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Damn him! She didn't do this. Well, not the thing they'd been doing. THAT she was game for alright. Who knew Scott Tracy, the poster boy of International Rescue, golden member of the Good Boys Club, was no Rescue Scout in the sack. She bit down a chuckle at her own joke, not to wake him up. She shouldn't be there, by now. THIS she never did. Havoc never stayed. She was nobody's girlfriend and certainly no cuddle toy. She took her pleasure or took out her anger (sometimes both) and left. She should too, now. She should probably bug his comm, raid his wallet, slit his throat for good measure and be on her way. That was who she is. Her life would certainly be easier if she did. Yet here she was.
His sleep was feather-light, much like her own, so she kept still, pressed flush to his chest. She knew that tension, the guard that never dropped, even in slumber - she'd been in mortal danger enough, she'd been a big sister enough, she'd been in pain enough.
She knew the scars too. Her finger ghosted over the uneven lines on his pecs, down to his abs, back up to his arms and shoulders, careful not to disturb. Some scars were from rescues, obviously. The one thing he cared less about than even she did was personal safety. There were others. Faded and pale in the moonlight. She recognized those. She had similar scars herself. She had inflicted similar scars herself. She wondered idly if her throat slitting skills might come handy yet if she ever crossed paths with whoever did that to him. If they were still around, she'd recommend watching their backs now on.
Another chuckle threatened to bubble, unborn. Mirthless this time. She sort of resented him for doing this to her. For trusting her with his sleep. With his life. For summarily assuming there was something vulnerable and decent in her. Something worthy. For being a goddamn gentleman, when noone ever was with her. For making her stay up through the night, guarding his shadows. For making her stay. For making her almost care when she couldn't afford to. Caring never paid off. Caring got you in trouble. Caring was never safe. Except she hadn't ever felt safer in her entire life than right there, right then. In his arms. She should really bail, before she sounded like that besotted news anchor. The silly cow swooned and waxed poetic about the "strongest and safest arms on the planet" all over global television. And "the most dreamy blue eyes". Havoc didn't do swooning, okay? Could be easier if it all weren't true.
Damn him!