The Cook realized that she'd been staring at the heaving surface of the sauce for twenty minutes, watching fat bubbles pop and spatter orange across the white stove top. She'd showered, served a breakfast she couldn't remember, had conversations she couldn't remember, cleaned the kitchen and dining room, picked up her room, and moved on to making dinner, all without particularly thinking about any part of it. The Demo had been absent from breakfast, and the rest of the mercenaries had eyed her without asking about the fight they'd no doubt heard. She nursed a glass of water and poked the sauce, then turned it off. A glance at the clock told her it was time to check the pork loin and she did, falling into the habits of a lifetime of cooking with relief to be doing something with herself.

The Demo's words were lurking just on the edges of consciousness, and with them a spate of memories. People she'd genuinely liked, had wanted to date and love shying away. How could she care, they'd reasoned, when they'd bothered to tell her why. How could she care for them when she seemed to be unhappy with just them and no one else? It had never been sufficient to tell them she loved them, as hard as the words could be to say—they had simply assumed she was after novelty, that she'd get bored after a few months and move on, breaking their heart.

So they broke hers first, for all the best reasons.

"People do get to choose," she told herself quietly. "They do get to choose whether they want to risk their hearts on someone. And most people seem to be happy enough settling down with one person. They can't love you if they don't know you, if they can't freely choose to love you as you are."

Whatever you are.

A sound just this side of a gag echoed in the kitchen and her face twisted, decades of misery bearing down on her. Why aren't I, she thought. What's wrong with me that I can't do what everyone else seems to be able to do?

Her hands moved automatically to snapping the tough ends off green beans, eyes unseeing. Why does pain have to turn me on? Why do I seek it out? Is it really just a sickness?

"I don't understand," she whispered. "I don't understand why I can't just be normal." She bent for a moment, resting her forehead against her wrists on the counter. This little line of thought, these same questions, had been echoing through her for years without answer. And there is no answer, she thought. Because whatever it is that's wrong with me, however it is that I'm failing to be what I should be, it's as much a part of me as my bones. I know I'm supposed to accept it. I'm supposed to just accept that I'm not whatever it is I'm supposed to be and be okay with myself.

"How am I going to do that," she snapped. "How the fuck am I supposed to accept myself?"

She put the green beans on to poach in silence, then rolled and cut biscuits, concentrating on her arms moving and the tasks ahead of her. She put the biscuits in the oven and washed her hands, then leaned back against the counter, drying her hands in a towel. There's supposed to be comfort in accepting yourself, she thought. It's supposed to be all that you need. Self acceptance.

"It's not much comfort," she said, pulling the pork loin from the oven and set it to cool on the stove top. "But I've never had a comforting answer to this conversation."

For it to be comforting, she added silently, I'd have to be able to share this with someone.

The Scout drummed his fingers against his thighs. "Look, lady, I ain't a complicated man, not like some of those assholes. I ain't gonna make this about anything but fun." I heard the fight, he thought. We all did. And Demo is in everybody's dog house tonight for fucking this up. I owe you for the burn, lady, but I ain't gonna make this worse for everybody to get back at you.

The Cook held up a hand, trying for firm and getting a small quaver in her voice which the Scout found saddening. "Let me stop you right there, Scout. You're all a little different. I'm prepared for you to be yourself if I get to be myself."

Right, okay, he thought, so I gotta cheer her up, too. I can do that. "Oh yeah, Toots," he said, playfully. "Been looking forward to you being yourself. And who am I?"

She blinked, and answered slowly. "A simple man?" Myself, she thought. What does he think I am?

He beamed at her as if she had just answered a complicated problem. "Pretty much." The Scout started to pull the tape from his hands, leaving sticky, lighter stripes on his skin and dropping the tape on the floor. "You would not believe how good that feels at the end of the day." He flexed his long, thin fingers. "Them strips hold my fingers together so hard it gets to hurting by the end of the day. My hands swell, ya know?"

She found herself fumbling for something to say, running the blanket through her fingers over and over. "They keep calling you kid. How old are you?"

