he was just eager to get to the main event, but either way, his hands dropped to the hem of her sweater, lifting it to expose her belly, pushed it up to her rib cage. Scarlett felt her muscles contract with desire as Duke bit gently at her stomach, covering the skin with hungry kisses as he unbuttoned and unzipped, his hands sliding greedily down the back of her loosened jeans to cup her rear. Scarlett squirmed beneath him, hating the restrictions of her clothes, wishing she could touch more of him—not that having his weight atop her and his hands and mouth on her didn't feel unbelievably good.

The cheap nylon-spandex jeans scraped at her thighs as he pulled them down her legs, the only article of clothing he'd bothered to take off her. Scarlett eyed the pants as he placed them aside-she appreciated him not throwing them, since she was going to have to collect them again as soon as they were done here, and she couldn't, wouldn't explain grass stains or getting caught on a football field in a state of partial nudity to anyone, not the other Joes, not local police, not the Falcons—but she noticed his eyes never left her body.

"You're so damned pretty." He sounded almost awed as he held her hips, tugged playfully at the flimsy strap of her stolen S-Market panties, close, so close but not where she wanted—needed—him. She knew if he slipped a finger beneath the cotton he'd find her slick with arousal, but he continued toying with the strap, his eyes dark with desire. "I want to see you," he rasped.

Scarlett was surprised at the note of longing in his voice; for a brief moment, she wished for more time, more privacy, was titillated by the idea of stripping her clothes lazily away in front of him until he was desperate to touch her. But there was no time for fantasies, no time for games—hardly even time for what they were doing now. She opened her mouth to tell him they were sure to be missed soon, but heard herself say something completely unexpected instead.

"Would you rather see me…or feel me?"

Duke's eyes were like watching ice shatter into pieces. There was nothing gentle about his kiss this time, and when he mounted her she could feel him pressed against her, hard as a blade. The stolen panties—her last clean pair—never stood a chance against him, and she felt more than heard them tear beneath his eager hands. He shook his head. "Wish I could feel you, honey," he muttered, shifting her slightly so he could reach for the pocket of his own jeans with a suddenly shaky hand. "Dying to feel you. But like you said, it's this or nothing."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but he didn't leave her in the dark for long. While she was relieved to see it, she wasn't able to stop her eyes from widening at the sight of the condom he drew from his jeans pocket. "And how long have you had that?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady and only half managing.

There was no teasing in his voice, no victory, just a simple matter-of-factness as he answered just above a whisper, lips brushing her ear. "You're not the only one who can go to the pharmacy," he quipped, and then turned his head to tear the foil packet with his teeth as she laughed aloud, unable to help it.

The problem with doing things clandestinely was time and space were luxuries they couldn't afford. Not that she was expecting any sort of romance, but she'd just wanted to see the merchandise first; however, her teasing had apparently been too much for Duke to handle and with a few brief adjustments to his own clothing, he'd sheathed himself first in the condom and then in her with one powerful thrust. Unable to help herself, Scarlett cried out softly, her arms winding around him in a dizzy attempt to pull him closer.

There was no time to savor the victory or rub it in that he'd cracked under pressure first; her eyes clamped shut and her breath was ripped from her in a long, ragged gasp at the feel of him inside her, hard and hot even through the condom. It'd been far too long since she'd done this, and she no longer needed to see anything because all her body was registering was sheer size. But he was keeping rather still for someone who'd been so eager that he'd been carrying a condom around with him before he'd even known she would follow him here.

The answer to that came when he brushed his lips against hers and whispered hoarsely, "All right?"

She managed to gather her wits enough to frown at him. "I would be if you'd just move."

That teasing smile flickered briefly across his face, but the heat in his eyes quickly overpowered it as he withdrew slowly from her. "Hold on," he advised in a deep, hungry voice, and added, "tight," before surging forward to bury himself inside her to the hilt. Scarlett tried to say "Oh..." but no sound came out; she looped her arms around his neck, locking her ankles around his hips. Duke groaned in pleasure as she pressed her thighs tight against his body, and when he filled her again, she ground her hips against his to meet his thrust.

