Summary: With the return of Benjamin King to the ship, things change on the Saints' confiscated vessel. Everyone Remy saw taken, the people she knew and worked with for the past several years, were out of the soup.

A/N: Again thanks to chyrstis for her usual proofing and thefabulouspretzel for the suggestions on the minimalist summary. Just could not find the best way to summarize this chapter without spoiling. Enjoy!

Free to Be

09 Boomerang

-1-

When the door opened behind him, Benjamin King turned, training the confiscated weapon toward the hallway. The two figures in the doorway were backlit, but he knew they were not aliens merely by their silhouettes. When Remy bounced her shoulder off the console next to him, flashing him a wide grin and wink, Ben was profusely relieved to see her here too. A part of him expected her to be standing there when he got out. Of course, he did not realize he was going to come to naked and nauseous on a platform in some puddle of foul-smelling pink goo, either. When Kinzie talked the two of them down and got him to walk through the door of the convenience store, Ben figured the president would be right there with him on the other side.

"It's about damn time you got here," Ben barked.

"Oh, you're fine. Quit your bitching," Remy replied amusedly as she knelt and fired over the console at the aliens stacked on top of one another in the hallway.

"Where the hell were you?"

"On the ship Kinzie stole."

"Why didn't someone tell me what was going to happen?"

"Doesn't help to know." Remy held down a small button on the weapon and waited for it to stop screeching at her. "I hate these fucking guns. Why couldn't there just be one quality AR-15 lying around somewhere?"

"I'd fight you for it, if we found one," Asha noted from Ben's right.

"You could try," the boss retorted.

"What do you mean it doesn't help?" Ben interrupted, looking from one to the other of them.

Remy pressed her back against the console next to him and looked at him for a long moment. "Told Pierce. He kind of freaked out on me. Refused to leave his platform, idiot nearly got us both killed. So I stopped sharing. Figured it was better to chase you down than risk you getting overrun someplace with no cover."

She gave him a knowing little smile.

"Clear," Asha stated and stood.

The boss was the next on her feet. She dug in a little pack she was carrying and tossed something at him. "You might want to put that on. Unless of course you'd rather the Zin die of laughter."

"Fuck you," Ben bit back.

"Doubtful." The president just chuckled at him. "If you start feeling sick again, let me know."

After a few minutes of scavenging, the trio moved on. Ben was not sure why they were popping open and tossing aside crates, he just wanted to get the hell out of there. He assumed there was a good reason for it, which he discovered about halfway to the platform they were headed toward. When the boss yelled, "Eureka," both women focused on the container and started emptying the contents of smaller boxes into the bags they were carrying.

"What is it?" Ben asked approaching them.

"Medical supplies. We were getting a little low on bandages," Asha noted with a grin at the boss.

"Go to hell," Remy intoned flatly.

"How the hell long was I in that tank?" Ben looked from one to the other.

"Only about a week longer than me," Asha noted.

The boss was shockingly silent on the subject. And King repeated the question adamantly.

"We got you out as soon as we dug your signature out of the Zin network," she answered, leaning on the crate but refusing to meet his gaze.

"How long, Remy?" he snapped, standing across from her.

There was a note of familiar defiance in her eyes when she looked up at him. "A few days shy of two months. Maybe." She straightened and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Maybe?" He could feel the surprise twist his features.

"That's how long since, Kinzie and Keith got me out. I don't know how long I was in the soup," the boss admitted.

"You should probably tell him," Asha suggested.

"Tell me what?" Again his eyes darted between the women.

"Earth is gone," Remy relented, after taking a moment.

Ben stumbled backwards a few steps and crashed against the wall. The petite blonde grabbed his arm and held onto his shoulder.

"You all right there, King?"

"Yes," he replied, shaking his head to the contrary. After a moment he looked over at her. "How?"

"Retaliation."

"For getting us out?"

She was again silent longer than he expected. Remy McGinnis always seemed to have an answer for things, even if it was the wrong answer. This type of careful reply was so unlike her that it unnerved the man who had been chosen as her Chief of Staff after the election. "Something like that. We'll talk about the details when we get to the ship."