He gave her a lopsided grin as he pulled his sweat shirt over his head. "At this rate, I'll be nineteen forever." His chest was smooth as a boy, skin tight over the long, ropy muscles of a runner. The Scout flexed at her, making a few faces and trying to get her to giggle as well as notice that he had very little body fat. She finally cracked a smile when he waggled his eyebrows at her and he sighed with relief. Shit, he thought, she's really broken up about the whole thing. Why did Demo have to make this so fucking emotional—the rest of us are going to be dealing with the whole "you have to have deep love over everything" thing forever, here.

He was obviously clowning to make her smile, and she was grateful—the Scout would not have been her choice under any other circumstances. He was loud, talked way too much and she couldn't imagine he had a lot of experience with women. But there he was, making ridiculous faces and flexing away, peering at her out from under his thick eyelashes and smiling secretively when she smiled. After she'd finally given up and started grinning at him, he stopped flexing and stood still, head cocked and looking at her smile.

"But how old are you really," she asked.

The Scout shrugged. Man, this old question, he thought. Shit, I wish RED had picked me up a few years later, 'cause they always think I'm a kid. "Old enough, lady. Old enough. I do have some good news." He bent at the waist, pulling at his shoes, his tags swinging like a pendulum.

"What's that?" Her fingers grabbed the blanket, bunching it up in her palms.

"I can go just as long as you want me to." The tags bounced against his chest as he leaned down to pull his feet from his pants.

She watched him undressing, poised between the desire to stay and to go hide from the last day of existential angst. The Scout was strange, now that she was watching him closely—a mix of man and boy, of the optimism of youth and the cynicism of age. The goofy posing, coupled with the secretive glances and smiles made him hard to read. She replied absently, mind working at trying to figure him out. "I remember that about boys… I mean, men your age."

Well, lady, he replied silently, I'm about to surprise the hell out of you if you keep thinking about me like a boy. The Scout stepped out of his pants and shook his shoulders loose like a sprinter at the gate.

"Did you ever play sports," she said, watching him stretch as if preparing for a competition. "Track, maybe?"

He rolled his eyes, letting his whole head follow it in an exaggerated circle, and looked at her. "Ya think?" Come on, lady, laugh, he thought. I'm being funny here specifically to knock you outta that funk.

The Cook was smiling again, despite herself. "How did you end up here?"

"I can almost outrun a car over short distances. Almost." A quarter-sized scar made a star in his upper right arm. He watched her look at it. "I ain't faster than a bullet, though." He rubbed his hands together, trying to peel the adhesive off. "Okay, get naked, Toots."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Come on, he thought. Trust me, lady, I ain't gonna hurt you. You're gonna like this. "Like I said, I ain't complicated." The fine blonde hair on his arm stood up in the cold of the room and he huffed, shifting from foot to foot restlessly. "Come on, it's cold."

The Cook pulled her thermal over her head, pushed her pants down, and dove under the blanket on her bed. "Does the furnace even work when it gets this cold?"

He slid in beside her. "It's twelve degrees out there, babe. The furnace can only do so much." The Scout looked down into the tent of the covers. "Not bad. I like a little less tit, but still not bad." He laid a smooth hand on one breast and lifted it gently. "More than a mouthful. Hell, more than a handful."

"I swear to god, if you don't shut up I'm kicking you out of my room." Don't, she thought. Just don't ruin this by talk—her thoughts cut off as he dove forward, pulling her entire nipple into his mouth with a quick, hard suck. She grunted and looked down at him, wide eyed.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I see what they meant. Okay, I can do a little complicated." Good thing I eavesdropped on a few of 'em before tonight, he thought. This ain't normally my show, but I can do some of it.

Before she could lose that dizzied look, the Scout reached for the other breast and kneaded it, startling her out of her stillness. She reached down to cradle him in her hand. The Scout's cock curved hard to the right, blushing a surprisingly bright red. He was freshly shaved, smooth and hairless.

His eyebrows rose. Well, the Scout thought, that ain't like what they were describing. "Like what you see, lady?"

"That'll be a nice mouthful." Her eyes were level, and the Scout gave a mental shrug. If she wants to drive this thing for awhile, he thought, she can have it. "Fuck yeah," he said. "Go ahead."

