A/N: I realised I'm basing my idea of a marine base on the army bases here in Australia… Hoping they're fairly similar to their American counterparts. They're pretty cool to be honest, like a whole little self-contained community. There are separate houses for married/senior personnel, barracks with both single rooms and shared dorms, common areas and a mess, (think M*A*S*H) and everything else you would expect to find in a normal village – probably a grocer, a café or two, parks, a school (for real, I was driving through a base today and it came complete with school), maybe even a library, (okay, that could be more a figment of my imagination but I can't imagine life without books so they WILL have books – at least, the ones that can read will) and of course training facilities like a gym, ropes courses, sniper range, combat practice fields etc. Thought I'd let you know what the base I'm talking about in my story actually looks like in case it's not particularly clear.

And a note on Schofield's family, since it comes up in this chapter. My previous story was written before thieves came out and so it doesn't follow canon exactly, though thankfully, it was actually fairly close. The only major changes are that Shane's father is not the son of Michael Schofield, but rather his mother is his daughter. Shane has her last name because his parents were never married. Also, his father was a marine but more in the style of Haggerty – a pencil pusher type marine who eventually went into administration and business within the corp. I don't know if it was clear or not in the previous story, but Schofield lived with his mum (Australian spelling, sorry. Must remember to use American spelling in the actual story but I can't bring myself to use it in any other circumstance) and grandparents in Wyoming – according to thieves, he's from south Carolina but I just cannot see Schofield as a southerner at all - until he was ten, at which point his father sent him to a fancy school in New York and he was forced to reside with him at least during term time, though he would have probably spent holidays with his mum.

I googled the whole "weetbix in America" thing and was pleased to discover they are available! I wasn't really sure if they were popular or not though, but it fit better for the story if they weren't. If any American readers would like to correct me of that opinion I'd be happy to hear it.

Also, some slight citrusy content is starting to appear now.

Only one more thing I promise! I'm going away for a bit over a month so this is probably the last chapter for a while. Apologies to loyal readers but I promise, by the time I've got back, there should be plenty of chapters to make up for it!

Welcome back the essay author note!

Chapter 8

One retrieved car and one seriously greasy breakfast later, Book II was returned safely to his apartment and Schofield to the barracks. He hadn't particularly looked forward to returning after a night of suspended reality to noisy and undoubtedly curious young marines. Add Jack's enjoyable and yet alarming presence and complete with one hell of a hangover, it made for a situation he would rather avoid.

What he found waiting for him in the small pigeon hole with his name written on a strip of tape that served as a makeshift letter box did nothing to improve the day's prospects. He had hoped to slink off to his bedroom unnoticed and sleep the rest of the morning away. Instead, the large, business like envelop that appeared to contain an entire book if the way the edges were straining were anything to go by, was beckoning him. Or more rather, demanded his reluctant attention. He forced himself to walk past the stairs and over to an old and worn desk tucked away in the corner of the common room. When he slit open the envelope and pulled out what looked like an entire ream of paperwork, he could have cried. Instead however, he settled for merely looking despondent. He dropped his glasses to the desk – there was no way he could work with them on anyway – and rubbing already straining eyes, he pulled the work towards him and reluctantly began to read.

When he had heard that his father had died nearly two years ago now, he had felt nothing but a vague sense of regret for the relationship they had never had along with overwhelming relief that the man was now permanently gone from his life. He hadn't counted on the will leaving everything the man had worked for and built in his life to him, the son he had always wanted but who had never been good enough. Then again, Schofield had reasoned, his father had been a chauvinistic pig and so leaving everything to either of his two, legitimate, daughters was out of the question. Nonetheless, when control of his father's vast multi-billion dollar military-industrial empire had been handed over to him he had been thoroughly unprepared. His first instinct had been to ruthlessly dismantle his father's life work out of sheer spite for the treatment his mother had born at the hands of that man.

It was Book II who pointed out that the people who would suffer the most if he did so were the blue-collar workers at the very bottom of the heap and not his father, who was well beyond his reach now. So he had turned his hand to managing the business. By the large, all the nitty gritty details were handled by the rather more commercial minded people he had hired to run the damn thing for him but he still needed to oversee and approve any decisions they might make. Once a month, a package such as this would arrive for him to review and sign; and once a month, he seriously considered selling the entire stupid conglomerate.