"You're sure it's gone?"

"Yep."

"We really should go," Asha announced from the doorway.

It took longer than either woman would have preferred to get Benjamin moving again. Once they got him back to the ship, Ben dragged Remy into the only private space they had so far uncovered on the ship-CID's little hideaway. He was entirely uncertain if he wanted to know any of this. In fact, the more he heard the more sure he was he would have preferred not to know. But at least once he wrapped his head around it they could make a plan. He scrubbed his hands over his scalp trying to calm the pounding pulse in his head. Remy looked about as haggard as he felt; King could tell this was still affecting her as much as it was affecting him in that moment.

How the hell had this happened? How the hell were we going to get out of this?

-2-

Matt opted to avoid temptation. Once Kinzie found them a hiding place that would work for a stint, she joined the rest of the crew in the back of the ship. When the door swished closed the young man spun his chair around once again. The debris field was gone. Or more to the point, the fleet has moved on. It really is all gone. We are who-knows-where now, he told himself as he gazed out the massive windows at the sight that still haunted him more than he liked to admit.

Unable to resist the urge, Matt stood and scooted past the consoles. He pressed his hands on the cool glass and leaned forward, looking for anything he remembered from all the space documentaries he watched as a kid. No matter how far he leaned, all he could see besides the Zin fleet was stars and the thick blackness.

His eyes skimmed the steady points of light. It was so odd to not see them twinkle. He knew, at least in theory, it was a trick of Earth's atmosphere, that in space stars did not twinkle, but those solid beacons of the night seemed so foreign. And his attempt to link them together into familiar shapes and constellations was all but futile.

There was no way of knowing quite where they were, or how far they were from what had been home, even if it was only now a band of rubble. He sat on the edge of the glass then leaned against it on his side, looking down at nothing. Index finger gliding across the smooth transparent surface, Matt fabricated shapes in his mind. Connecting points of light just because he could.

The voice echoed softly through his troubled mind. The most incautious choice. "How am I the most incautious choice?" he whispered.

He thought about her wording for some time, had been for the last several hours. Reckless. Heedless. How am I a reckless choice? Matt rolled onto his back, his chest tightening with the view above him. The Zin ships were almost beautiful, the red lights were a little grating, but their designs were architecturally striking.

The boss had given him an out, but for the life of him Matt could not bring himself to take it. For three years, he had been looking for a way past his boyish infatuation, while seeking a way into a relationship with her. He rubbed his hands over his face when her voice echoed again. If it's what I want? Of course, it is. I think. With that thought he sat up, glancing through the glass beneath him again. Is it really? Or is it just what's left?

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked himself as he hopped off the window and started pacing around the room. Matt fell into another chair and stared at the screen in front of him. There was something calming in the way the symbols danced across the screen. The way the code flowed upwards fragments, phrases, words, commands, pieces of something greater. This. This was a language he understood, a world he could decipher, he thought as his fingertips grazed the display. It was safe, known, comfortable.

Everything with Remy was the exact opposite. She was wild and strange. When he was around her, merely the proximity set his nerves alight. The boss was a challenge, a puzzle. But for Miller most people were riddles. The difference was he wanted to figure her out.

In Prague, he had left the computer to the search of the database for the stranger's face, while he snuck down to the basement and sat at the top of the stairs out of sight as she broke down, cleaned, and reassembled weapons then did it again over and over again. The smell of the gun oil reminding him of the time she had cleaned that pistol in the van when they were on duty. It had been the one time she reciprocated. Matt had always been a bit of a nervous talker, and around her when they were locked in that van together, he had told her more than he ever meant to. And only that one time did McGinnis payback his anxious tongue.

"So, what kind of gun is that?"

There was a disbelieving smirk on her face when he glanced over at her. "You really don't know what it is?"

Matt shook his head.

"Colt M1911."