The Cook scooted down under the covers, making a tent over his cock, and breathed gently over it. He twitched, thumping her nose, and she laughed. The Cook darted her tongue out and licked a tiny trail up his cock, for the pleasure of watching him squirm.

"Come on, lady. Please!" The Scout's hips turned. "Don't tease!"

The Cook grabbed his cock and pulled it down slightly before engulfing it in her mouth. The Scout's cock slid along her palate and he groaned. She flattened her tongue and sucked with the back of her mouth, small, swallowing movements that tugged at the head of his cock. The blanket tightened as he slammed his hands down on either side of his thighs. "Christ!" He lifted the blanket and looked down at her.

"Mmmmhhh?" She rolled her eyes up, questioning.

The Scout very nearly came on the spot. Her lips were fat and wrapped around his cock, cheeks reddened by the hot air beneath the blanket. The expression on her face was naughty, and as he watched she made another of those small swallowing movements, hollowing her cheeks and sliding the soft, slick skin at the back of her palate over him. "No, no," he gasped, momentarily breathless. "Keep doin' that. Just like that." I am not going to look at her when she does that, he thought, or I'm going to be embarrassingly fast in the sack. He stared at the ceiling, taking deep, measured breaths. All right, he thought to himself, so it has been awhile and I've been thinking about this for a few weeks. I'm still going to hang on for awhile longer.

She did, and when her tongue started to tire, she pulled back to run it around the underside of his head. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face in the still, dim tent of the blanket, and she pumped her hand around him, twisting gently at the top. She could hear him start to pant, and put her mouth against the head of his cock, lapping at him while her hand ran up and down. Above her, his breath grew ragged and he made a high pitched whimper.

"Hey, lady, I'm gonna—"

She leaned forward, sucking him in, and he shouted, filling her mouth. She made a face, nose pressed against him, and swallowed. After he finished throbbing, she pulled back and wriggled up through the blanket.

"Fuck," he said, red-faced and sweaty. "Toots, that was great. Gimmie about five minutes and I'm good again."

The Cook smirked, pleased with her work, and propped her head up on her arms. "So, Scout, how did you end up here?"

"Christ, really? You wanna talk about our lives right now?" He shifted and put an arm behind his head, a small tuft of tawny hair sticking up from his armpit. "Hell, why not? My ma had six of us, all fellas. Our dads were kinda shitty, you know? They didn't stick around or help or nothin', so we learned to do for ourselves."

The Scout looked over at her, searching her face. "Ever been there? You know, like poor and shit?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I've been poor."

"Really poor, though? Like… like not everybody eats and shit?"

"Yeah, that poor." Living in a park poor, she added silently. Begging for food poor. Yeah, I been poor, kid.

"All right. So my ma never asked for nothing, but she was always so nice. Real pretty, too. Her taste in fellas was shit, and there was this Valentine's Day she wasn't expecting nothing from no one. So there was this place down the block. Real nice stuff. And they had a gold heart necklace in the window, with these tiny little heart earrings."

She smiled, a surge of affection making her lips bow. "That's… really sweet, Scout." Of all the stories I've been told, she thought, this is actually the nicest. He's a sweet boy.

Well, all right, he thought. I'll take that smile and the warm feelings behind it. "Nah, nah. It'd have been sweet if that cop car hadn't come around the corner at just the right time to catch me smashing the window with a brick." He made a face. "It ruined her damn day."

"Yeah, but that doesn't tell me how you got here."

"I ran track, and I set the state record."

"And RED saw it?"

"Yeah. They made some kind of deal with the courts, and I got sent here. RED paid me when I signed the contract, and I used to send it home. Sent three of my brothers to college." He stretched and turned toward her. "So, you ready for round two?"

She realized she was a little nervous—he seemed so young that she felt mildly guilty. I know he's at least seventy, she chided herself. He just looks like he's in his teens. He really looks like he's in his teens. Her voice was hesitant. "You have something in mind?"