It was only the knowledge of the ethical way in which the company was run and the profits used that prevented him from doing so. Along with all the other money he had received from the inheritance, only a small portion – which was still a significant amount – had been kept and stored away in a secure trust to pay for his youngest sister's college education. The remainder, an even more significant amount, had been donated directly to a local army medical centre. Along with the exorbitant amount of money, he had inherited several estates across the United States. He had gifted the family mansion in upstate New York to the elder of his two sisters, perhaps the only one of them who had fond memories of the place. Another large country estate in the south had been donated to a large hospital, on the proviso that it was used as a rehabilitation and recovery centre for those suffering psychological trauma – invariably including damaged soldiers and abused children. The profits from the business and the sale of the remaining few estates went into the upkeep of the facility. It probably wasn't the most efficient or entrepreneurial manor with which to run a business but that had never been the aim.

His eyes were beginning to glaze over the words when a familiar figure – one unfortunately burned into his brain and prone to popping up in his dreams very much naked and in the mood for causing trouble – dropped into a seat he had dragged over beside him. Jack had placed the chair so that its back was facing Schofield and he was straddling it, leaning casually against the back with his arms folded on the edge.

Bright blue eyes met far darker ones that, unconcealed for once, looked weary behind those shocking scars.

"Whatever you're doing," he said with a grin, "I doubt you're doing it well. You look dead on your feet - or not on your feet as the case may be."

Schofield waved a hand over the paperwork. "It's not important," he said, "It really only needs my signature. I don't know why I bother to read it; don't understand half of it anyway." He forced a small laugh.

Jack on the other hand, frowned curiously.
"What is it?" He asked.

"Just some business shit," Schofield answered as he leaned back in the rickety chair, which creaked its protest. He was shocked to see that it had somehow already gotten dark outside. He ran a hand across his tired face, concealing a yawn, and through his now seriously overgrown hair which was messy under normal circumstances. It currently stuck out in every direction imaginable. Jack reached across him to grab the papers and rifle through them. If they had been any closer, Schofield was sure their abs would have brushed against each other. As it were, he breathed in so as to avoid that perilous situation.

Jack let out a long low whistle as he looked through the papers. He looked up at Schofield incredulously, holding the papers aloft, "This what you're planning on doing when you're out of here?"

Schofield laughed and replied emphatically, "Hell no!"

"What is it then? Some sort of sick hobby?" Jack asked as he swatted Shane playfully with the bundle.

In response, Shane grabbed at the bundle and replied, "As if. It's my father's last attempt at ruining my life."

He tried to wrest the papers out of Jack's hands but found that the other man was equally as strong as he was and perfectly capable of holding his own. A brief, playful, tousle resulted in the papers flying out of both of their hands and scattering themselves on the floor.

Looking at them, Schofield moaned a little.
"They're going to kill me," he said.

Jack, on the other hand, snorted from the laugh he had been trying – and failing – to conceal. Shane looked from Jack, to the papers, back to Jack, before giving up and laughing too. They both dropped to the floor and began to gather the mess up haphazardly, hoping that they weren't supposed to go in any particular order.
"Who gives a stuff," he said, "I pay them to fix these sort of issues."

On his hands and knees, Jack handed him a stack of paper. Their hands brushed momentarily and god, if Shane wasn't sure it had burned. Instantly, he became aware of how close he was pushing the line between playful banter and flirting. Every sensible instinct in his body, temporarily drowned out by Jack's fairly intoxicating presence and the easy way they just got on, flooded back and he stood abruptly, gathering the last couple of papers back into the stack.

Not quite meeting Jack's eyes when he stood, he said firmly, "I think you should go now, I've got to finish these."

If Jack was surprised by the sudden dismissal, he didn't show it. He just bit his tongue and nodded his head slightly before turning and leaving the room without another word. Schofield watched him go, torn between relief and reluctance at the, admittedly beautifully carved, retreating back. Sighing, he settled himself back down to finish his work.

By the time Schofield had finished reading and signing the entire stack, night had well and truly fallen and he had resolved to avoid Jack and thus trouble as much as possible.

