A/N: Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. I wrote the first thousand words of it but then my computer crashed and I hadn't saved it… very demoralising.
Then I got distracted by rediscovering John Paul and Craig.
Then I discovered this incredible thing called a social life.
And then there was a small incident with alcohol poisoning.
All in all, a busy few weeks and a lesson learnt the very hard way: if you're 5ft 2 ½ and weigh 50 kilograms, drinking to keep up with your 90kg male friend is a probably not your best idea. But I'm all better now, and after three days' worth of hangover, I feel relatively human again.

On a happier note, I still can't remember where the plot of this story was supposed to go but I've been doing some brainstorming and this story now has some direction to it again! I know where it's going and honestly, I think I'm happier with this plot than whatever it was before I forgot it... We're heading towards the end, probably in the vicinity of three to five more chapters (but I won't guarantee that or it'll turn into another ten.)

My own slight obsession with classic cars comes through a little in this chapter but I always thought Schofield would be a classic car sort of guy anyway, they're just so classy and sexy and incredible! Also, this chapter is pretty fluffy.

One last thing, It's my 19th birthday today (just thought you should know) and I told my parents I wanted a Bertie.

But reviews would be almost as good.

Chapter 15

Perhaps he should have asked for more time.

Normally, ten minutes would be more than sufficient time to get ready. In typical military fashion, Schofield had this routine down to an art. Three minutes in the shower, though he could afford four if he was prepared to run. Another three to dry and dress with no time wasted on hair. With a spare minute to look for lost sunglasses – he was prepared to swear they grew legs during the nights and found new places to hide themselves every morning – he was out the door and usually, still the first one there.

Only this evening, he had hit a significant stumbling block. It had been a long time since he'd really had to think about what he was going to wear, let along choose clothes for himself. After all, the marines have a uniform for every occasion and then some. Hell, he had never actually worn a suit in his life because his dress blues fit that bill perfectly.

Shane could total it up pretty quickly. He owned a single pair of very well worn in jeans. A couple of pairs of shorts, the odd warm jumper to cope with the varying weather of Washington D.C. and a variety of t-shirts in black, white and the various shades of grey in between.
And of course, the bomber jacket he'd had since flight school.

He couldn't see a problem with that. His wardrobe was designed to match the regulation military dresser stashed in the corner of his room – miniscule. Only now, he wasn't going to be a marine much longer and he could no longer fall back on the comforting familiarity of marine rules and regulations. It felt strange, allowing his long downtrodden and denied individuality back out again. Like a child, learning to walk on its own; and this was only the first tentative steps.

Not since leaving college, had anybody asked him what he wanted to wear, though now the opportunity had presented itself, the choices were remarkably underwhelming. It was jeans, jacket and a white t-shirt, or jeans, jacket and a black t-shirt. Neither of which he felt were really choices, nor were they quite suitable for a date.

And then, he remembered.
For his last birthday, Libby had bought him a shirt. She was sick of him always taking her out wearing either the white button down shirt that went under his dress blues, or 'that damn jacket' as she often called it. The shirt was dark blue. A dark inky blue like the evening sky.
"To match your eyes," she had said.

He hadn't had many chances to wear it though because she had deployed to Afghanistan a little more than a month later. He wasn't sure what the rules were governing wearing clothes your deceased girlfriend bought you on a date with your new whatever-the-hell Jack was to him. No matter what Book II said, there was no way Shane Schofield was using the word boyfriend.
yet.

He wasted nearly thirty seconds of his rapidly dwindling ten minutes on deciding. In the end, he figured that there probably weren't enough people who had been in that particular situation for there to be steadfast rules about it; and besides, she would probably have smiled if she knew he was wearing it.
'Blast it,' he thought as he reached for the shirt.
It was the best he could do. It had buttons and in his book, that made it suitable for going out in. He left it untucked over his jeans, hoping it looked casual but nice.

Only, the dilemma didn't end there. Of the grand total of three pairs of shoes that he owned, the shiny black pair was probably too fancy but his rather grubby sneakers weren't fancy enough and combat boots were out of the question. So he grabbed the nice shoes and just hoped like hell.

Now, he was undeniably late but he still managed a quick glance at himself in the mirror as he passed.
He almost didn't recognise himself.
His hair was far longer than the permitted one centimetre marine buzz cut and stuck up in disordered spikes, still damp from the quickest shower of his life.
Libby, as always, was right. The shirt fit him like a glove, and it did match his eyes. He wondered for a moment where the Scarecrow had gone. The reflection in the mirror looked like the boy he had been, not the marine he had become but it only took one glance at his face for the illusion to shatter. The line of his jaw was set with rigid self-discipline, there were lines on his face to match the cares his life had brought him and then there were the eyes.
He felt almost uncomfortable in his own skin, like an old friend he'd nearly forgotten.

If not for the eyes – five years on and they still didn't feel like his – he might have accounted himself handsome.
As it was, he just shrugged on his sunglasses – a favourite pair of classic Oakley's – and flew out the door.

Schofield couldn't remember ever feeling quite this jittery as he pulled his car – a 1980's original ford Capri mkIII - to a stop just around the corner from the front gates of the military barracks, where a figure was semi-hidden in the shadows. Jack at least, it seemed, had the common sense to not stand blatantly in front of the gates for all the world to see. When he let himself into the passenger seat with his jaw dropped and an exclaimed, "Whoa," Schofield knew this was going to go just fine. He wasn't jittery because he was a marine who knew he shouldn't be doing this. Tonight, he was just going to be a bloke on a first date with first-date nerves.

"Thanks," he replied, looking over at Jack, who still looked stunned. Cars were definitely something he could talk about and this particular car, more than most. "I bought it as a wreck and fixed the whole damn thing up with my own two hands. Took me about three years to source all the parts and do the work but I reckon it was worth it."

