A/N: A lot of my stories are inspired by music, so if you would like to listen to the sort of soundtrack to this story, it would probably consist of:

Iris by the goo goo dolls - incredibly beautiful song, one of my all-time favourites

Halo by Beyoncé – not that I'm suggesting that style of music is what goes with Matthew Reilly in general but I think the lyrics are pretty spot on for this story. In particular, if you wanted to listen to this song with the right sort of visuals, search it on youtube with "chrolli" which should bring up a couple of videos with this song about a gay couple (Christian + Oliver hence chrolli) from a German TV show called Vertoben Liebre. Ironically enough, they even look a bit like I imagine Schofield and Jack might look.

Hey Soul Sister – Train … or the glee version, both are pretty awesome

Oh and just one more thing, you might have noticed that I alternate between referring to the character of the Scarecrow by either his first name, his last name or his call sign. There's a reason for that but I'll leave you to work it out. I'm sure you're all more than clever enough you probably don't need me pointing it out to you but I thought I would just in case.

Here's a nice long chapter. One I reckon is pretty cute.

Chapter 5

Schofield's head pounded in time with the rhythm of his feet. From on the ground, the maze was disorientating. Mounds and half walls obscured his vision and distorted the shapes around him and somewhere in amongst it all was Jack, searching for him. He was sure he could hear him, feel him, all around. The release of a safety, a footfall, a breath.

He ducked into a tunnel, momentarily stopping to gather himself.

Never stop, if you stop you're dead.

He needed a plan. Only, he had no idea how Jack worked, and so, no clue as to how to work him out.

Never mind that he was already on the back foot because he was running, without any plan or clear thought, away from his target.

He stepped cautiously out of the tunnel, gun raised, and dashed over to a large mound with a sniper hole on it. Climbing it in two long strides, he pressed his body against the muddy ground, he stared down the sights of his gun, they weren't binoculars but he was improvising. He swept the vast terrain searching for any hint of movement, a flash of a green T-shirt, but he saw nothing.

But then he heard it, from behind him – the unmistakable heavy tread of a combat boot, not in his imagination this time.

Abruptly, a shot rang out and he felt it brush past his ear sharply. Using his superb reflexes, he had already flung himself over the low wall that was giving his some shelter, albeit from the wrong direction, and rolled down the small hill. Not stopping, he leapt to his feet, determined to put as much distance between him and Jack as possible. At least until he worked out how he was going to backtrack and catch him.

Jack had him well and truly on the run now.

The terrain certainly didn't help Schofield. Behind him lay a track of footprints in the dirt for Jack to follow.

He kept running, with his gun lowered at his side so he could move faster. Walls and Tunnels and trenches passed by him in a blur. He threw out a hand to grab one of the artificial walls as he went passed, using his momentum to swing himself over, hoping the abrupt change in direction would put his assailant off.

It didn't.

He heard another round smash into the wall he had just cleared. He ducked down into one of the trenches, hoping it would afford him some cover, and into a tunnel.

Finally, he had a plan.

As he reached the end of the tunnel, he grabbed the edge and hoisted himself up onto the roof, his body pressed flat against concrete surface, legs splayed so he didn't slip off the rounded roof.
He steadied the gun and pressed his eye to it, waiting for Jack to come round the corner unawares.

He thought he heard a noise nearby and he tensed his finger on the trigger, ready to fire, when something hard impacted against his face mask, jolting his head violently and filling his vision with red.

Dammit, he thought. A perfect headshot right to his temple and he was well and truly dead.

Wiping his facemask and looking behind him at the platform where all his marines were watching, he said into his throat mike "Scarecrow, down."

Over the intercom, he was sure he could hear them whooping.

Shaking his head slightly to himself, he brought his head to rest briefly against the concrete curve of the tunnel before abruptly pushing himself up and off with casual grace.

Jack was already walking over to him with his mask pushed up. His bright blue eyes were sparkling and his messy hair was plastered to his forehead. He smiled a million watt smile and Shane couldn't help but smile back, concealed as it was behind the mask.

"Jesus, Taylor," Schofield said. "What'd they teach you down under?"

If possible, Jack smiled even broader.
"Well, I did spend all my childhood a'roo-shooting," he said, his accent thick.

Schofield's surprise concealed by the mask, Jack wouldn't have known at all had he not stopped suddenly.

Jack spun around to look at him, his head cocked to the side in question.
"Kidding," he said with a genial laugh. "You gonna keep that stupid thing on or what?"

"It's a fashion thing, can't you tell?" Shane teased back.

"Not where I come from," Jack retorted. Unexpectedly, he leaned forward and wiped the rest of the paint of Schofield's mask with his arm.

They both stopped.

From behind the mask, Shane could see Jack's eyes search his own face, maybe a second of silence passed between them.

"At least you can see now," Jack said softly.

