Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 

"If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Bass kept the horses at a gallop for as long as he dared, but he didn’t want to exhaust them in case he needed to make another quick getaway later. After their fights with him, Charlotte and Pretty Boy weren’t in any shape to be sprinting after him for any kind of distance. His main concern was just putting enough space between them to give himself a comfortable cushion. After a mile or so, he reined them in and slowed them down to a trot, a pace that allowed him to take in his surroundings. They were still very much in the middle of nowhere, which suited his purposes perfectly. He hadn’t seen a road sign in a while, so he wasn’t exactly sure where he was headed, but that didn’t matter at this point. Before worrying about his next destination, he needed to either shake them both off permanently or somehow get Charlotte to stop trying to kill him and accompany him to wherever Miles was instead. He couldn’t even keep a straight face at that thought, it was so ludicrous. He didn’t know what he wanted Miles to do, even if he did find him. It was doubtful that he’d be sympathetic to Bass’s plight. No, he was lying to himself. He knew exactly what he wanted Miles to do. He wanted them to team up and take down the bastards that he suspected had nuked Philadelphia and dared to blame it on him. 

What he needed was a plan, but any kind of creativity on that front was escaping him for the moment. Instead, he wrapped the reins tightly around the footboard and slouched down on the bench, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to relax a little. The horses were well-trained enough to keep a steady pace down the straight gravel road without any guidance from him. He tried to decide what Pretty Boy and Charlotte would do. Would they team up and follow him, a temporary truce until they caught up to him and it turned into a free-for-all? Or would they fight it out before trying to track him down? Which one was a better tracker? Not that it mattered; he’d been keeping to the same road on purpose, not even bothering to try to hide the tire tracks. If they had working eyeballs and half a brain, they’d be able to find him. He knew they both had the former. The latter was a little more doubtful, for Pretty Boy at least. 

He slowed the horses down to a walk to let them rest a little, and he dozed in and out of sleep since he had nothing better to do. It wasn’t very restful since he was slouched on a hard wooden bench and he was prepared to jerk awake at the slightest hint of danger, but it was better than nothing. After a few hours, the sky overhead began to lighten from black to blue, and when the first golden rays of sun were high enough to peek over the treetops ahead of him, he began looking for a good place to stop. When the road crossed over a small stream, he directed the horses over to the side and reined them in to a stop. Now that it was no longer nighttime, he was bound to run into someone on the road, and he wasn’t about to do that without a weapon close to hand. 

Bass jumped to the ground and flung open the back door of the trailer. Gun first. He was sure they must have a small stockpile of them in among the other supplies. Everything on the floor was buried beneath a pile of thick wool blankets. He shoved them out of the way impatiently, along with several boxes of supplies, scattering cans and jars of food in the process. The glint of metal caught his eye in the dim light. There was a rusty ring on the floor which looked like some kind of handle to a trap door. He grasped it and yanked it upwards. It opened with a groan, and he leaned forward to look in the dark storage space below. Jackpot. It was a veritable mini-armory. If this was how the supposed U.S. Government armed its bounty hunters, he’d like to see how they armed themselves. Scratch that, he’d rather not witness it personally. 

He grabbed a shotgun off the top of the pile. It wasn’t loaded. Please tell me they have a huge stockpile of shells back here, he thought, knowing it would be just his luck if they’d happened to be nearly out. After rifling around a little more, he noticed a shelf built into the corner with a bunch of small cardboard bullet boxes piled neatly on it. Maybe they hadn’t been the most talented of bounty hunters, but someone had thought them worthy of supplying with all this. That didn’t say too much about that person’s intelligence. Bass grinned. They’d armed his intended captors, and wound up arming him instead. 

As he grabbed one of the boxes and pulled it off the shelf, a thick stack of papers fell to the floor, stray sheets separating from the pile and wafting around his feet. Bass frowned and crouched down to pick a couple of them up. The light was too dim in the trailer to read the small print, but the words SEBASTIAN MONROE and WANTED ALIVE were huge and bold enough for him to make out. He felt a searing flash of fury rip through him, but now wasn’t the time for that. He swore softly under his breath and set them aside for a minute to load the shotgun. It was important to keep his priorities in order. 

Once armed, he felt immensely more cheerful. He even started whistling a little as he grabbed an empty bucket and went to the stream to fetch some water for the horses, who were munching contentedly on the long grass on the side of the road. Back in the trailer, he grabbed a jar of something that he hoped was peaches and perched himself at the back facing the road behind him to eat his breakfast and read his warrant. 

The food didn’t disappoint, but the reading material did. It was all very straightforward and predictable. Crimes against the U.S. Government. Serious attack and degradation of citizens. Armed and dangerous. Should be approached with caution during apprehension. That made him chuckle. Apparently his hapless bounty hunter friends hadn’t read that part. The physical description was laughably vague. How many thousands of men on the continent were well-built Caucasians with dirty-blonde hair and fit in that height range? It was a small miracle Pretty Boy had managed to find him. Bass gave the kid grudging props for that much. Probably his own fault though. He’d drawn attention as Jimmy King. He should have made himself completely unremarkable, but he had enough pride left to make that a difficult thing for him to do. 

The bounty was six ounces of diamonds. It seemed a respectable amount. Maybe he should be offended it wasn’t more. He was probably public enemy number one, after all. He shuffled through some of the other warrants stacked beneath. None of the names looked familiar, and the bounties were all a few ounces smaller. He finished the peaches and tossed the empty jar back into a box, then picked his warrant up again and began turning it every which way, like that would help him read between the lines somehow to pick up clues to the real identity of these people. The paper was worn and dirty, like someone had dragged it through mud or spilled coffee on it. There were so many dark spots that it took him a minute to notice the one in the corner that was not a random splotch. Bass leaned forward so the sunlight fell full on the paper. It was a triangle inside of a circle. And there was something inside the triangle, though it was difficult to see. An eye? It looked a little like the Eye of Providence he vaguely remembered from the one-dollar bill. It had been so many years since he’d seen one, he wasn’t quite sure. He frowned. No, more recent than that. But where? It was buried somewhere in a corner of his mind, he knew it. For some reason, he was associating it with the pendants. That can’t be right. Someone handing him a pendant. Randall Flynn. It was on his finger. A ring. 

Bass lurched unsteadily to his feet as his stomach heaved and bile rose to his throat. He stumbled over to the side of the road and braced his hands on his knees, vomiting up the contents of his stomach into the tall weeds. Once he stopped reflexively retching, he wiped a sleeve across his mouth, trying to catch his breath. 

He wanted to kill them all, Randall most of all. Wrap his hands around his skinny neck and choke the life out of him. No, too easy. He wanted to make him suffer more than that before he killed him. And the fact that he couldn’t was his own penance for being such a credulous fool. Why had he ever trusted some stranger who showed up out of the blue with power and promised him the weapons capabilities of the Tower? He’d wanted something that was too good to be true to actually be true for once. And in doing so, he’d played right into their hands. They’d been planning this all along, they sent Randall to him on purpose, they knew he couldn’t resist what the man would offer him. 

His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left to come up and he was bent over choking and gasping and trying to collect himself. It was one thing to get Charlotte’s confirmation that Randall had pushed the button, to suspect that he was in league with the people who’d put a bounty on his head. But it was another thing entirely to see the proof with his own eyes. 

He allowed himself a few more seconds of weakness. No more. 

When he returned to the back of the trailer to pick up his shotgun, something caught his eye at the bottom of the stack of warrants. He’d knocked them askew in his hurry to get up, and part of the name at the top was poking out. THESON. With a heavy sense of foreboding, he pulled it free from the stack. Just as he thought, although he didn’t know which first name he’d been suspecting most. RACHEL MATHESON, WANTED ALIVE. Wanted for questioning on suspicion of conspiracy and collusion with enemy forces. Well, that enemy force certainly wasn’t him. As much as he’d tried, he’d never gotten Rachel to collude with him at all. This U.S. Government seemed to dislike the rebels just as much as the Monroe Republic and Georgia. Under other circumstances, that would be funny. The rebels would be seething in anger that anyone who claimed to be America didn’t sympathize with them. 

Bass climbed back into the trailer, locating all of the warrants he could get his hands on and making sure he read the names carefully on each one. Strangely, there wasn’t one for Miles. He’d been sure there would be. So they wanted Sebastian Monroe as a scapegoat and Rachel Matheson for information. And her unique skill set. Well, that he could work with. 