The way she held the pistol seemed gentle, almost reverent, but given her penchant for firearms, Miller was hardly surprised by the display.

"It's the first gun I ever fired."

"What?" Matt asked. "That one."

She shook her head, hands still moving over the metal and the wooden grip in a delicate manner. "Not this one in particular, but this type of gun. My father's father's sidearm from when he served in the war. I still have it," Remy announced when she looked up at him. "Back home, in Stilwater."

"That's the type of gun you learned to shoot with?"

"Yep." Her terse answer prompted his concern.

"How old were you?"

She stared at the gun for a long time, cradling it in both her hands. Then her eyes met his again. "Too young."

Matt felt his eyebrows arch and his eyes widen. He did not have the chance to make a reply. She turned back toward the monitors on her side of the van about two minutes before the backdoor opened quickly and that same pistol was trained on their relief. Remy hopped out of the van like she was being chased and by the time Matt briefed the other agents there was no chance that he would not be returning to the safe house on his own.

Matt could not help but grin at the code flashing before his face in the bridge of the ship. It had taken him six months to figure out which brand of gun oil she used. He finally found an old American Gunnery Sergeant at a shop in Virginia on a trip state side who knew precisely what Miller meant when he described it as smelling like minty banana petrol. He laughed lightly at himself and leaned back in the chair. He had still had the bottle of Hoppe's No. 9 before all this. The old man had called it the shooter's version of Chanel No.5; and the agent used it from time to time when he cleaned his service pistol.

"Why didn't you ever do anything?"

"I tried," he replied to himself standing quickly.

Once when they were shooting together he had actually asked her out for tea. Remy had offered him that coy little smirk and agreed. But they all got called out. The next time he tried, was at the start of her campaign. A quick email saying he and Asha were going to be in the US for a handful of days, asked her if they could get together. Pierce had answered back. Stating the schedule was too tight. Once she was elected, he still thought about it. But it never went further than a thought-she was the president after all.

"You've wanted this. Wanted her. She's right there, letting you decide. Why are you still even thinking about it?"

And when he looked out the window, Matt knew why. Because it's gone, everything is gone. And suddenly you don't know which way is up.

-3-

The cockpit was alarmingly empty, but Remy was glad for it. Two hours spent discussing everything that had gone wrong from discounting Kinzie's suggestions that there was an alien threat to Earth to the destruction of the same. The thing that shocked her most was that she was relatively numb to it now, and that was what scared her most-that somehow she could get used to all of it. She leaned against the console and stared out into the darkness.

The boss was a planner but she had never been particularly contemplative, at least outwardly. She preferred to act first, though more times than not, more so of late, that got her in trouble. Especially with Matt. Remy shook her head and stared at the dull backlit buttons and readings on the console. She could not help but think how colossally stupid she had been. Reacting toward him like any typical guy, when she knew damn well there was nothing typical about him, if there was she would have already boarded that train and finished the ride long before the Zin showed up.

Remy did not know why she was interested in him-it was the most apt word she could find. While the lanky MI-6 analyst was cute as hell, with those sweet blue eyes and that whole innocent, naïve vibe going on; Matt Miller was anything but her type. If they had met in a bar she might have noticed him, simply for the neon piping on that old jacket of his and the smurf-colored grin, but she would not have picked him up or taken him home. She always had a taste for large and dumb. They were easy. They did not ask too many questions. They did not look at her as anything more than a conquest-a notch on their belt, which was precisely how she saw most men-most.

One thing was certain about Miller, he would ask questions. He was good at digging up information-he did it for the Syndicate, then MI-6, and now he was doing it for her, for the Saints. There was no way that he would not turn that inquiring intellect of his on her. Remy dropped into a chair and planted her chin on her knuckles as she stared out at the unending night.

"Why did you leave it open? You should have just closed the door."