His eyes narrowed. There it is, he thought. I knew it was there, because it's always there. She's still thinking of me as the kid I look like, and she's feeling conflicted about it. "Yeah, actually," he said, voice cracking sharply in the frozen air. "Get your ass up on the drawers over there."

The Cook looked at him, a rim of white around her eyes, and got up, shivering. She climbed onto the chest of drawers, her legs dangling off the side, and watched him bound across the room. That, he thought with a great deal of satisfaction, is more like what I was hearing about. Saves time this way. I don't gotta make a million historical references to convince her I'm not a kid. I just gotta get all authoritative at her. Wish buying beer was this easy.

"Okay, Toots, this is how it's gonna go. Pull your knees up."

She blinked several times and pulled her knees to her chest, balancing on her hands and ass.

"Now spread 'em."

He could see her starting to push back, the surprise of hearing him bark commands wearing off. "Are you sure this will work? It's kind of hard to balance here."

"Yeah, trust me."

She pulled her knees apart and looked at him through them, curious now. He bit his bottom lip, trying not to smile. Curiosity, he thought, is about to give the kitty a workout.

"Okay, scoot down a little." The Scout stepped between her legs and grabbed her hips, pulling until the edge of her ass hung over the chest of drawers. "That's the ticket."

He guided himself into her slowly, noticing that ordering her around had done some of the work for him. We'll just chalk that one up to things I'm going to use a bunch, he thought. "How's that?"

The Cook blinked. "That's…." She made a quiet moan. The angle made him rub hard against her favorite spot, and the feeling of being suspended that way, of hanging on for dear life and trying not to fall was oddly erotic. Her weight was balanced on her arms and his hips, her legs tucked up against her and out of the way so that he could bury himself far enough back to tap her cervix.

Surprise, the Scout thought, grinning at the fuzzy look on her face. I can actually find my way around a pussy. "See? Now hold it."

The Cook leaned forward slightly, pushing up on her arms and locking her elbows behind her, and he started to thrust, rubbing himself over her g spot, his tags jingling against his chest. "Good, ain't it?"

"Oh Christ, yes." The angle let him push up in a long, demandingly hard strip on the front of her cunt, the sensation dragging across every last millimeter of skin in a sensation that went from fullness to electric sparks and back. She felt like she should be breathing with the stroke—in as he came up, and out as he came back, whole body moving with him, the intense pressure robbing her of thought.

"Trust me," he said, smugly. "It can get better." Her head lolled back on her shoulders and he smiled, reaching for her clit. "You one of those…"

"Mmmhmm." Her head came up slightly and fell back.

"Gotcha." He rubbed her clit gently, bending his knees slightly as he pulled out and bouncing up with every stroke, adding a tight, thrumming to the pressure that immediately locked her muscles around him, sucking and parting. She was panting with him, in and out with each stroke, head bouncing back loosely. The Scout laughed, delighted. "Surprise, toots." Fuck, he thought, she really gets into this. They ain't usually this open.

Her knees, held up between them, started to shake in the air, and she made a wavering sound—uncertain, questioning, rising in tone.

"What are you waiting for," he panted. "Go already."

She took a deep breath and shrieked, her knees coming down hard against his chest, violent tremors and sweat making them slick as she scrabbled for purchase with rubbery joints.

"We ain't done, Toots." To make his point, every bounce came up a little harder. She squirmed, somewhere between pain and the lingering warmth of her orgasm. "Gimmie another."

"I don't know if I can," she whimpered.

"Yeah, you can. Trust me."

When her knees started to shake again, he wrapped an arm around them and pulled them into his chest for leverage, stilling the jingle of his tags between them. He leaned back slightly, thrusting his hips forward to slap against her ass.

"Jesus, Scout!"

"Come on, Toots, another one."

When she came, she pulled herself forward, grabbing at his arm, and made a high-pitched squeak that trailed off into a soundless gasp.

"Fuck yeah," he panted. "That's what I wanted to see." His arm tightened on her legs painfully, and he shouted in pleasure. She opened her eyes in time to see him biting his lip as he arched into her, and shivered, setting off another hard squeeze.