He realized abruptly that he’d already made the decision he’d been waffling on since leaving Charlotte behind the night before. He’d decided the second he saw Rachel’s warrant. Before that, he could have railed against this “U.S. Government” all he wanted and she wouldn’t have listened to a word, but now—now he could get her attention. Now he had proof that something suspicious was going on, not half-formulated misgivings. And whatever falling out Charlotte had with her mother, Bass knew that she would be determined to get back and warn her. This was the girl who walked hundreds of miles to get her brother back, after all. Once she knew about the warrant, once she knew what these people were capable of, how could she refuse his help?

He’d felt all along he’d been on the verge of figuring out something that would get her to take him to Miles, and here it had been sitting in the trailer the whole time. With his decision finally made and a goal set before him, he found himself invigorated with the kind of purpose he hadn’t felt since the Tower. He was now strangely eager for Charlotte to catch up. 

It was too soon for that though. He’d already calculated the earliest he could expect either of his intrepid trackers to appear, and he had a little more time to rummage through the trailer, rearranging supplies according to how useful they were to him and loading and storing a couple of extra guns under the driver’s seat. 

It was a good thing they were still in the middle of nowhere. There didn’t seem to be a single human habitation for miles around, and the dirt road was overgrown and little-used, which had the double advantages of making it easy for Charlotte to track him and unlikely that anyone else would happen upon them. 

Bass squinted up at the sun, estimating that enough time had passed for him to find a good hiding spot along the road behind him. What he wouldn’t give for something as simple as a working watch. He took his shotgun and a can of beans with him, figuring his stomach should be settled enough now to try eating again. He walked far enough back up the road that the trailer was hidden behind a curve, but not so far that he couldn’t hear if someone was trying to steal anything from him. 

The trees by his chosen patch of road were a little too thin to hide behind, but there was a vehicle overgrown with vines and weeds pulled off to the side that suited his purposes. He settled down to wait. 

He’d long finished his beans and was starting to grow restless when he heard the first faint sounds of footsteps crunching over pebbles. Curious to see who it would be, he peeked through a gap in the corroded metal to look down the road. Charlotte was marching along straight down the middle, jacket slung casually over her belt. Pretty Boy was following several steps behind. So they’d formed some sort of temporary truce after all. 

Neither of them was speaking. Charlotte hardly looked in the mood for it. The expression on her face was one of reluctant tolerance, like Pretty Boy was a stray dog that she was allowing to follow her home even though she’d rather throw something at it to scare it away. Bass pressed himself against the metal at his back, gripping his shotgun tightly in preparation. He could hardly believe his luck that Charlotte had her back to Pretty Boy. That was going to make his next move much easier than he’d expected. 

When they were even with his hiding spot, Charlotte broke the silence in a no-nonsense tone. “Keep your eyes at sea level or I poke ’em out.” 

Bass was impressed. She hadn’t even looked behind her to confirm that Pretty Boy’s eyes were decidedly below sea level. Which they had been. Charlotte 2.0 might be more grumpy and homicidal, but she could handle herself as well. Which he knew shouldn’t be surprising to him, considering she’d made it alone through the Plains Nation mostly unscathed. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Pretty Boy said swiftly. He was already past Bass, who stood up silently, readying his shotgun in his hands. “You know, you—” and no one would ever know what Pretty Boy had been about to say, because Bass smashed him in the back of the head with the butt of the gun, then flipped it around to aim at Charlotte all in one smooth motion. It was a precaution. Aiming a gun at her wasn’t exactly the best way to get into her good graces, but he needed time to gauge her mood, which he was guessing was somewhere between murder Monroe on sight and lull Monroe into a false sense of security and then murder him. He didn’t think she was armed, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she had a knife or something hidden in her boot. He was not going to make the mistake of underestimating her ever again. 

She whirled around to face him, unarmed, unafraid. He felt a stirring of begrudging admiration, although he wasn’t sure if she was being brave or just plain stupid. Bass moved his finger off the trigger, flexing all of his fingers unnecessarily so Charlotte couldn’t help seeing the motion. For a split second, he hesitated over what to say. A normal greeting didn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances. He decided to cut right to the chase instead. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He didn’t know if she’d take his words as a peace offering or a warning. 

Apparently neither. She just stared at him, the corners of her lips turning up slightly in that mockery of a smile he was getting to know so well. Great. He did not want this to be a repeat of their conversation in the pool. He lowered the gun with the slightest bit of exasperation. “Charlie, trust me.” He stepped over Pretty Boy’s inert form without sparing a single glance at him. “You’re gonna want to see this,” he added, hoping her curiosity would get the better of her. 

He brushed past, walking so deliberately close to her that they bumped shoulders. He’d already made it more than clear, verbally and physically, that he had no intentions of hurting her, but he had no such assurances from Charlotte. He figured the more confidence and nonchalance he showed, the more she’d realize how hopelessly outmatched she’d be if it came down to a fight between them again. Bass preferred that she figure that out sooner rather than later, if they were going to be traveling companions for any length of time. Charlotte attempting to stab him every time he turned his back would get old really fast. 

He walked back down the road the way he’d come, not stopping to check if she was following him. He knew she would be. What else was she going to do, since Bass had a gun and her bounty hunter friend was unconscious? 

“I was looking for a weapon,” he began when they reached the back of the trailer, setting his shotgun down and picking up the stack of warrants. “And I found this.” He turned, holding out the piece of paper for her to inspect. He didn’t know why he showed her his warrant first. Maybe just to make the reveal of Rachel’s more dramatic. 

Charlotte was standing with her hands on her hips, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Her eyes flicked from the warrant up to meet his. “Yeah,” she said, voice dripping with indifference. 

He dropped his arm. That went about as well as expected. He shuffled through the warrants, holding out Rachel’s this time, staring at Charlotte’s face to soak in her reaction. 

Her expression transformed from disdain to worry in record time. “What?” she asked, snatching it out of his hand. “What do they want with my mom?”

What do you think, Charlotte? But Bass didn’t say anything out loud. They both knew it was a stupid question. 

She turned away to read it more carefully. He waited, giving her time to soak in the full meaning of the words, and hopefully the intent behind them as well. 

When she twisted back towards him, there was a crease etched between her eyebrows and she looked even more uneasy than he’d hoped she would. “Who else is in there?” she asked, jerking her head towards the pile of warrants still in his hand. 

“Don’t worry, there’s not one for Miles. I checked them all.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he smiled wryly. “I’m as surprised as you are. I didn’t found the Republic by myself. You’d think he’d be worth at least a couple ounces of diamonds.” 

“Let me see,” was her only answer as she held her hand out impatiently. He sighed and handed over the stack without protest. It was probably too early to be expecting her to take his word on anything. 

After paging through the stack, she inspected her mother’s warrant again, then he saw her gaze swing back in the direction they’d walked from. Underneath her worried expression, she looked a little hurt. Like someone had betrayed her. Bass almost let out a snort of laughter, but he stopped himself just in time when he remembered he was supposed to be nice to her right now. Was she really still naïve enough to have placed any kind of trust in a bounty hunter? Pretty Boy must have spent all his time trying to lie and charm his way into Charlotte’s good graces while she did all the tracking. And apparently it had worked. Her newfound cynicism only applied to Bass, it seemed. 

While he waited for her to say something, he crouched down to search through some of the crates at his feet for rope. He found a coil of it and straightened, tugging on it hard to test its strength. “What’re you planning on doing with him?” Charlotte finally asked, keeping her voice carefully casual. He couldn’t tell if she wanted to save Pretty Boy or murder him. With her, it could easily be either. 

Bass raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a few questions for him. Care to join me?” 

Charlotte glanced down at Rachel’s warrant one more time as if steeling herself for something, then she met his eyes and nodded once, lips quirking up slightly in one corner despite the wary look in her eyes. 

“Relax, Charlie,” he said wearily. “I’m not going to torture him.” He shoved a bucket into her hands, nodding towards the stream behind her. “That should wake him up.” 

Bass grabbed his shotgun and went off to tie up Pretty Boy while Charlotte got the water. The bounty hunter was still out cold. If Bass hadn’t wanted to get information out of him, he’d be dead already, for multiple reasons. For capturing him, for working for Randall Flynn’s people, for exerting whatever smarmy charm he had on Charlotte. He didn’t know why that last one bothered him so much, but instead of following that line of thought any farther, he took it out on Pretty Boy instead, fastening the knots much tighter than necessary with maybe a little too much relish. 