Questions and giving answers were never her forte. She could get answers out of just about anyone, but there was a basis for why Pierce did most of the interviews for the Saints. There were reasons why reporters had to clear questions through Kinzie and Washington when Remy did allow interviews. The boss did not like answering questions, even when she knew them in advance, even when she approved of the ones to be asked. She did not like people knowing her or what she saw as her business. If asked, she would have said it was because she did not like being close to people. To be fair, that was not quite the whole truth of it. She liked having friends, enjoyed having people around, but she had her reasons for being distant, even with the people she felt closest to.

Loss. Betrayal. Lies. All relationships boiled down to pain for her. It hurt to let people in, when she got right down to it. And Remy McGinnis had known a lot of pain over the years. She had known Dex for ten years and he still sold her out, set his goon squad on her. She respected Julius and his goals; then he tried to kill her and set her up as the scapegoat for the explosion. And she had trusted Troy Bradshaw, put her life in his hands more times than she could count, and he lied to her at every turn. The only thing about him that had not seemed to be a lie was his name.

With a heavy sigh she leaned back in the chair and tried to clear her mind. Even so, Matt popped back into her head. First, that nervous, almost afraid, face after that askew little kiss then that sweet hazy gaze after; but it all paled in comparison to the cold hurt look he wore when she went to talk to him. That still haunted her. But then there was that handful of seconds on the lower deck. She did not know if he had been coming out of the cargo bay or maybe that was wishful thinking on her part. There was no way to know.

Unless you ask, a shrill voice in her head noted. Her jaw tightened. Out of courtesy for her own skeletons, McGinnis did not pry. Or at least that was how she justified not asking people about their lives. What she knew about her friends, she knew from experience or from their own ramblings. Remy McGinnis did not ask, because she did not want to be asked in return.

Her eyes focused back on the stars in the darkness. The pinpricks of light in the black reminded her of the hunting trips her father would take her and her brother on, though out here they seemed a lot brighter. In the woods it had been like she could see every star in the sky, now she actually could. She learned to shoot under skies like these. They would camp out under the stars during most of the year; the cabin was used only in the winter and inclement weather. Liam McGinnis was a survivor; he taught Remy and Percy to survive to. They were both marksmen. They could navigate just about any terrain.

One thing Liam had made sure of was that his girl survived. And it was something she was good at. She outlived them all-mother, father, brother. She was the only McGinnis left. Her and six other people-they were all that was left.

"How the hell did I get here?" she asked the darkness.

The light shone brightly across the room as the hatch opened. It did not really matter who it was.

"Out!"

"Boss."

"Did I stutter?" Remy asked, barely glancing over her shoulder at Shaundi.

"I'm not here on a social call." Shaundi did not move, but she stayed silent for a moment. "We're going to need to make a supply run soon."

"What do we need?" Remy relented, letting her shoulders slump slightly.

The brunette crossed the room and dropped the clipboard on the console. Remy picked it up and tapped on the overheads. Her fingertip traced down the listing of the inventory. The boss pressed her fingers to her forehead as she reread the list again.

"Tell Asha and Pierce to get prepped. The four of us are going shopping," Remy replied, handing the clipboard back to Shaundi. "I'll find us a possible target. You know they are going to be gunning for us, right?"

Remy did not wait for an answer; the boss did not need one or want one. And both women knew it. McGinnis just walked out of the bridge and down the stairs, rounding the banister to locate Kinzie in order to plan an assault on the Zin fleet.

-4-

"Get the supplies on the ship!" Remy growled when Pierce crouched beside her. As he opened his mouth to argue, the boss eyed him sharply. "I can still shoot. And we need this gear. Help them get it on the fucking bird."

"C'mon Pierce," Shaundi yelled, waving him over.

The three of them loaded crates onto the ship. It was usually a bit of crap shoot. They had not scouted these boxes because of the heavy resistance. Shaundi just hoped that Kinzie and the boss chose well when they picked where they would strike. As the next to last box was being transferred, Pierce groaned sharply and dropped his corner of the crate. Thankfully the container fell back onto the deck and not off the edge.

"Pierce!" the other Saints lieutenant yelled.

"Asha! Help with the boxes," Remy called with a glance at their friend who was pressing his hand to his shoulder.