"Grease monkey," Jack replied with a grin and a playful shove, managing to elicit a genuine smile in return.

With its low, curved body and long, sleek lines, it was in Shane's opinion, one of the sexiest cars of all time and a workhorse to boot. His blood, sweat and tears had gone into making it roadworthy again and it was his pride and joy. For sure, Libby had liked it but Jack, he could tell by the way he was running his hands along the leather trim sideboards, appreciated it.

They didn't talk most of the way there. Jack was distracted by the car, Shane was distracted by Jack and feeling inexplicably shy. Now that he had got to this point, he really didn't want to fuck it up. If Jack caught him sneaking glances at him whilst they were stopped at various traffic lights, then he didn't say so. Naturally, Jack was sneaking his own glances in return only when they were moving and Schofield was, mostly, focusing on the road. They managed to keep that up most of the way there until just before they turned onto the Chesapeake and Ohio canal, when both their eyes flicked up at once. Caught, they both blushed and laughed, realising that no matter how old and experienced you become, no one – not even marines – are immune from flirting like shy young schoolgirls and that there was nothing wrong with that.

Shane was taking them to Georgetown, arguably one of the trendiest and most expensive areas in Washington D.C. but that wasn't why he liked it. Situated right on the canal and full of tiny, winding historic laneways, if you knew where to look – past the large flashing lights and upper class restaurants - it was full to the brim of hidden gems. Including, as Schofield found a park and tried to shepherd Jack down one such laneway, a tiny Italian restaurant with garish orange walls and the best Linguini in clam sauce he had ever eaten.

He hadn't been there in over a year but as he ducked his head under the low doorframe and took Jack's hand in his, a loud and familiar voice called, "Darling! Where you been? Where's your girl?"
Teresa, the busty proprietor who barely came past his elbows, immediately appeared in his view whilst her husband, a cheerful, balding man by the name of Luigi, stuck his smiling face out from the kitchen and waved. Luigi's English was non-existent and Schofield's Italian was little better, but somehow they managed. He was impressed they remembered him but then again, one of the main reasons he loved this place was that it felt like one giant family anyway. Which was perhaps why he felt strangely nervous as he held Jack's hand – still clasped in his – up and said clearly with only a hint of sadness, "No girl, not any more. Can we have a table round the back?"

Teresa was silent as she led them to a quiet table tucked in the corner but as they sat, she turned to Schofield with a full smile and a cheeky nudge of her shoulder. "Why you not hold his chair for him?" She said, "He's handsome."

"You both handsome," she added, placing a large kiss on the side of his head.

As she bustled off, Shane turned slightly sheepishly back to Jack.
"So," he said shortly, placing his arms crossed on the table in front of him and the conversation just flowed from there.

They talked about sport. Shane tried to explain the rules of gridiron but Jack insisted that anybody who played contact sport wearing shoulder pads and helmets was a wimp. Real men play rugby union.
Crazy men play Aussie Rules.
Shane was prepared to concede however, that he could see the advantages of a game in which the players wore singlets and the shortest, tightest pair of shorts they could find and in return, Jack did agree to teach him the basic rules of cricket.

They talked about politics. It was after all, election year and the marines had managed to push through Jack's American citizenship a good bit quicker than usual, meaning he had to work out very quickly exactly what was the difference between a democrat and a republican. As for Shane, he had the dilemma of who to vote for when you know the current president personally – if saving his life counts as 'knowing,' – and happen to think he's a very nice bloke but still disagree with his conservative political stand.

They talked about cars and then talked about cars some more.

It wasn't until nearly midnight, when the restaurant had closed and they were walking along the canal in the descending night cool, that the talk turned to more serious matters such as family.

"Have you told them yet?" Schofield asked quietly. The still night carried his voice and although they were alone – certainly not a marine in sight – there was a clear foot between them.

Jack shook his head in response, saying, "I keep meaning to every time I call home but somehow-"

"-It never feels like quite the right time," Shane finished.

"Exactly, it's not the easiest thing to just drop into conversation." Jack agreed readily, "Have you told your parents?"

At that, Schofield stopped dead and turned away from him, leaning up against the canal wall. Ever since he was little he had loved the water. Water and sky offered freedom so a carrier ship had seemed like the perfect escape for him. After his accident, the ground beneath his feet felt too solid. He felt chained to it. Although for the most part, he was used to it nowadays, every now and then, that feeling of being trapped would overwhelm him again for a moment.

"No," he said shortly, staring at his reflection in the water, "They're dead. I haven't told my grandparents 'cause I don't want them going the same way. My Nan would have a heart attack if I told her."

Jack stepped up beside him so that their shoulders were touching. He could've reached out just an inch further to slide his hand between Schofield's, which were clenched together.
"You told Book that you thought his parents would be proud of him," he said slowly, "I think your family is going to be pretty proud of you too."

Shane turned to look at him, half quizzical, half laughing.
"You were listening?" He asked.

"Only a little," Jack replied with a roguish smile. He was fairly sure Schofield would pull away, they were after all in a public place, but he leant forward to kiss him anyway. He intended just a quick peck but Shane didn't pull away at all, rather drawing him into it – fuck the public. It was well over a minute later before either of them pulled back, the need for oxygen becoming rather critical.

"Come on," Shane said, reaching out for Jack's hand with red lips and a smile, "We should go home."

Even though it was well past midnight and the barracks looked deserted, all the well behaved marines in bed, Schofield dropped Jack outside the gates for cautions sake.
This time, he knew exactly what to do.
He kissed him, long and hard and lingering. He wondered if he'd ever get sick of this feeling.

Abso-freaking-lutely not.