“You might wanna knot that a few more times,” Charlotte said dryly. Bass looked up to see she was standing over him, full water bucket dangling from one hand, looking at his elaborate knots with a bemused look on her face. 

He ignored that, standing up and reaching for the bucket. She wrapped her arms around it instead. He noticed she still had the stack of warrants in one hand. “I’ll do it. He’ll be more likely to answer questions if I’m asking.” 

Bass raised an eyebrow. “You two have a pleasant time last night?” 

Charlotte gave him a death glare. “I’m not a wanted criminal who just smashed him in the back of the head.” 

Bass thought her reasoning was flawed; that only proved that he should be doing the questioning. But he decided not to press her any farther when he noticed the firm set of her jaw and how tightly she was clutching the warrants. She was angry, and not at him for once. 

He gestured for her to carry on, then moved back a few steps to give her space, keeping the shotgun trained on the bounty hunter. 

Charlotte upended the bucket of water over his head, startling him spluttering and choking awake, then stood over him with legs splayed. Trying to look as intimidating as possible, Bass supposed. “Up and at ’em,” she said grimly. 

Pretty Boy laughed uncomfortably, gesturing at Bass. “Hey, what happened to all the ‘he killed my family’ stuff?” 

Bass’s eyes momentarily shifted to Charlotte. He knew she’d placed some trust in the bounty hunter, but he was surprised she’d opened up even that much. She wouldn’t be baited this time, though. “What are you doing with all these?” She held up the warrants for his inspection. 

“Those are bounties. I hunt them. It’s all kind of in my job title.” 

Pretty Boy thinks now is a good time to be a smart-ass? Bass felt his fingers twitch closer to the trigger. 

Charlotte was in full interrogation mode, though. She bent over, holding her mother’s warrant closer to the bounty hunter’s face. “What’s the U.S. Government want with this one?” 

“What’s so special about that one?” Pretty Boy asked evasively. 

“Answer the question,” Bass interrupted, in case he needed reminding that there was a gun pointed at him. 

“Look, all I know is, these guys, they came up from Cuba, they pay well. I bet you fifty other bounty hunters have those same warrants.” His eyes flickered nervously from Bass to Charlie, trying to gauge if he’d appeased them. “Six ounces of diamonds. Per head.” 

“So all that about your dad, that was all crap,” Charlotte said scathingly, but Bass could detect a note of betrayal in her voice. So Pretty Boy had been giving her some sob story about his family. That must have been why she’d trusted him so quickly. 

“No,” he protested in a hurt tone, assuming an innocent, injured face for Charlotte’s sake. Bass raised the gun a fraction, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “No, it was the truth. My dad, he’s a well-respect—” He cut himself off, then sighed, finally seeing the story had worn itself out. “Yeah. No. It was crap.” 

And that seemed about the extent of Pretty Boy’s knowledge. “Okay.” Bass pumped the gun loudly, stepping forward. “Thank you.” 

But Charlotte’s hand was on the barrel, pushing it downwards. Bass stared at it for a second as if wondering how it got there. “We’re not going to shoot him,” she said decisively. 

“Excuse me?” Bass looked at her, not sure which part threw him more. Charlotte calling them we or the fact that she dared to give him orders. 

“I don’t like killing.” She looked at him pointedly, then turned to Pretty Boy. Bass refrained from pointing out that she obviously liked trying to kill him. “Not unless I have to.” 

He only had a second to look relieved. Bass lowered the gun, flipping it around in his hands as he stepped towards Pretty Boy, looking at Charlotte deliberately the whole time. He was irritated, torn between being conciliatory and doing what his instincts demanded. So he compromised and knocked the bounty hunter unconscious with the butt of the gun again. 

Charlotte looked unimpressed by his restraint. He walked past her, waiting for her to say something. He didn’t have to wait long. 

“So what now?” she asked, turning to face him. 

“I’m guessing Miles is with your mom.” He didn’t need to study her face for confirmation. “Knowing him, he is. You’re going to go warn him.” He paused, unsure how to word the next part. Direct was probably best. “And I’m coming with you.” 

Her eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Excuse me?” So polite when she’s acting like he just said something crazy. 

Maybe he hadn’t explained their predicament well enough earlier. He stepped towards her, reaching for the warrant, surprised when she handed it over willingly. “You see this?” He pointed to the triangle symbol. “Randall Flynn had a ring with the exact same eye on it. If he’s one of these guys, if they’re half as bad as what he was, we’re all in trouble.”

Charlotte’s face was expressionless, which didn’t bode too well, but at least she was listening. “Your family could use my help,” he said as earnestly as he could, hoping she wouldn’t bring up the fact that he needed them just as much right now. 

She stepped closer. “Do you think they want your help?” Her tone was challenging, ready to cut down his answer if he chose the wrong one. 

“No,” he said honestly, looking down at her. “But they’re going to need it.” 

She leaned even closer, their faces separated by mere inches. He could feel her warm breath fanning across his chin. He’d never been in close enough proximity to notice how short she was. Standing so close to him, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “You’re delusional,” she whispered in his face. It was like she was trying to intimidate him with her physical proximity, which would be laughable if she wasn’t in the middle of insulting him. She was so small, and so fearlessly unaware of that fact. “I’m walking away. And when I’m gone, you won’t be able to track me, so if you want to stop me…shoot me.” 

Bass blinked. That was not what he’d expected her to say. She brushed past him, and he turned to watch her walk away, shifting the gun in his hands reflexively, brain still processing what had just happened and what he should do next. For a second, he considered firing a warning shot near her feet, but that wouldn’t help at all. She was well aware that he wasn’t going to shoot her, which was the only reason she had challenged him to do exactly that. 

Bass sighed, hoping she wouldn’t be too difficult to track. He’d follow her all the way to Miles if need be, but he hoped he’d be able to find some other persuasion method along the way.  

Chapter Text

For someone who’d told him with extreme confidence that he wouldn’t be able to track her, Charlotte was surprisingly easy to track. At first he’d been a little worried since she was on foot and he had the horses and wagon. They gave him the advantage of speed, but that wasn’t any good in this situation, when he was trying to follow her stealthily. Consequently, there was a lot of stopping, jumping down, checking the dirt road for her boot prints, then jumping back up and urging the horses forward once more, always keeping what he estimated to be about a mile behind her. 

He was also worried that she might leave the road. If she was actually good at being evasive, she’d set off into the woods that lined either side of the road and make her way across fields and through ditches. He had a plan in case she did that, though. He’d pack up as many supplies as he could fit on the horses and take them after her. It’d be a shame to leave the trailer behind. It held a lot more food and weapons than a horse could. But he’d do it if she forced him to. 

Fortunately, she didn’t. She was so easy to follow, it was kind of hilarious. He could have done it in his sleep. Of course, what he’d learned since re-encountering her was to never underestimate her, and he naturally had a suspicious mind, so he never allowed himself to get too comfortable. Maybe she was leading him on so she could circle around, catch him off guard, and finish what she’d originally set out to do. Or maybe she wanted him to follow her, for some unknown reason. Bass wouldn’t let himself relax, in case either of these scenarios were true. But as the hours went by and she still kept to the road, he realized maybe she was doing it out of necessity. Perhaps she knew better, but she also needed the road to guide her back to Miles, afraid that if she cut across country she’d be hopelessly lost. It wasn’t like you could just stop in at a gas station and ask for directions these days. 

When night fell, he began to feel worried for her, instead of by her. He hadn’t thought about it before, but he realized now that she’d taken off with no weapons. At most, she might have a knife hidden in her boot, but only if Pretty Boy had been dumb enough not to frisk her. He doubted she had many other belongings with her either. Just a jacket, from what he could see. Maybe some diamonds hidden away in her pockets. But those weren’t going to do her any good out here in the wilderness. She couldn’t risk a fire even if she had the means to start one. She had no food to eat, and if someone stumbled upon her, possibly no way to defend herself. The more he thought about it, the more foolish he realized her earlier decision was. It was all instinct, all pride. No rational thought involved. Not only had she walked away from his help, but she’d walked away from an entire trailer of supplies and weapons. Not a smart move, Charlotte, unless you have a death wish, he thought grimly. 

He started to consider catching up with her now, hoping that a day of walking, an empty stomach, and a few hours of darkness pressing in on her might be more persuasive than he could ever hope to be. But once he thought that, he realized another day of those same things could only be doubly persuasive. Might as well bide his time. 