Shaundi was torn. They all were. But without the hope of rations in these boxes it was all for naught. The two women rushed to get the supplies on the ship then they helped Pierce onto the cargo lift.

"Boss, come on," he shouted.

Remy darted toward the edge of the platform under cover fire from the two women and from Keith and Ben on the deck. After tossing the alien rifle onto the deck, the Chief of Staff pulled the injured woman back on board by her uninjured arm, and helped her away from the closing bay door.

"I'm good," Remy argued when Ben tried to assist her further.

Asha's voice resounded through the ship. "Matt! Two med kits, now!" With that she looked at Keith and Shaundi. "Get him into the kitchen."

"What the hell?" Pierce objected. "I'm not being anybody's gourmet treat. Fuck that."

"She needs a smooth surface that's easy to clean after she treats the shoulder," Remy replied in a calm tone.

"You okay, Boss?" Shaundi asked as they headed out of the bay.

"I'm fine. Just a scratch. Or five."

McGinnis' laugh was gruff and belied her stress. It left the younger woman unconvinced, but Shaundi helped get Pierce into the other room.

-4-

Asha grabbed a kit out of her partner's hands as he ducked around the corner. "Take that one to the president. She's going to need someone to stitch up that gash on her back." The senior agent's attention returned to Pierce as she muttered, "Crazy bitch."

Pierce only groaned and hissed at Asha as she tugged the suit away from the wound in this shoulder. Matt did not think about the orders the senior operative had given him until he entered the cargo bay and found it empty. The muttered curse from above him, made him shift farther into the large open space. The boss was at the top of the stairs, cradling her right arm to her chest.

Again thought drained from his mind as training and instinct took over at the sight of the bloodied back of her suit. Miller darted up the stairs. "Where were you going?" he asked when he reached her. He pulled at the back of her suit and eyed the wounds beneath tears in the thick fabric. He could not see much, but from the amount of blood that had soaked through it looked bad.

"To the bathroom to put my hands on a kit. And see if I needed stitches."

Matt shook the kit at her, knowing full well that she likely heard Asha tell him to fetch them. When he looked down at her face, the tightness in his throat cropped back up and he tried to swallow it down again. He did not know if it was that same avoidance tactic he was becoming too used to, or if she was just being impatient. The second was at least as likely as the first in this instant.

"Come on." Placing his hand at the small of her back, he pressed lightly, encouraging her to resume her retreat.

The young MI-6 agent tried to ignore all the things that jetted through his head, tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest, and disregard the way his nerves seemed to be on edge. He focused on the fact that he had orders with the hopes that would get him through it. He stood back, watching as Remy leaned against the sink to survey the gash on her cheek. He realized almost immediately that a part of him missed it-being around her, touching her. The touch had been cursory, innocent, but it still made his pulse race. He shook his head a moment as he tightened his hands around the handle of the kit he was still carrying. It was a concrete reminder of why he was in that room with her.

Inspecting the blood saturated spacesuit, he took in the myriad scratches on and through the thick fabric of the garment. It looked as if she had gone for hand-to-hand with one of the aliens, and it from the evidence it seemed like he gave as good as he got, at least for a time.

"What, did you give a Zin a hug?" he chided.

Her eyes were sharp. "Kit," she ordered calmly, hand outstretched toward him. Matt relinquished it, though he quickly missed having something to occupy his hands. First he set them on his hips, but that seemed wrong, then he crossed them over his chest, which felt just as awkward, so he left them hang at his sides.

She shrugged the suit off her shoulders and tied the arms around her waist, being careful with her right shoulder, where the scratch marks were the worst. But she had several marks over both arms, and her knuckles were in pretty horrible shape too. The deep gashes on her right shoulder blade were much deeper than he had anticipated from the little cursory glance he had gotten in the bay.

"These are going to need stitches," he advised, stepping closer, and setting his hand on her uninjured shoulder as he made a thorough assessment of the marred flesh while she unzipped the kit.