Jack it seemed had other plans entirely. The next morning, Schofield was awoken by a loud thump on his door and a familiar voice calling out "breakfast." He was tempted to simply ignore it and go back to sleep with a pillow over his head but unfortunately, he had work to do. The responsibilities of running a unit were not going to be any easier to manage on an empty stomach. So eventually, he rolled over and out of the warm, tangled sheets and down the stairs.

It had evidently been too much to hope for a nice quiet breakfast. Jack was unfailingly bright in the mornings, much to everyone else's annoyance, and he whistled as he put various things away in the cupboards. Schofield, for his part, stood there with bleary eyes and rumpled hair and stared at the highly unappetising looking things sitting in the breakfast bowls. One, which he assumed was Jacks, had several of the funny looking little brown logs slowly turning into mush as they floated in some milk. The one that was evidently his from the lack of milk, simply had four of the plain looking, rectangular brown cakes sitting in it with what looked like a bit of sugar dusted around the edges.

He was going to ask why Jack had decided to feed them what he thought looked like cardboard, but all he could manage to force out of his mouth was, "What exactly is that?"

Jack spun around and was pleasantly surprised to see that Schofield had neglected his customary sunglasses. The scars were in plain view, alongside perfectly raised eyebrows.

"Weetbix," he replied cheerfully, pushing the box across the table to Schofield. "They're Australian," he continued, "I was pretty surprised to see them in the shops. George Gregan used to eat twenty-seven of these for breakfast. Don't know how, I can barely manage more than five. They're good for you and seriously filling."

The other man chattered away as Schofield sat down and reached for the box.
"Right," he said unconvinced, "Weet-a-bix?"

"," Jack replied, carefully enunciating each syllabus distinctly with hand gestures to boot.

Schofield leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"It says Weet-a-bix on the box," he replied, deliberately drawing out the 'a' to annoy Jack with a small smile on his face.

"That's cause you Americans fuck everything up," Jack replied, shaking his head but with a slowly spreading smile. "Now shut up and eat your breakfast babe," he said jokingly, "it took me forever to work out how to make them edible without milk."

If Jack had known the effect that simple sentence would have had on Schofield, he almost certainly wouldn't have said it. His face darkened instantly and something dangerous glinted in his eye. Jack could suddenly see why he was such a damn good marine – Schofield exuded carefully restrained destruction right then and there. He stood up sharply, forcing the chair backwards and stalked out of the room without another word or backwards glance, pulling the door shut behind him.

Jack, a little stunned, let him go.

Alone in the hallway, Schofield leant up against the wall.
Might have been a bit of an over-reaction Scarecrow, he chided himself.
Jack, he decided, was not good for him. Something about him made his own brain seem to stop functioning rationally; made him feel uncontrollable.
It's just a single fucking word
He was joking
But god, he wished he wasn't.
He brought his head hard against the wall, hearing the satisfying bang. Pain flared up like flames in his vision and brought him back to reality. He turned and jogged up the stairs to dress.

When he came back down again only a few minutes later, complete with sunglasses, he pressed one cautious ear up against the door. From the other side, he could hear the muffled noises of a person – probably still Jack – wandering around the kitchen before abruptly, he heard the door slam and all sound ceased.

He figured it was safe to enter.

Opening the door a crack and peering round, he was relieved to see that the room was indeed empty. One thing caught his eye as he entered. His bowl had been left as it was with a note sitting on top of it in a messy scrawl.

Sorry, it said.

His stomach was gnawing with both guilt and hunger, so he picked up one of the funny looking weetbix things and decided to give it a try. He noticed that Jack had carefully sawed through the biscuit, added liberal amounts of butter and sugar and then stuck it back together again like an unusual sandwich. It wasn't half bad he thought as he ate half of it in one bite.

Jack was right, they were very filling. He only ate the fourth one because of the obvious amount of effort that had gone into making them, before quickly washing his plate and running out the door to find the rest of his unit.