It was a cloudy night, with only the dimmest bit of moonlight slanting down to break the pitch blackness. It wasn’t wise to keep moving; the horses could easily stumble and break a leg. He pulled the trailer off into the trees, out of sight of the road, and unhitched the horses to let them graze. He ate some dinner and settled down to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t stop turning over his concerns about Charlotte’s location. What if she’d kept walking, despite the darkness of the night? What if she’d decided to veer off the road after all? This girl was already more trouble than she was worth. Sighing heavily, he threw his blanket off, snatched up a gun, and set off down the road slowly. 

He crouched down every couple hundred yards, squinting at what little he could see of the road, just to make sure he was still on her trail. After about half a mile, he came upon a spot where he couldn’t find a single boot print. Apparently he hadn’t been as far behind her as he’d thought. He turned back and searched the edges of the road for disturbed grass and a possible trail into the trees. When he found it, he slipped through the grass after her with silent, carefully placed footsteps. 

He hadn’t been creeping through the trees for long when he heard sounds of quiet splashing. Human-made, not the natural trickle of water. Charlotte must have found herself a creek. So she wasn’t entirely incompetent at surviving by herself in the woods. It sounded a little too close for comfort, so he pressed himself against the rough bark of a tree and waited. A couple of minutes later, he heard the soft jangle of her belt no more than a few feet away on the other side of his tree, then a little sigh and the soft rustle of dead leaves as she sank down onto them. He waited for what seemed an interminably long time, and only when he heard deep, even breathing that indicated she was asleep did he dare to leave the shelter of his tree and start back towards the road. She seemed safe enough there. The odds of anyone stumbling across her at this time of night were slim compared to the odds of someone stumbling across two horses and a trailer. He hurried back as fast as he dared, settling in for a restless night of sleep. 

The next day was more of the same, Charlotte sticking to the road and Bass following a reasonable distance behind. He started looking for familiar landmarks since they were going back the way they’d come, but he was having difficulty picking any out, considering he’d spent part of the previous trip driving in darkness and the rest of it in the back of the trailer. 

Bass reached the outskirts of a town as the sun was starting to set. It was a pretty safe bet to assume that Charlotte was going to stop there, if not for the night, at least for a meal and a rest. Now that they’d stumbled upon some kind of civilization, he felt more wary about letting her out of his sight. He decided it was best to scope out the town himself, and to be as unobtrusive as possible about it. There might be bounty hunters there, or even some of Randall Flynn’s people. He stowed the horses and trailer in a thick copse of trees a safe distance outside of town, then pocketed a bag of diamonds he’d found while rearranging the supplies. He crouched in the back of the trailer, looking over the weapons stash for the most commonplace things he could find. Strolling into town with a shotgun or an assault rifle was regrettably out of the question. He shoved a sheathed knife into his boot, then loaded a pistol and tucked it in the back of his pants, making sure it was safely covered by his shirt. Now for his visible weapon, which should be inconspicuous but enough to warn off any would-be attackers. There was a crossbow mixed in with the guns, but Bass wasn’t the best shot with one and besides, it wasn’t a very common weapon. Then he spotted a couple of swords underneath it. That’s more like it. He grinned and shoved them through his belt. 

The town was hardly deserving of the name, just a small collection of houses with a tavern at one end. It was dark when Bass reached the latter, and he stood across the street considering it for a few minutes. He didn’t have to track Charlotte up to the steps to know that she’d gone inside; there was nowhere else to get a meal around here. It was a ramshackle wooden building with a lantern swinging above the crooked porch. There was something unsavory-looking about it. Not that anything in the Plains Nation looked exactly welcoming, but Bass trusted his instincts. It was risky letting her wander around without a weapon any more than he already had. She was his only way back to Miles, and besides, Miles would kill him if he let anything happen to her. Bass decided to wait her out, settling himself against a tree and crossing his arms over his chest. 

The more he watched the tavern, the more off it felt. For one thing, it didn’t seem to be the thriving center of town that such places usually were. And for another, he’d seen a few men enter it while he watched, but no one exited. And he hadn’t seen a single woman go in. He narrowed his eyes, imagining Charlotte alone in there with a dozen men. That was a recipe for disaster. His hand closed over the hilts of his swords, but he made himself wait. Better to avoid an audience when she finds out I’m still following her. It’d be tempting fate, and Charlotte would probably be more than happy to reveal his identity to whoever would listen. The last thing he needed was a bunch of wannabe bounty hunters tailing him. 

The rattle of a door startled Bass from his thoughts, and he turned in time to see glass shattering out of the window on the porch. He couldn’t see anything through the window except shadows moving on the opposite wall, but he recognized the signs of a fight when he saw one. Galvanized into action, he sprinted across the street and up the steps, then pressed himself against the door, trying to listen through the cracks and get a sense of what was going on inside. 

There were a few more crashes, then a sudden silence. “What did you give me?” The voice was muffled, slightly slurred, but unmistakably Charlotte’s. 

“Guess you can’t hold your liquor after all,” a male voice answered tauntingly, and Bass saw red. He whirled around, backed up a few steps, and threw himself at the locked door without a second thought. It burst open from the force of his kick, and he strode into the room with deadly calm, assessing the scene and everyone in the room within a fraction of a second. His entrance had distracted everyone; they were all twisted around to look at him. There was one man groaning on the floor, and by the looks of a couple others, Charlotte had gotten a few hits in before going down. His searching eyes found her in a corner, supporting herself against a woodstove and looking dazed. 

He drew his two swords before anyone else could move. There wasn’t a gun in sight; the men were instead armed with a motley assortment of makeshift weapons. No true fighters, then. It was just as well, since it didn’t look like he’d be getting any help from Charlotte at the moment. She collapsed to the floor just before his eyes fell on her again, fighting a losing battle against gravity and whatever drugs were in her system. 

The first man rushed at him with a crowbar. Bass blocked his swing with one arm and brought the opposite sword slashing across the man’s chest. He dropped heavily to the floor and Bass stepped over him to greet his next attacker with a parry and a hard hit to the torso that cracked a couple of ribs. He noticed another man in his peripheral vision as he was doing this, and almost as an afterthought, kicked a chair hard in his direction. Bass didn’t pause to see him stumble over it, but he registered the thud of the guy hitting the floorboards. The next one proved slightly more difficult. Bass knocked him off his feet, but he rolled across the floor and was back up in half a second, getting in two wild swings before Bass could block the third and bring his sword up to slice the man’s throat open. 

That left the last one, the coward, the one who hung back and let the others attack first. He’d been standing closest to Charlotte when Bass came in, and he’d bet good money this was the ringleader. The man lunged at him, their swords clanging together, then he swung wide, missing Bass and sending him spinning out of control, providing just the right opening for Bass to land a good few punches to his jaw and leave him sprawled out heavily on the table as glasses shattered to the floor around them. Bass stepped up while the man was still dazed, holding him down with his left sword across his throat. This one wasn’t escaping the bar alive. Flipping his right sword over to adjust his grip on it, Bass stabbed it straight downwards and through the man’s heart with a sense of satisfaction he hadn’t felt in ages. 

A loud intake of air startled him from his battle haze, and he glanced up to see Charlotte was slumped even further down the wall, almost entirely on the floor now. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and he understood that it was a gasp of fear. Was this really what it took to remind her how dangerous he was? Not when he had a loaded shotgun pointed at her back, but when he’d just killed a half dozen men to save her life? 

Yanking his sword free from the dead man’s body, Bass crossed the last two steps to stand in front of Charlotte. It was obvious she was still trying to be brave and defiant, looking up at him and hiding her fear now, but she had a hand clutched around a shelf behind her like it was a lifeline and her eyes were crossing. He watched as they grew more and more unfocused and she finally surrendered to the drugs, eyelids falling shut and head slumping to the floor. 

Bass turned away for a moment to survey the room. He met the terrified eyes of the man he’d tripped with the chair. For a second he stayed perfectly still, as if hoping Bass hadn’t noticed him despite the evidence to the contrary, then suddenly he sprang into clumsy action, scrambling over the chair with a metallic clank and tripping over himself to get out the door. Bass let him go, sensing he was unlikely to come back or tell anyone.  Judging by the look on his face, he’d be halfway to Texas before he dared to stop for a rest. 