Remy turned slightly and surveyed the wounds in the mirror for herself. She winced noticeably. "Looks like I get to be a scratching post and a pincushion, all in the same day." Grabbing a few bandages from the bag she ripped them open and eyed the reflection again. "This is going to suck."

Matt grabbed the gauze squares she had placed on the counter. He knew this was at least a two-man job. After dousing the bandages with alcohol, he pressed them to her back. The sharp intake of breath told him, his action had surprised her. And the alcohol, he knew, stung like a bitch. The iodine he would use later would be a little less sharp.

"Open the black kit," he ordered, continuing his stinging assault on the gashes.

"I'm good," she replied.

Matt laughed gruffly. "Well, I'm not. Believe me," he admitted, glancing up into the mirror at her reflection. "You'll want it numbed. I'm no surgeon. Hell I'm not even a seamstress. So, just get me the anesthetic."

"Fine."

Her reply was more of a groan. In a way he did not expect that reaction from a woman with as much experience with injuries as her myriad of scars would suggest. He figured she would have preferred dulling some of the discomfort he was certain he had already caused with the alcohol. From experience, he knew the stitches would be worse.

"So how many stitches have you had already?"

"Lost count."

"Somehow I doubt that. Pierce said you and Johnny used to keep score on things like that."

She did not reply.

"Said there was actually a tracker in the HQ-kills, bar fights, stitches."

"Yeah, well. I'm a sociopath, aren't I? Isn't that the sort of stupid anti-social shit we're supposed to do? Kill indiscriminately and then find it entertaining enough to keep track?"

Matt just listened to the touch of bitterness in her tone as she spoke. It made him thankful for something to occupy his thoughts and attention. While the crew got their fair share of abrasions, a few burns and the like, the amount of injuries requiring this type of attention were rare. So far even most of the gunshots had merely been grazes. As he laid out the tools and supplies necessary to close the deep scratches crossing her shoulder blade, Miller weighed his response before making it.

"Actually that sounds more along the lines of a psychotic than a sociopathic."

"Yeah well, tomato, to-mah-to. I guess."

"Stand up straight and relax a little. I'll try not to bite too hard."

When he noticed the curiously raised eyebrow, he regretted the statement, and silently swiped the ointment over the edges of the wounds hoping it would dull the discomfort enough to keep her from reacting to the stitches. He really did not want to have his own scar as a reminder of this endeavor. About halfway through the longest and deepest of the three, he finally broached the question that was bubbling in his mind-well, one of them. The other one he kept carefully under wraps.

"How did you get these anyway?"

"Thought I'd try that pacifist shit and see if the Zin wanted to hug it out," she said flatly.

With a quick glance he caught the little curve at the corner of her mouth as he laughed lightly.

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Rifles overheated. So Spike and I decided to dance. He fought like a bitch, and broke out the claws," Remy stated plainly, eyes locked on the wall.

"Must have been one hell of a tango."

"Yeah, well. Things were still hot down there. The Zin are beefing up patrols on the platforms. They seem to have finally figured out that is where we are coming in. Or they've started to notice the missing supplies. Maybe both."

She leaned forward on the counter. "Try not to move. I'm trying not to make these look too much like Dr. Frankenstein did your stitches."

Ignoring his request, Remy turned slightly to check his work. "Better than Pierce's," she observed as she straightened again.

"Thanks." He offered her a half smile as he numbed the lower gash before going back to his needlework. "You still didn't say what happened."

"Not much to tell. Gun won't fire. Guy on your face. You do what you have to. Apparently he was at least as crazy as me."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he thought like me or close to it. Heard his alarm go off right before mine. I was about to jump cover, stood up just as he took a running leap at me. Knocked me to the deck, but I got the better out of him. Eventually."

"Yeah, looks like that eventually was a little bit of problem," Matt replied with a high-pitched snip of the little scissors.