Unable to see Schofield's eyes, his own darted over his mask, his body, his own feet and back.

Shane turned and walked away, leaving Jack standing there, face furrowed with confusion.

Schofield jogged over to the viewing platform and quickly ascended the ladder. As he came up through the hole he was greeted with the enthusiastic cheers of his team.

"- Like cat and mouse – and you're the mouse,"
"He totally killed you!"
"Head shot first fucking time -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah" he called back, rubbing his neck, as he pulled the mask off and tossed in onto the table. He retrieved his sunglasses and slid them back on, covering his eyes once again.

"Book and Rebound, versus Bigfoot and Mother – you're next, try not to kill your own team," he ordered.

Grabbing the gun he had used, he settled himself on the railing off to the side to clean it. His eyes followed Jack as he climbed up onto the platform as well a minute later, but when Jack turned to look back, he dropped his gaze sharply, returning to methodically ridding if of all the red paint.

They kept going until everyone's uniforms were a veritable – colourful – mess, and all the ammunition had been used up. Schofield dismissed the others, taking it upon himself to do the final clean-up of the weapons and return them. Jack had tried to catch his eye as he'd left but he'd stubbornly ignored him, so he gave up and followed the others back to base.

Shane had thought he was alone on the viewing platform until a pair of large heavy hands fell onto his shoulders. He jumped a little from surprise and turned around to thump Mother on the shoulder as she laughed at him.

Book II was also there, leaning casually up against the railing and smirking at them.

Mother grabbed one of the guns and tossed it to Book before picking one up herself and starting to clean it.

"What exactly are you two doing?" Shane asked them, bemused.

"Helping you clean these up, otherwise you're gonna be late," Mother said with a wicked grin.

"Late for what?" He replied slowly.

"Oh, nothing," She said shortly, the grin becoming more pronounced.

"Late for what?" He repeated, addressing the question to Book this time, who turned out to be just as unhelpful. His only reply was a shrug of his shoulders.

He glared at them as they continued to clean the guns.

Mother looked up at him and laughed again at the concerned expression on his face.
"Don't you worry," she said, "it's just a little surprise is all. Why don't you run on back to the barracks and put on some civvies – nice one's mind you - and meet us outside the front gate in about half an hour."

Between them, Mother and Book managed to grab all the now pristine guns. Shane watched as Book and then Mother started to cautiously climb back down the ladder, complicated as it was by the falling darkness and armfuls of guns.

Just as Mother's head was about to disappear, Shane called to her "And if I don't want to?"

"Well then, I'll look forward to coming down to the barracks to drag you kicking and screaming if necessary." Her tone was bright as always but something glinted in her eyes that told him she meant every word.

He raised a single eyebrow and rolled his eyes – the very picture of elegant disdain - before saying, "Fine."

Half an hour later, as ordered, he stood outside the front gates of the barracks in a pair of dark jeans, a black T-shirt and an old, faded bomber Jacket – one he'd had since flight school - and of course, a pair of silver Oakleys.

A few minutes later, Mother and Book pulled up in front of him in Mother's beat up 4WD. Obviously, wherever he was being taken was far enough away to warrant driving there.

Winding down a window, Book II's smiling face appeared. "Come on," he said, "get in."

Reluctantly, Schofield got in the back. As they drove off again, he said with an amused smile, "This is absurd."

Book II turned around to look at him as best he could whilst they were in motion.
"It could've been worse, I was all up for blindfolding you."

"Right," he replied, looking out the window. They appeared to be headed into town. "Remind me why we're doing this again?"

"Because," Mother said, hitting the steering wheel to emphasise her point, "You needed cheering up so we're going out!"

"And what exactly do I need cheering up for?"

"Dunno," she replied, "Hoping you would tell us that."

He lapsed back into silence and a couple of minutes later, Mother pulled into a dingy looking parking lot. A few minutes more after that, the three of them were standing in front of an equally dingy looking bar.

Shane looked at the building and his mouth fell open.
"Oh Mother," he said, "please tell me you didn't…"

Looking directly at her, he almost pleaded, "tell me we're not going in there?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," was her reply.

He tried Book next.
"I can't believe you let her talk you into this."

He just shrugged again.

Mother walked right up to the door and held it open.
"Scarecrow," she said, "get in the fucking bar."

Something in her tone told him that he wasn't going to win this fight, so he took a deep breath and entered.

It was actually much nicer from the inside, and it looked just like any of the hundreds of other bars Schofield had been in over the course of his life.

"Well," Book said as he walked in and looked around, "this isn't so bad."

Mother stepped up to join them. "You boys go and grab table and I'll get us some drinks."
Mind you, uh, behave," she added with a wink before disappearing over to the bar.

They pushed their way through the throng of people dancing, drinking, couples kissing.
Shane tried to take it all in. They were so at ease and somehow, it made him feel on edge.