The man with the broken ribs was moaning and wheezing on the floor. Bass put him out of his misery. That was the last bit of cleanup he had to do, since the other men left in the room were all dead. He checked them all for pulses just in case, then, grimacing, all their pockets. No sense in wasting good money. But they were all flat broke. Vaulting over the counter, he rummaged through the shelves behind the bar, taking the few diamonds he found in the till and sloshing flasks around until he found a couple of full ones he could pocket. That was all the looting he allowed himself to indulge in; he knew it’d be foolhardy to stick around any longer. 

Back on the other side of the counter, he sheathed his swords and crouched down to consider the unconscious Charlotte, still sprawled gracelessly across the wooden floor. There was no question he’d need to carry her to the trailer, but there was a question of how. It would probably be easiest for him if he threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but that might look more suspicious if anyone saw him. Better to cradle her gently, like a rescuer, like a lover. Besides, she was short and slim, and he’d carried much heavier loads longer distances. 

Propping her up against the wall, he draped her arm around his neck, nestling her head against his shoulder and hooking one arm behind her back and one under her knees. Her belt jangled softly as he hauled them both up off the floor. She was slightly heavier than he’d expected, all lean muscles instead of soft curves, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Not that there was any time to rethink his mode of transportation anyway; he was beyond anxious to disappear from this town as quickly as possible. And unconscious Charlotte in his arms was a liability. It wasn’t like he had a spare hand to easily reach his gun if someone came after them. 

He paused in the doorway, checking carefully down both sides of the road in front of the bar. Not a single person in sight. Most people would take that as a good sign, but not Bass. He’d been accused of being overly suspicious before (you were so paranoid echoed in his head, a constant refrain in Jeremy’s voice), but Bass attributed a large part of his continued survival to that very trait. 

Clasping his hands more securely around Charlotte, he set off quickly through the darkness. More trouble than she’s worth, he thought to himself again. But a flash of unfamiliar guilt lanced through him when he glanced down at her still face. He’d saved her that night, and no matter how much trouble she caused for him, no matter how ungrateful she might be, he couldn’t bring himself to regret doing it.

Chapter Text

Maybe it was stupid, but Bass didn’t really have a choice. There was only one passable road in the immediate vicinity, which meant either going back the way they’d come or pressing on through the town where he’d just left a tavern full of dead men. But that had been the way Charlotte was heading, and going back wasn’t an option. He’d just have to risk it. 

The one bright spot in an otherwise terrible evening was the fact that Charlotte was unconscious, so heavily sedated that he estimated he had at least twelve hours of peace before she woke up and instigated yet another showdown between them. Enough time to get them safely away without her fighting him every step of the way. 

Once he’d deposited Charlotte securely in the back of the trailer, he hitched the horses up and led them through the trees and back onto the road. They were surefooted on the uneven gravel, but he knew it was unwise to urge them to go any faster than a slow walk by the dim light the crescent moon was giving off. It wasn’t far into town, but his anxiety was growing with every passing second. He began wishing he hadn’t let that one man escape; he’d been the only witness who could identify Bass, and it was dangerous leaving witnesses behind. 

The town was just as eerily quiet as when he’d left, which was odd considering it was still hours before midnight. The bar was just as he’d left it, lantern still lit above the porch, door slightly ajar. No hint of what had happened inside other than the broken glass of the window and the lack of voices emanating from it. After passing the bar, they rolled past a row of houses. Most of them were dark, but a few had a window or two illuminated by firelight or candlelight. He stiffened when he saw a shadow move in one of them, but it was just a woman, silhouetted by the light behind her, pulling a curtain closed against the night. 

Once past the line of houses, Bass released a breath that had been constricting his chest with the force he’d been using to hold it in. His brain hadn’t caught up with his body’s relief though, knowing it was far too soon to be feeling anything of the sort. He kept the horses at a walk, leaning back in the seat as though perfectly relaxed while every nerve ending was alert and poised for action. It was the thing he was the very best at, besides killing. Appearing perfectly serene, like the placid surface of a lake when there was no wind to ripple the surface, when in actuality he was ready to shoot or draw a sword or run with a fraction of a second’s notice. It was a useful skill to have. It threw people off, made them underestimate you, gave them a false sense of security in your presence even when that was the last thing they should be feeling. 

The night stretched on, and still Bass encountered nothing to alarm him. They traveled over stretches of deserted road and through a couple more silent towns. When they reached a crossroads with another road that looked decently well-traveled, he turned down it, figuring it might throw any followers off and that it wouldn’t be too far off track since it headed in a general southerly direction and that seemed to be the way Charlotte was headed earlier. 

By the time they’d covered enough distance for him to feel safe, the sky had begun to lighten from black to a deep blue with the coming dawn. Bass wanted to be safely settled in one place before Charlotte woke up, and the horses needed a rest. If he was honest with himself, he needed a rest. He’d been running himself ragged since New Vegas, and the end of that didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight, what with the girl in the back of his trailer on a homicide mission and bounty hunters combing the continent for him. 

He turned off the road to search for a good place to make camp, finally settling on a thick stand of overgrown trees. He managed to find a gap just large enough to squeeze the trailer through, unhitching the horses and rubbing them down before letting them graze on the small patch of grass that had managed to survive the perpetual shade. He was glad of the thick tree cover overhead. The sky had clouded up overnight and now looked like it might rain. Staying in one place for a while sounded so good he was almost annoyed with himself for admitting it. 

He spent the daylight hours relaxing as much as he could allow himself to, eating a couple of times, sharpening his swords, cleaning and inspecting some more of the guns, snatching a few hours of sleep leaning against the rough trunk of an oak tree. Through it all, Charlotte slept on, dead to the world. He had to edge awkwardly around her inert form every time he needed to get something out of the crowded trailer. A little inconvenient, but he had to admit that unconscious Charlotte was much easier to get along with. 

The rain started in the late afternoon, a steady downpour with a clap of thunder every once in a while. It wasn’t really cold out, but it gave the air an unpleasantly damp chill, so Bass made a fire in one of the dry areas that was sheltered from the rain. He was just about to settle down next to it when he realized it might be better to place Charlotte next to it as well. She was bound to wake up soon, and he’d rather she did it where he could watch her. 

She hadn’t moved once in her sleep, so she was exactly where he’d placed her originally in the back of the trailer. He leaned over, edging his hands underneath her and once again lifting her into his arms to carry her to the fire. It felt strange to be holding another person like this; it had been so long since he’d done anything of the sort. He’d never let any of the women in New Vegas stay afterwards to sleep in his bed. No snuggling, no carrying, unless you counted lifting them up to press them against walls and toss them onto beds. But this was something completely different, and it felt strangely intimate in ways none of those other things had, in ways he hadn’t known for too many years. And he told himself he was pathetic for feeling that way, for the way his heart constricted at the feeling of her head leaning on his shoulder, at the press of his hand on her bare arm. There should be no intimacy to this; Charlotte shouldn’t mean anything to him. Just a little girl he knew another lifetime ago, and a woman he didn’t know at all. A woman bent on killing him, no less. 

The only time Bass ever admitted to himself that he might actually be crazy was when he was forced to acknowledge how he always seemed to crave the company of the people who hated him the most. Which was saying something, since the list of people he actually liked in this godforsaken world was very short. And despite the irrationality of it all, Charlotte seemed to be edging her way onto that list. 

Bass deposited her by the fire none too gently, eager to get her out of his arms so he could clear his head, but he stayed crouched down next to her, studying her for a while. He should probably frisk her, just as a precaution, just because he couldn’t predict how volatile she’d be when she woke up. But the thought of running his hands down the tight curves of her pants or over the thin fabric of her shirt made him feel like a creep, like he’d be nearly as bad as the men who wanted to rape her in the bar. There wouldn’t be anything sexual about it, but it still felt like a violation. He settled on thoroughly checking the inside of her boots instead. No weapons there, and that was enough patting down for him. He flicked a strand of hair away that had gotten caught between her lips, then he reached out to set her flung-out right arm closer to her body. But something on her arm caught his eye in the firelight, so he wrapped a hand around the delicate bones of her wrist and brought it closer to his face instead. 

His eyes widened in surprise. Shock, really. How did she get my militia brand? It was a mostly pointless question, since there were only two possibilities. Either she’d been temporarily conscripted at some point or she’d gotten it on purpose in some scheme to help her travel through the Republic more easily. That sounded like a Miles idea, but he’d have to be pretty desperate to be willing to put his niece through the pain. Bass had an even harder time picturing Charlotte being willing to mark herself permanently with the symbol of the man she hated, the government she hated. Yet there was the brand, marring the perfect, smooth skin on the inside of her wrist, and Bass couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of it all. She’d never be rid of him, she’d never be rid of the Monroe Republic, even now that it didn’t exist anymore, now that General Monroe didn’t exist anymore. His eyes fell to the burns on his own arm, the damaged ridges of skin where his tattoo used to be. We match, he thought grimly, and there was surely something wrong with him that a perverse twist of pleasure shot through his gut at the thought. He dropped her arm onto her stomach like it was hot as a branding iron and moved quickly away. 