"Oh goddamn, Lady!" He froze against her and she watched him twitch. "Give me a second, here." He pulled out and stood, hands braced on either side of her. "Hhh—" The Scout took a deep breath. "Okay, over there." The Scout pulled an arm up and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Back to the bed."

"I hope you're going to help me," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Huh? Can't walk already?" The Scout scratched his chest and yawned. I'm beat, he thought. She ain't big, but that balancing act'll take it out of ya.

She laughed weakly. "Maybe I can walk." As her feet hit the ground, her knees wobbled. "Maybe not."

"Okay, okay," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, we'll do this thing together."

Clinging to each other, they toddled to the bed and fell on it.

"I'll give you this much," she said. "You ain't complicated, but you're fun."

Shit, he thought. I'd take a bow but I'm way too tired. "Must be a nice change, ain't it? No whips, no chains. I just wanna fuck you."

"Hey," she said defensively. "I like those things sometimes, but this is good, too." Please, she thought. Just don't... I mean, I'm not just… She sighed aloud. Is there even a point in finishing that statement? Maybe I just am that way. Maybe the Demo's right and I just don't give a shit. Except that this hurts. God, this hurts. She curled on her side, away from the Scout, miserable enough to be her own company.

The Scout rolled on his side and looked at her. Fuck. Well, he thought, she was happy for a minute there. "I was a little worried, to be honest," he said. "Some of them fucks are kinda… well, you know."

The Cook's voice was muffled by her body. "Complicated?" Oh Jesus, suck it up, she thought, scolding herself. I had a perfectly good time and here I am, brooding. Let him have a little credit for his good work. And for the love of fuck, enjoy something without second-guessing it.

"Yeah," he said, watching the line of her spine closely. "All whips and sharp shit. I wasn't sure you'd even be into this." Something is bugging her, he thought. More with the Demo? Come on, lady, it was a good time. Let it be a good time.

The Cook turned on her back, the skin under her eyes shivering, and made a show of pulling her arms over her head and pointing her toes, stretching. "Oh no, this was good, too." It was, she thought. It was. I just… Her chest was viciously empty.

The Scout reached over and flicked her nipple. Like I don't know when you're pulling my leg, he thought. You need me to pull your chain a little, lady? Fine, I'll pull it so you stop doing that shit.

She squeaked and glared at him. That's better, he thought.

"I can see why they'd like it, though," he said. "Them squeaks and squeals are nice to hear."

The teasing was familiar, and she grasped for it gratefully, laying an arm across both breasts, to cover her nipples, and narrowing her eyes—the reaction was theatric in its overacting, and reminded him not a little of Mae West. Vampy, he thought, but cute.

"I'll bite, next time," she said, voice purring in something that might have been authentic. He doubted it, but it was nice of her to try.

"Lady," he said, giving her a cheerfully naughty grin. "If you bite, so do I."

She gave him a dirty smile. Nah, he thought. Not Mae West, but a damn good try. Maybe a little Monroe in there? "Oh, darn," she said, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. "Whatever shall I do?"

Well shit, he thought, I recognize a cue when I hear it. He waggled his eyebrows again. "Knowing you, Toots, scream like a banshee."

"Mmmmm….." She smiled, pleased with the exchange.

Come on, Lady, he thought. You performed like a champ and you ain't half witty. You can like it. "You tired?" The Scout scratched his short, blonde hair and settled his arm under the pillow he'd brought with him.

"After that last one, yeah. Do you want to spoon, or can we just pass out?"

"Whatever. I ain't picky."

The Cook turned, facing him, and drew her knees up slightly. "You get to be the little spoon."

"All right. I said I wasn't picky. I ain't kidding." The Scout turned and scooted back until his ass met her hips. The Cook kissed his back and wrapped an arm around him, then rested her forehead against his spine. He's been kind of sweet, she thought. I wasn't expecting him to be sweet.

"Kissing, huh? I must have done a good job."

"If you don't shut the hell up, I'm leaving."

"Night, toots." The Scout squirmed down a little and brought his knees up, looking for a comfortable position. The Cook tightened her arm and bent with him, draping herself over his back with a quiet sigh.

"Shut up, Scout."