-5-

Remy took a deep breath when Matt laid his palm on her shoulder. Surprised by how warm his hands were, she watched him carefully as he ran his gloved thumb over the last gash. He was a lot better at this than Pierce or Shaundi. Even with injected Lidocaine, Shaundi could make the boss want to scream. Miller was taking his time, making clean precise stitches. His skill made her wonder how much practice he had. The light laugh gave her away.

"What?" the man asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror as one hand rested on her shoulder blade while the other waited for an answer before resuming its task.

"Just wondering how often Asha must have gotten shot for you to so proficient."

The smile was soft, barely curving his features as his eyes lowered back to her shoulder. "Nah. When you're sitting around waiting for things to happen you need something to kill time. So I practiced. Wasn't always lucky enough to have someone around who enjoyed really bad jokes, most of the time."

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, if she had not been she would have missed the bare flick of his eyes toward hers. "Like my legendary impasta one?"

This time he did not look up but he did smile slightly. Her throat felt like it was closing up on her, but she had no recourse. She had made her play. She had let her stake be known-and all that was left was to wait for the green flag or lock it back down.

"What do you call a boomerang that doesn't come back?" he asked, eyes and hands intent on their task.

"A stick," Remy answered, breathing shallowly. "How do you catch a squirrel? Climb a tree and act like a nut."

Matt shook his head slightly. This go around was not nearly as relaxed as when they had done this for nearly an hour in that van tucked in an alley in Prague. "A skeleton walks into a bar and says, 'gimme a beer and a mop.'"

Remy bit her bottom lip when he snipped the suture material. He swiped iodine over her back as she wondered if he remembered that stupid game as well as she did. "All right. Why did the chicken cross the basketball court? He heard the ref was blowing fowls."

In Prague, it had prompted him to tell an easy joke that made them both nervous. On the ship, Matt did not take the bait at first. He pressed the tape along the edge of the bandage; his graceful fingers grazing her skin. When she turned and looked up at him, Remy hoped he would see the challenge; she hoped he would take the bait because she felt frozen in a sea of inaction since she left everything up to him.

Matt bit his bottom lip and stared at her. "How are blondes and computers similar?"

"You never appreciate them until they go down on you," Remy replied, delivering his punch line with a nervous smirk. The fact that he remembered as well as she did nothing to calm her anxiety. She tried to figure out something to do with her hands, and after a moment of fidgeting, Matt grabbed her hand, examining her knuckles.

"Can't believe you remember that," he muttered as he dragged an alcohol soaked cloth across the abrasions.

Remy tugged at her hand with the sting but he stubbornly held tight and continued tending to her hand. His eyes remained fixed on his work, though McGinnis really just wanted him to look at her. She wanted to know what he was thinking, even if deep down she did not trust her reads on him anymore.

"You accused me of trying to kill you."

"You were." His eyes darted to hers for a moment. "That gun oil was suffocating. And really who needs their pistol that clean."

Remy's eyes ghosted over his face, halting at the tempting hint of blue on his lips before running along the sharp high cheekbones, to the more serious bent in his brow. Her favorite feature was camouflaged beneath long thick lashes that made her a little jealous. His eyes were a striking shade of blue; they were so vibrant and bright that the color seemed almost unnatural.

Matt's attention moved up her arm. Cool wet gauze burned across the scrapes and abrasions the fight had left. The sting soothed quickly with an antibiotic ointment and sealed beneath a bandage. Matt's hands moved down the other arm, ending with her knuckles again-holding onto her hand tightly once more as he cleaned and wrapped her right hand.

"I needed a distraction," she finally admitted before he finished.

He looked up at her through those long lashes, gaze piercing.

"In the truck-I needed something to do. Something to keep me from thinking," she explained.

His fingertips under her chin made her anxious anew. But his eyes were not on hers she realized quickly as the sting of the alcohol bit at her cheek. Miller trailed a thin line of medication across the deep scratch along her cheekbone. Once he placed three butterfly bandages on the small would he crossed his arms and loomed over her.

"You should be set. I'll dig you up another suit," he announced quietly.