He was settled on the other side of the fire, cooking his dinner, when she finally began to stir. The first sign was a few nearly inaudible moans followed by the tiniest jerk of her head. A few minutes later, her eyes began opening slowly, blinking blearily as though she was a newborn opening them for the first time. Bass watched her calmly, warily, waiting for her to adjust to her new surroundings and register his presence. She pushed herself up heavily on her elbows, like it was a struggle, eyes falling on him as she did it. She seemed unsurprised that he was there, so the drugs must not have affected her memory. Good, he thought to himself. Let her remember how I saved her life. Again. 

He tossed a water canteen at her. She eyed it suspiciously, like it was a snake coiled and ready to strike. Or poison. Like he’d poison her after everything he’d risked to save her. 

“Drink,” he said shortly, not in the mood for dealing with her trust issues. 

But she didn’t, only eyed him more closely and pushed herself to sit up. She was pushing herself too much, too fast. She looked like she was about to collapse again. 

“Take it easy. You have to flush the drugs out of your system. Drink.” He leaned over to stir his dinner in the pan over the fire, then glanced back up at her. She was eyeing his food now like she wanted it. She was probably starving. He ran the tip of the knife past his lips and over his tongue, licking it clean. Bet she doesn’t want it now. 

She finally picked up the canteen, still holding it gingerly before tipping it back for a swallow. Once she knew it was just water, she clutched it by her knees and stared into the fire. At least she knew better than to gulp down the entire thing at once. 

“How did you find me?” she asked, voice hoarse with sleep and disuse. 

So she was busy resenting that instead of being grateful. Not like he was surprised; if Charlotte ever said thank you to him he’d probably have a heart attack from the shock. The real question was whether she was still determined to kill him. He hadn’t been sure how to ascertain that, but now an idea came to him, simple and brilliant. A test. He tossed the knife into the grass next to him, reaching across his body so it landed on the side closest to her. He hoped that wasn’t too obvious. Still, Charlotte’s brain probably wasn’t working at 100% capacity at the moment. 

It was tempting to answer her question with the outright derision it deserved, but he kept his voice patient and matter-of-fact. “You’re not as hard to track as you think.” 

She glared daggers at him. He felt satisfied that he’d dented her pride sufficiently. 

“How long was I out?” 

She said the words conversationally, but he detected a note of worry in her voice. Did she think he’d done something to her? Not like that should surprise him either. Her opinion of him couldn’t get any lower. 

“Full day.” He wanted to stop there, irritated that she needed to be reassured that he hadn’t done something he’d never dream of doing. “Don’t worry. I was a complete gentleman the whole time.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from lacing his voice. He’d rescued her from being gang-raped and probably killed and her reaction was to silently suspect him of the same crime. He didn’t look at her, afraid her expression would be one of disbelief. 

But her next question surprised him. She must have believed his last answer, at least. “Why are you doing this?” 

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, silent for a while as he thought how to phrase it. His reasons were clear to him, but he hadn’t needed to verbalize them yet, and some of them probably wouldn’t be what Charlotte wanted to hear. He settled on one of them, a true one, the best one. “A show of faith.” 

She just stared at him, unblinking. Waiting. 

“I need you….” He paused, struggling to formulate the words, then rushed ahead when he realized how it sounded with the words he’d just left dangling. “…to take me to Miles. And your mom.” That didn’t seem like enough, so he added, “I know I can never make it up but I gotta try.” And it was the truth. He didn’t specify what he needed to make up, but it didn’t really matter. A lifetime, too many things to name. Guilt weighed on him, heavy, amorphous, suffocating. 

“Wow,” she said, voice soft. 

His eyes shot up to her, distrusting her tone. 

“Can you make your eyes water like that just…at will?” Her voice was taunting now. 

He blinked in confusion, taken aback. “What?” he whispered. He hadn’t noticed that his eyes had filled with tears during his previous words. He’d always cried easily, usually when he least wanted to. If he followed a morbid train of thought for any length of time, he’d always find his eyes damp. And most of his life was fodder for morbid thoughts. 

“Well this whole poor wounded Monroe thing. I mean…it’s pathetic.” Her words were sharp, calculated to stab. It was almost like she knew they weren’t true but was saying them anyway to hurt him. She held his eyes and raised her eyebrows like she’d challenged him. 

He blinked slowly, keeping his face carefully blank. Her words did sting, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her know that. 

So she continued, trying to twist the knife in further. “You’re a sociopath. You say what you need to get what you want.” He couldn’t look at her anymore. He stared at the fire intently instead, as if by doing so he could burn the evidence of tears out of his eyes. “Behind the mask, you’re cold. And empty. And a killer.” Charlotte’s voice was calm, and it burned in a frozen way, like an icicle against exposed skin. “That’s all.” 

Was she trying to antagonize him? Was she trying to goad him into anger so he would lash out at her, and she could attack him without feeling guilty about it? Or was she trying to distract him? 

All of his questions were answered a fraction of a second later when she failed his test, lunging for the knife he’d left in the grass. He was still looking at the fire, but his instincts were highly attuned to danger, and he could sense her movement almost before she actually moved. He stomped a boot down firmly on the knife before she could reach it, and when she tried to retreat immediately, he grabbed her by the arms to hold her in place. She squirmed like a wild thing for a second, struggling to get away, then abruptly fell still, breathing heavily and tilting her head back to meet his eyes defiantly. 

The skin of her arms was hot beneath his cold fingers, and he fought the urge to clutch them tighter, to cause her pain in return. If he gave in to anger now, he’d just be proving her right, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“You’re right about one thing. I am good at killing. I’m very good,” he added, voice both soft and dangerous at the same time. In case Charlotte needed reminding. He could be either an asset or a hazard to her. It was her choice. She swallowed hard, finally betraying a bit of fear. “Even better when I’m with your uncle.” He gave a minute for that to sink in, then decided to lay out the rest of the argument again, since he had her trapped and she had no choice but to listen. “For the time being at least, we’re all on the same team. “Those U.S. guys…they’re going to be a problem. A big one.” 

Bass stared intently at her, searching for any flicker of reaction, any hint that she was relenting. Her eyes flit downwards for a second, seeming to land on his lips before immediately skittering away. Her jaw clenched and she met his eyes again. “What if I tell you to go to hell?” Always antagonistic, this one, even when she knew she was beaten. 

"What makes you think you've got a choice?" It sounded more threatening than he’d intended, but she’d pushed him to it. Her words from when they were tied up in the pool echoed in his head, and he decided to repeat them back to her. "I'll follow you anyway. As long as it takes." 

"Not if I kill you first," she spat. 

He curled his fingers more tightly around her arms and dragged her even closer to him, unsure what that was supposed to accomplish even as he was doing it. He meant it as an intimidation tactic, but time and again she was proving those didn't really work on her. She tipped her head back further to compensate for the new angle, so she could still meet his gaze with the same defiance. They were so close he could see the barely-there splash of freckles across her nose, even in the dim firelight. He felt her breath quicken as well, though he didn't know if the cause was fear or something else. He dropped his gaze to her lips just to coax a reaction out of her stony face, then dragged his eyes back up to hers to see what effect he'd had. He'd expected the death glare in full force, but instead her expression had shifted to a mix of alarm and confusion. 

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Because all the other times you tried to kill me worked out so well for you?" He kept his voice low and soft as silk. She tried ineffectually to squirm away again, so he tightened his grip even further, stilling her. He was determined to make Charlotte Matheson be rational if it was the last thing he did. "Be realistic, Charlie. If I was going to hurt you, I would have already. And there's no chance in hell you'd ever be able to kill me." One of her eyebrows twitched slightly upwards. Bass tilted his head warningly. "That wasn't a challenge, it was the truth. Face it." 

She’d composed her face back to careful blankness, but at least she was listening to him now. He forged ahead while he had the advantage. "Your mom's in danger, and you need to warn her as soon as you can. You have no weapons, no transportation, no food, no money—” 

"I have money," she said defensively, then bit her lip as if wishing she could recall the words. 