"That's it," Duke rasped, eyes fluttering as though he wanted to close them in delight. "Scarlett, that's so good..."

The pace he set was maddeningly slow, but only at first; he soon quickened his tempo in response to her eagerness to meet his thrusts, whispering hoarsely against her ear how pretty she was, that she was so tight, so wet, that he wanted her to come for him. Scarlett's breath shortened to panting, then whimpering as he thrust harder, deeper. He fastened his mouth over hers, tongue forcing her lips to open, quieting her moans of pleasure.

She hadn't been expecting a kiss. She'd been expecting those large hands to clutch her hard against him; she'd been expecting the rough, lustful desperation of his thrusts. But kisses…

Even as she thought it he brushed his nose against hers before nipping at her lower lip, sucking it playfully between his own to tug her mouth open for another kiss. So hungry, so…needy; sex was sex and she was perfectly ready to file it under the safe header of tension release, but his kisses were completely incongruous, too intimate, too sweet, all too fucking wrong.

As it was, she was lucky for his kisses when he slipped a hand between their entwined bodies, stroking a gentle finger over that tangle of nerves that prompted her body to tighten and slicken with her pleasure at his touch—lucky that his mouth was on hers to stifle the cry she couldn't hold back as she arched and writhed. One hand slid through the short hair at his nape, one pressing to the small of his back as she wrapped herself around him. Duke was happy to oblige, holding her close through every sweet explosion inside her, every uncontrollable shudder. Her nails snagged on his undershirt, the garment riding up so she could feel the overheated skin beneath, and for the first time, she wished they were wearing less clothing. Next time, she thought, next time he should take his shirt off and—

It barely registered through the warm glow of her orgasm that she'd told herself there would be no next time. Another shiver distracted her and she held on to Duke, who'd slowed his pace and lightened his touch as she'd shattered, keeping her stimulated without putting too much pressure on her sensitized skin. She'd half expected him to smile or even laugh at his victory, but there was no proud grin, no arrogant remark, simply a hiss of breath as he felt her muscles contract and her body moisten around him as she slowly came back to her senses. His eyes fluttered shut and he thrust deep, making her gasp and dig her nails in through his shirt. He seemed to like that.

"Ss…Sss…Scarlett," he panted, twisting, lifting his hips, and she could do nothing but hold on as he pursued his own pleasure. He said no more, his kisses more demanding than ever until he tore his mouth from hers with a hoarse come-cry, eyes squeezed shut. Scarlett's achingly stiff nipples brushed his chest as she arched against him; she felt a new flood of moisture between her thighs as she tightened around him, the surprise tremors of a second climax shaking her senses once more.

Scarlett didn't know how long they lay together, chasing their breath, her eyes closed, Duke's forehead pressed to hers as if he couldn't get close enough; the unexpected, sad chill that gripped her when he rolled off her lasted barely a second before he drew her almost dreamily to him.

That should have been the end of it. She was sweaty and exhausted and satisfied, and fully prepared to return to her fucked-up life in progress. She expected him to make some sort of flippant remark, maybe steal one more kiss for the road.

But he didn't speak, and he didn't kiss her; he simply tucked her against him in a way that made it apparent how well they fit together. His nose brushed her cheek, his breath warm on her neck as he nuzzled her with a contented sigh. Her stomach flipped again, and she was suddenly unable to discern whose heartbeat was whose.

Scarlett wasn't sure how she managed to remain calm as she hustled back to the shopping center alone, paranoia seizing her as she entered the laundromat and saw Tunnel Rat and Roadblock look expectantly at her.