"Look. For what it's worth, thanks, Matt. I appreciate it." Remy leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. Letting her lips linger there as her thumb stroked over his other cheek briefly.

"Glad to help."

His features seemed tight. Certain that he was nervous,; she could not be certain why. It did not really surprise her when Matt turned and left the room. The boss expected it, even if it was the last thing she wanted. Remy leaned on the sink and tugged off her boots and shimmied out of the destroyed suit before she ran warm water into one of the sinks. The sound of the door startled her.

-6-

Frozen in the doorway, Matt merely stared at her surprised face. He did not need to fetch her a change of clothes; anyone would have done it-Kinzie or Shaundi, either of them would have relieved him of the burden. But he wanted to do it, wanted the temptation, wanted her and all that could entail. He knew more about Remy McGinnis than she realized, and it just made him want to know more. Despite the fact that everything he knew about her had made him think there was nothing to what happened between them, the boss' visit to the cargo bay had sparked the idea in his head that maybe his initial reaction had been a plausible.

"In or out," she said flatly.

When she shut off the water and reached toward the sink, Matt stepped forward. "Let me." His voice cracked when he said it.

"I'm fine. Really. I can handle it."

He tossed the suit on the counter and pushed up his sleeves. "And I just wrapped your hands. If you get the bandages wet, I'll have to wrap them again."

"I'm perfectly capable of wrapping my own hands. I do it all the time," she argued, turning toward him. "And while I appreciate the offer, I can take care of myself."

He noticed her knuckles of her fingers turning white from the tightness of her grasp on the sink. Matt chewed at his bottom lip for a moment, not moving. Then he reached past her and squeezed the water out of the cloth floating in the basin.

"I know you can. But I want to," he declared quietly, leaning over her.

The movement was sharp and Matt was not sure what he saw in her face. It might be the biggest mistake he ever made, but he did not care. There was nothing to lose, and at that moment it felt like everything to gain. He lightly swiped the cloth over her forehead then her cheek, never losing her gaze.

"And before you ask, yes, I'm certain."

If he did not know better, he would have said she looked shocked. He brushed her lips lightly in a chaste light kiss when he leaned forward to dip the cloth in the basin again. The boss continued to look at him the same stunned way as he carefully swiped her exposed skin.

"Turn around," he muttered. "Let me get your back." Saving it for last, because he knew it to be the most bloody. Once done, he leaned into her, mouth at her ear. "All done."

Stepping away, the distance was undesirable. But the debacle the other day had told him one thing-he was not in a rush. The rush confused him, left too many questions unanswered, and if there was anything Matt felt comfortable with it was data, information, intelligence. He needed to have a base of knowledge on which to ground himself; he required a platform to work from. He realized she was a lot like that old system Zinyak had locked him in-even though he had read about her, dug deeply into her life, he was fairly certain he did not know the woman standing just out of reach. And Matt was absolutely positive he did not know Remy's quirks.

When she winced trying to pull her suit up her arms, he closed the distance between them in a step and helped her. Then he pulled the zipper up. The way she looked up at him was warm and inviting. Even so he still clinched his fist before he could bring himself to let his fingers glide over cheek. Dragging them along her jaw, they stopped under her chin, lifting her lips to a more conducive angle. His movement toward her stopped a breath away, while they searched one another's eyes in an attempt to quell any remaining confusion.

When his mouth fitted to hers, Remy let him control this kiss. He held her face gently in both his hands as he tried to convey just how certain he was that he did not want her to distance herself from him. He wanted this chance; Matt wanted her. Her response was more gentle and controlled than he expected given the way she responded the last time he kissed her. Miller was careful in his exchange. He wanted to communicate to her that there was more on his mind than just sex.

"I don't want you to back away. I want this, too," he stated, still cradling her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones in a deliberate manner.

The smile was slight when she nodded. "Okay," she murmured. Her palms pressed against his chest, their movement slow and deliberate. As her fingers stopped at the base of his throat, it was like her touch created a spark. Her kiss completed the circuit.