Bass felt his own lips twitch. That bit of information had been easier to extract than he'd expected. "I have horses. They'll get you there faster. I have a trailer full of food." 

"And weapons?" Her tone was challenging. 

Bass smirked. "Whatever you want, later. When I can trust you." 

Charlotte snorted in outrage. "When you can trust me?" 

"I haven't seen you saving my life lately—" he began to say patronizingly, when she suddenly frowned and brought a hand up to her head. Bass stiffened warily, afraid this was some trick, but her eyes were growing unfocused and she suddenly slumped forwards, head falling heavily against his chest as she lost her footing. 

"Woah, Charlotte," he rasped, hands sliding down her arms to support her by the elbows, now the only thing keeping her from falling to the ground. "I told you to take it easy. They drugged you up bad." 

She mumbled a string of curses under her breath, at him or her assailants, he wasn't sure. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, and tried to use the leverage to stand up again, but it was no use. She was too disoriented to even lift her head up from his chest, and he felt more than heard her growl of frustration as it vibrated through him. He couldn't resist the surge of satisfaction that shot through him at her helplessness. Where reasoning and bargaining hadn't worked, maybe her current physical limitations would. She couldn't walk away from him again if she couldn't even stand up on her own. 

Leaning back a little, he loosened his hands from her elbows just enough to swoop her up into his arms, ignoring her indignant little shriek as he carried her to the other side of the fire and deposited her gently on the ground where there was a fallen tree trunk against her back to support her. "Enough with the martyr act, Charlie," he said firmly. "You're going to sit right here, and you're not going to move, and you're going to drink the rest of the water in this canteen." He shoved the object in question unceremoniously into her hands. "Then you're going to eat. Sleep some more. And when this rain lets up and you can stand up without me holding you, we'll be on our way. Together," he added unnecessarily, as if there was any question that his intentions had changed the least bit. 

He moved to the other side of the fire to heat up some beans in a pan for her, glancing up through the shimmering, heated air every once in a while to make sure Charlotte was following orders. She was sipping slowly, swallowing carefully, eyes focused once more and regarding him from beneath furrowed brows. It was almost the curious expression of a child trying to solve a puzzle. No doubt trying to fathom how General Monroe could be even a slightly decent person. He got the sense that Charlotte was at that age where she was more than old enough to resent being ordered around, but still young enough to secretly feel comforted by it. 

When the beans were warm, he wrapped the pan in a cloth and pressed it into her hands along with a battered spoon. She ate steadily and quietly. Meek was the last word that could ever be used to describe Charlotte, but she was compliant now, seeming resigned to accepting that she needed him. Bass wasn't about to let his guard down and trust her any more than he would a wild dog he'd lured in with food. But they seemed to have reached a truce for the time being, and that was progress. He'd just be careful to keep all sharp objects away from her. 

During her last few bites, she was fighting a losing battle to keep her eyes open. Bass whisked the dishes out of her hands and tossed a ratty wool blanket over her that had probably belonged to Eyepatch, judging by the smell. "Thanks," she said bitingly, but there wasn't as much venom in her voice as usual, and she was hardly in any shape to complain. 

Once she was safely unconscious again, Bass stretched out on the other side of the fire with his own blanket, keeping his swords close to hand and letting the relentless patter of rain on the leaves overhead lull him to sleep.  

  

Chapter Text

The first thing she noticed upon waking up was that the rain had stopped. She hadn't even opened her eyes yet; it was the lack of the steady sound of it that told her, replaced by the occasional bird chirping, the echoing chatter of squirrels, and the fat plop of collected water trickling down through the leaves. And the snap of firewood, the clank of a cast-iron pan, and soft footsteps through the leaves. If she kept her eyes squeezed shut, she could pretend he was Miles, and that this was one of the many identical mornings they'd had on the way to Philadelphia. Strange how the exact same sounds could be either comforting or irritating depending on who was making them. 

She couldn't keep her eyes shut forever, though, and now that she was awake her body was taking every opportunity to remind her just how miserable it was. Her mouth was bone-dry, as if all the moisture had been leached out of it to help sustain last night's downpour. Her head throbbed, pounding focused into a pressure point just behind her eyes. She shifted uncomfortably on the ground, trying to catalogue all the painful bruises she'd been too angry to notice last night. She'd surprised even herself with her vehemence, but she couldn't help herself. She'd been all too aware of her own helplessness, thanks to being drugged, but she'd been determined not to back down or give in to it. It was humiliating, Monroe seeing her like that, so she took it out on him. It was true that she hated him, had good reason to, and that she didn't trust him for a minute, also with good reason. But the fact remained that he had saved her, no matter his reasons, no matter how despicable he was. And she still wished him dead, but she didn't think she'd be able to be the one to do it anymore, thanks to her internalized sense of fairness, her moral code instilled by her father. The world was unforgiving and bizarre and messed up, as she had daily proof, and that meant that she owed Monroe now in ways she was loathe to repay.

She could just consider them even, although her life would never be equal payment for Danny's and her dad's, but his saving her was personal in a way their deaths hadn't been. Charlie wasn't delusional; she knew Monroe hadn't pulled the trigger himself. But she could blame him for it, and he was guilty of it, distantly. 

Altogether, she was in a very precarious situation. Monroe was offering his help, and she didn't want it. She didn't trust it either. But, and she could admit it to herself now if not to him, she needed it right now. What a difference a few days made in changing her mind. He'd said as much to her before, and she'd scorned it and walked away. General Monroe would have made sure she regretted that, would have reacted in anger and shot her or attacked her or something.  

There was something different about Monroe now. She mostly attributed it to his fall from power, his complete loss of everything that had defined him before. A dictator's temper tantrums got results; a random itinerant man's were just pathetic. But that didn't explain everything. There was a patience to him now, a resignation, a world-weariness that surprised her. If she was going to trust him, any tiny part of him, it would have to be that part. But she still rebelled at the thought.  

It was no use trying to fake being asleep any longer. She'd have to face him sooner or later, and he'd probably already noticed the shift in her breathing or something. She hadn't even spent much time around him, and she already knew the man was uncannily observant. 

Charlie cracked an eye open, hesitant to flood them with brightness, but the stand of trees mostly protected her from the early morning sunlight. She was lying on her side, back pressed against the rough bark of a log. The first thing she saw was the refilled water canteen sitting inches from her face. Real subtle, Monroe. She pushed herself slowly to a sitting position, wincing when her head pounded in protest. She reached for the canteen and darted a glance around. He was sitting across the fire from her, watching her. She tipped the canteen back and took a large swig of water, swishing it around in her mouth for longer than necessary, savoring it like she'd been crawling through a desert for the last few days. She felt Monroe's eyes on her still, so, irritated, she stared at him right back. 

He looked even worse in the light of day than he had the night before. She'd been shocked by his appearance then. It wasn’t like prizefighting in New Vegas or getting knocked out and tied up for a day had done wonders for his health, but he’d still resembled the polished, objectively handsome—Charlie cringed at the thought, but there it was—General Monroe, albeit scruffier and more unkempt. But when she’d finally regained consciousness last night, he’d looked different, exhausted and downright miserable. The expression lingered this morning, the dark circles under his eyes deepened in the harsh light of day. Charlie felt a vindictive kind of satisfaction at the sight. She hoped he slept horribly, last night and every night, haunted by every awful thing he’d ever done, although that was unlikely. More likely that he’d been expecting her to attack him again all night. 

“You look terrible,” Charlie said conversationally, hoping to be rewarded with a flinch or a grimace. 

All she got was a ghost of a smile. “I haven’t exactly been relaxing at the spa the last few days, Charlie.” 

She frowned. “The what?” 

“Never mind. Hungry?” 

She took her time responding, drinking deeply from the canteen and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Maybe.” Her stomach chose that very moment to make a liar out of her, emitting one of those long, lingering growls that sounded like some kind of animal was trapped inside. It was too much to hope that he hadn’t heard that. 

“Then maybe I can find some breakfast for you,” he said sarcastically. 

She swigged sullenly at the canteen for the next few minutes, refusing to look at him until he was standing next to her, holding out a chipped bowl full of…beans. Those were going to get old really fast. Charlie sighed and accepted the bowl, the first spoonful in her mouth almost before it had left Monroe’s hands. She was starving. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate some variety in her diet. “Any chance of anything besides beans?” she asked around a mouthful of the offending substance. 