Eventually, they managed to find a quiet, empty table near the corner. Shane took the chair closest to the wall, facing the dance floor and bar, so he could watch.

They both looked around nervously until Mother came back, clutching three beers and manoeuvring through the crowd by sheer force of her size.

"Don't you two look cute," she said as she set the beers down on the table. Book and Schofield scowled a little at her but still gladly relieved her of two of the beers.

Schofield lifted his to his lips and took a long drink. Setting it back down again, he looked Mother in the eye and said seriously, "I still think this is a bad idea."

She laughed into her drink and slapped him on the back.
"Live a little, Scarecrow," she said teasingly.

He continued to fix her with his dark blue stare until she put her drink down and looked at him. He crossed his arms and leaned forward, speaking quietly although nobody would overhear them anyway. "Mother," he said slowly, enunciating each word like he was speaking to a particularly stubborn small child, "we're in a gay bar. Unfortunately, I know all too well that soldiers can get in a lot of trouble for doing an awful lot less than this."

She too leant forward so their noses were almost touching and said, equally serious, "Scarecrow, I've got a husband, he's got a girlfriend and you're already thrown out. So, I repeat: Live a little!"

Leaning back in her chair, she grinned triumphantly, knowing she'd won. She drained her glass and pushed it over towards him.
"Your round," she said.
He smiled and shook his head a little at her before lifting his own glass and draining it also. Standing up, he tapped Book II on the shoulder, who looked at him confused. "More people that go to the bar, more drinks we can bring back with us," he explained over the noise.

They pushed their way back through the throng, now regretting choosing a table that far away from the bar. Eventually they managed to make their way across, with people all around them, shoving and stepping on their toes. But when they approached the bar, and Schofield tried to get the bartenders attention, he realised that Book wasn't beside him.

The crowd must have separated them somehow and Book had been pushed to the edges, where he was now virtually pinned against a wall with a gentleman in his mid-forties and wearing leather pants. Shane could tell from the vaguely horrified look on his friend's face that he was being hit on.
He could have gone and rescued him immediately but it was far too funny to watch him struggle.

Eventually, he managed to slide through the crowd at the bar over to them and, slipping an arm around Book II's neck, he said as seriously as he could manage whilst trying desperately not to laugh, "Sorry love, he's taken."

The other man eyed Schofield up and down before slinking off but Shane left his arm exactly where it was around Book's neck because he was now laughing so hard it was all that was holding him up. In return, Book thumped him hard around the shoulders.

"Come on," Schofield said when he'd recovered enough to speak. "We've should get back in line."

When they finally returned to the table, clutching as many beers as they could hold, Mother demanded immediately to know what in blazes had taken them so long. They just looked at each other and immediately packed up laughing again.

"You could have said something else, and quicker too would have been nice," Book II grumbled when they had regained enough sensibility to sit back down without falling off. "Now people are gonna think that we're -" he paused, looked around to make sure no one could overhear him before lowered his voice conspiratorially, "- boyfriends or something."

Scarecrow leant back in his chair and, putting on the best camp act he could muster, said naughtily; "Sorry babe."

In response, Mother clocked him around the head.
"Cut it out," she said. "It's just not you."

As Schofield rubbed the back of his head where she'd hit him – you'd think after all this time with Mother he would have learnt to duck – She turned her attention to Book II.

"And as for you," she said, "You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to come tonight, so deal with it."

"So that woman behind you checking you out…?" Book let the question trail off as Mother spun around to look wildly only to find nothing but a slowly emptying dance floor.

"Har-dee-fucking-Ha Riley," She returned scathingly as Book laughed at her.

"I believe the point Mother is trying to make is that you are in a gay bar, the natural assumption then being that you are gay," Schofield interjected. If anything, seeing Book and Mother so clearly out of their place made his realise that he actually was comfortable here, at least, more comfortable than they were.

He smiled a genuine smile, it's small but it is one that lights up his whole face so that he no longer looks like a battle-hardened and somewhat broken soldier; but rather just a young man, in a bar, enjoying a night out with his friends.

Friends who cared more about his happiness than their own ease.

"Besides," he continued, "You can't tell someone's sexuality just by looking at them."

Book snorted into his drink and looked pointedly over Shane's shoulder, who in turn peered around the respective shoulder to see what it was Book was attempting to draw his attention to.

His gaze fell on a group of men who he was fairly sure were dressed as the village people.

"Point taken," he conceded. "Sometimes you can tell but most of the time you can't. I mean, hey, look at Mother here."

"Fuck you Scarecrow," she glared at him but he could see the laughter in her eyes. Sure enough, neither one could hold the stare for long and the three of them soon packed up laughing.

Suddenly, Mother stood up. "Right, you little shit," she said addressing Schofield, "for that, you're dancing with me."

He was about to protest but she already had a firm grip of his hand and Book was pushing him out of his seat with an amused grin. A thought crossed his mind, Why the hell not?