In that instant she was sure she was caught. Her fingers had been clumsy with uncertainty and fatigue as she'd redressed, and she felt panic overtake her, sure that they would notice how rumpled her clothes were. She'd tried to get all the grass and grit out of her hair and off her clothes, but she was sure she'd missed a blade somewhere; she knew she smelled of sex and aftershave. And she needed to be absolutely positive she had privacy the next time she changed her clothes—Duke's haste to be inside her had resulted in her last clean pair of panties ending up in a trash can outside a pizza parlor, so she was going commando till she got her laundry back from Roadblock. She knew there was no way they could know that, no matter what else she suspected, but she was terrified that her flushed skin, her mussed hair, the scent of him on her might give her away.

But the other two Joes just smiled; Roadblock especially looked happy to see her. "Welcome back, Scarlett. We brung ya somethin'," he said, reaching behind himself to the folding table and bringing a small box out in front of him like a present. Tunnel Rat handed him a fork, and the big man held both out to Scarlett, well pleased with himself. A Cinnabon.

"Oh," Scarlett said, blinking in surprise. "That's...well, thank you," she stammered, accepting the treat and feeling the warmth of it through the box.

"Ya gotta share with Duke, though," Tunnel Rat informed her, grinning. "We didn't have enough for two more."

Scarlett opened the box, digging a fork into the pastry and marveling again at goodness, at how niceties came so easily to some people, while she herself was always jumping at shadows, always searching for the snake in the grass. With her tongue, she crushed the bite of Cinnabon against the roof of her mouth, letting the sweetness fill her senses.

Duke showed up around fifteen minutes later, just as they'd planned; Tunnel Rat grinned at the sergeant as he strode briskly through the laundromat door. "You're late, Duke," he teased. "Weren't you the one who said we had to be back at the Coyote at 1900?"

Duke smiled beatifically. "Sorry. I lost track of time."

Roadblock gave that great bass chuckle of his. "You? Musta been something good, then."

Scarlett hopped off the table to interrupt this exchange, not trusting Duke not to give them away. "Here, Roadblock said we can split this," she said, thrusting the boxed Cinnabon at him and giving him a warning look.

Duke was unruffled, taking the treat from her with a grin and swiping the fork neatly out of her hands. "Well, this is the perfect end to a perfect day," he said, and Scarlett felt her heart give a queer, quick little beat. Shaking it away, she watched him open the box and cut himself a bite of pastry with the fork Roadblock tossed to him.

The big man smiled at his friends, stretching his feet out as he slouched in his metal folding chair in those comical overalls. "Nice to know there's still sweet things in a sour world, ain't it?"

Duke had closed his eyes as he chewed his pastry; now as he swallowed his gaze went hazy and warm. Smiling, he shrugged with one shoulder as he cut himself another piece. "Sure is," he said cheerfully, glancing at them all amiably, his gaze only flitting to Scarlett for one precious minute, "but I've tasted sweeter."

Scarlett stepped into him and swiped aggressively, causing the Joes to start up in anticipation of stopping a fight—until they realized all she'd done was snatch the fork back from Duke, complete with the piece of Cinnabon still stuck on the plastic tines.

As the three stunned Joes watched, Scarlett sucked the gooey bite of pastry off the fork, eyes closing in contentment as she tasted the sugary frosting. Tunnel Rat looked openly surprised at her actions, while Roadblock was already laughing. And Duke…that sweet secret smile already looked so familiar.

"What about you, ma'am?" Roadblock asked affectionately. "Did you go do something nice for Scarlett?"

"I guess you could say that, yes." Scarlett lifted a hand to her lips, licking some frosting off her fingertips idly. Sighing, she sank down to sit on the floor next to one of the still-running washers, the thump of the water in the agitator a poor substitute for the feel of a heartbeat against hers.

Author's Notes:

Yeah, there's more of this. I sort of know where it's going. It's just for fun though. Just keeping my hand in, really.

I go to one specific mall in the world for Cinnabons, and to remember going there with my mother when I was little. Nothing more—but it's one of the places, for some reason, I feel closest to her.