Over the course of the day, he watched Jack prove himself an expert marksman on the sniper range and as agile as a cat on the high ropes obstacle course but got nearly half killed by Mother in hand to hand combat. He hadn't trusted himself to fight Jack; he wasn't quite sure he wouldn't fuck him or kill him entirely. Instead, he had offered to show Skip some pointers. At barely 5 foot 3, she often struggled in sheer physicality contests but more than made up for it in other areas. Today however, she was happily kicking his ass. His head swam as another blow connected with his temple. He had been momentarily distracted by Mother landing a few bone crunching blows to Jack's jaw, one of which had split his lip. He had watched him spit out blood and felt his pain himself – though, that could also have been the kick Skip had placed quite nicely on his shin. Pulling himself back to his own fight, he swung an arm around and easily flipped Skip and pinned her to the ground without hurting her too much.
"You're getting me," he said, "but you're still not getting me down and that's the crucial difference."

Pulling her up, he demonstrated a few moves that she could use to kill a much larger opponent easily.

It was a bunch of very battered and bruised marines who returned to their barracks that evening. Schofield had insisted on sticking with Skip until she could throw him to the ground and damn near break his neck.

Schofield had especially been looking forward to a long, almost painfully hot shower to loosen a particularly knotted muscle at the base of his back. He could sense someone's eyes on the back of his neck and sure enough, when he turned around to see it was Jack who was staring at him, looking very much like he wanted to talk to him but something held them both back.

At that moment, before either of them could get up the resolve to simply cross the room, Rebound came running down the stairs holding a large razor aloft and cut them off. Amidst cries of "You've been let off too long," and "Let's make a marine out of you," Jack was slowly surrounded by the other cheering marines and forced to kneel on the small tiled area around the kitchenette by Bigfoot. Schofield decided to quietly take his leave and slipped out of the room, leaving Jack to face whatever it was they had prepared for him.

Stepping into the small bathroom and quickly divesting himself of his clothes, he admired the multi-coloured array of bruises that adorned his body, whilst the water heated up. If nothing else, Skip was certainly inventive. He had rather hoped that the steaming hot spray would help somewhat to ease his aching back but the shower was a fairly flimsy one and the jets just weren't powerful enough. His hands splayed over his back, he could feel the knot pulsing beneath them. Carefully, he began to knead at it. It was never quite the effective as it would have been if someone else had been massaging it but it was better than nothing. Unbidden, the image of Jack's hands carefully running over his back – and lower – came to mind. The shower was only small, so their bodies would have to be pressed flush against each other to fit. The intensity of his gaze before; Jack on his knees, as he probably still was…

The stream of images flashing through his mind had certainly served to stir another part of his body. One of which he'd been patently ignoring until now. Only now, he most certainly had a problem that wasn't just going to go away on its own.

He was torn. One half of his mind wanted nothing more than to sink against the wall and with probably only a couple of firm strokes give in to this sensational torture.
The other half, the stubborn half that was still fighting tooth and nail against these feelings he couldn't seem to get rid of for the man currently the cause of his situation, had already reached for the taps and turned them forcefully. He gasped aloud as the water turned icy.

He knew he couldn't keep going like this. It had been well over a year now since he'd slept with anyone and a hell of a lot longer since he'd slept with anyone he particularly wanted to, but for now, he was content to simply push desire away until a more convenient time.

With the problem suitably subdued, he shut off the water and reached for several towels to try and warm his now frozen skin.
His back still hurt.
It was still early but he fell in to bed, pausing only to pull on a pair of loose boxers to sleep in and grabbing a book of the stack beside the bed.

The others had, thankfully, taken the hint and left him alone. At least he thought they had until a soft knock on the door about an hour later disturbed him. He let the book slip through his fingers and shut his eyes, feigning sleep. Unfortunately for him, whoever it was at the door was persistent enough to keep knocking. When they were suitably convinced that there was no answer coming, instead of just walking away, the door creaked open slowly and a figure walked over to his bed carefully.

From behind closed eyes, he heard a soft sigh and felt gentle hands remove the book from his chest where it had fallen. He sensed their movement through the shift in the air around him as whoever it was turned to go. Shane opened his eyes just a sliver to see Jack's form leaving the room and shutting the door quietly behind him.

He supressed a laugh. They had given Jack the traditional marine buzz cut.

Opening his eyes fully, he rolled over to retrieve the book where it had been thoughtfully returned to the stack. It had been a sweet gesture and all but one that was also fairly annoying as he'd have lost his page. Pulling the book back up, the faint smile that had spread across his face grew. Jack had marked his place.