Monroe was leaning against the trailer, the faintest trace of irritation finally etched across his face. “Well, you see, this fine vehicle’s previous owners…” He tapped a hand against the side of it. “…were men of simple tastes.” 

Charlie wrinkled her nose, shoving the blanket that smelled like musty old man the rest of the way off of her. She shoveled the remaining beans into her mouth. Maggie would’ve been horrified at how completely she’d abandoned her table manners. Charlie’s heart lurched painfully at the thought, but she was used to that feeling by now. She patted her hand against the corners of her mouth. “Is there any meat?” 

He gave her a withering look. “You think I’ve had time to hunt? When would that be, between tracking you and saving your ass and nursing you back to health?” 

Nursing was putting it generously. He’d thrown water and food and a blanket at her and sat back to watch her recover for a day and a half. Charlie chose to overlook that, though. Right now she was starting to wish there was some kind of animal in her stomach, just not an alive one. “I’m a good hunter,” she offered, trying to decide which she valued more right now, a well-balanced meal or a weapon. 

Monroe had his arms crossed over his chest, expression indecipherable. “Can you hunt with your bare hands?” he asked mildly. 

“Of course not.” 

“Then tough luck.” He pushed off from the side of the trailer and walked around it, disappearing inside, leaving Charlie clutching an empty bowl and fuming. 

When he emerged, she was considering her spoon, wondering how difficult it would be to poke one of his eyes out with it. And she might have tried, if she hadn’t been interrupted by him dumping half a jar of pears into her bowl. Her stomach won out over her anger again. 

He sat down, closer to her this time, leaning against the same log a few feet away. He had one of his swords across his lap, and he kept running his thumb absently up and down the edge. Charlie glowered at him while she ate, sure he was doing it on purpose to taunt her. 

When her bowl was nearly empty again, he broke the silence. “So, Charlie,” he began conversationally. “Where are we headed?” 

She gave a brittle grin around the mouthful she was chewing. “Nice try.” 

“Excuse me?” 

So they were playing that game again. The one where they pretended they hadn’t heard each other. Guess I have to spell it out for him. “You’re crazy if you think I’m just gonna give you a location. What’s to stop you from taking off without me?” 

Monroe gave that little breath of a laugh that he made before he was about to say something patronizing. “Oh, Charlotte—” He cut the very end of the word off like he hadn’t meant to say it. “You’re crazy if you think I’d try to show up there without you. Your mom’d shoot me on sight.” 

“Don’t think she won’t even if I am with you,” she shot back warningly. 

“I’ll take the chance.” 

Charlie swirled her spoon around the few remaining pear chunks in her bowl. She could feel his eyes on her. “You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked. 

“I might.” 

“You don’t even have to give me a specific location. Just a general idea.” 

She ignored him, twisting her spoon to watch the pear piece on it fall back into the bowl with an unappetizing plop. 

“Look, Charlie, you gotta give me something. Meet me halfway here.” 

The words would sound pleading come out of anyone else’s mouth, but somehow Monroe made them confident. Persuasive. She looked up again to meet his startlingly blue eyes. She’d told him he was nothing a few days ago, but the truth was she still saw flashes of the militia general in him, an inherent charisma that would never desert him, no matter how broken he became. It was at times like that she understood why people followed him, despite the fact that he wasn’t quite sane one hundred percent of the time. But all that had nothing to do with her. He wasn’t going to persuade her into anything she didn’t want to do. But she wanted the things he’d offered her last night, weapons and food and transportation, and if he was part of the package deal she’d be better off keeping him sort of appeased. It wouldn’t hurt to give him a general distance, maybe a vague direction. 

She sighed, pretending like he was prizing the information out of her. “It’s about six hundred miles. We could get there in maybe three weeks? If we make really good time.” 

Genuine surprise flashed across his face, mouth even gaping open a little, which amused her to no end. “Six hundred miles? How’d you get that far away from them?” 

“I walked.” Her mouth twitched up into a smug grin. 

“You know what I mean. Why?” His tone was all sorts of impatient. She’d successfully cracked open his steady façade of nonchalance. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just kind of…wandering around.” 

Monroe snorted. “Running away, you mean. As far away as you could get.” But he must have seen something dangerous in her eyes, because he held both his hands up like he was surrendering. “Hey, I get it. Your mom’s a…complicated woman. And Miles can be a pain in the ass. Don’t look at me like that. The man was my best friend for over thirty years. I know him. Better than you do.” 

Charlie didn’t want to hear about that. “Is that too far for you?” It was supposed to sound scathing, but it ended up hurried and far too obvious that she was trying to change the subject. Apparently he didn’t mind humoring her this time. 

“Farther than I expected,” he said dryly. “I assume we’re going to keep heading south?” 

She shrugged noncommittally, popping the last bite of pear into her mouth. 

“That’s okay, I don’t need you to tell me. They’re somewhere in Texas.” 

Startled, she dropped the spoon into the empty bowl by accident. She tried to cover her mistake by setting the bowl down on the ground noisily. “You want to play guessing games?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. His eyes were crinkled up in the corners. He was laughing at her. She hated that. She hated him. 

“Charlie. You’re a terrible liar. And it’s simple process of elimination, anyway. The Republic and Georgia aren’t the best places to be right now. No one wants to live in the Plains Nation. And Texas is…well, Texas, but at least it’s got a functioning government. And I remember now, Rachel had family in Texas.” 

She eyed him warily, wondering if he’d extracted that information under torture or something when he held her mom prisoner. Her stomach broiled at the thought. 

Once again, he was far too observant. “You always forget, I knew them before.” Everyone older than her always got a faraway tinge to their voice when they said that word, like it was the name of a distant, earlier, better world that she could barely remember. She supposed that’s exactly what it was. Before. Before families were separated permanently. Before everyone started trying to kill each other. 

Monroe was still talking. “No way to keep in contact and know for sure they’re still alive, but the possibility was probably enough for them. And it’s not like Miles has any fam—” He cut himself off, wisely choosing not to go there. If he expected her to travel with him and not try to kill him, he’d better avoid that subject like it was a fatal disease. Instead, he stood up, sheathing his sword and crouching in front of her, so close his boot was brushing her leg. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them to get away from him. 

“So, I’ve offered you my help and all my worldly possessions.” He made a sarcastic, sweeping gesture at the trailer. “Not to mention saved your life. Demonstrated multiple times that I have no intention of hurting you.” 

“Yeah,” she said indifferently, wondering where he was going with this. 

“Those are all reasons to trust me. Now, I need you to give me one good reason to trust you.” His eyes bored into hers so intently that she was finding it difficult not to look away. But that would look suspicious. Shifty eyes always did. So she held his gaze, but silently, struggling to find a reason that didn’t exist. She couldn’t stand him, she wanted him dead, and she’d tried to kill him, and they both knew it. But now she’d accepted that she needed him, and he was giving her a second (Third? Fourth?) chance. The mere fact that he was giving her so many chances made her even more suspicious of his intentions. For some reason, he really wanted to get to Miles. For all she knew, she could be leading him straight there so he could do something horrible. 

She sighed. Trust. Such a simple word, such a difficult concept. Did she trust Monroe? She trusted him not to kill her, and that was something, at least. More than he could say of her. She trusted him not to betray her identity, which was probably something else he couldn’t say of her. Was that enough? It would have to be, for now. 

“Look,” she said resignedly, “I don’t really have one. We both know I tried to kill you, and that I’m not sorry.” She clenched her jaw and looked him squarely in the eyes. His eyebrows rose a little and she could tell what he was thinking as clearly as if he’d spoken it out loud. You can do better than that, Charlotte. 

He wants to trust me, she suddenly realized, not understanding why, not wanting to know what that meant. He had no reason to want that. No reason in the world. 

“I’d do anything to save my family.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth before she’d thought them through, and that was how she knew they were true. “Anything. Even…even work with my worst enemy.” The phrase sounded melodramatic when she said it out loud, but it was how she’d thought of him for months. 

Monroe studied her for a few long seconds. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not your worst enemy anymore then. Let’s save that distinction for the U.S. Government.” He spat the name out like it disgusted him. “I’m your ally now.” And, bizarrely, he extended a hand like he wanted to shake on it. Charlie didn’t move, just eyed his hand like it was a grenade that might explode if she touched it. 

“Shake, or no bargain,” he said patiently. She took her time unravelling her arms from around her knees, then held out a limp, unwilling hand. He clasped it in his and shook it twice, firmly. His touch was warm and gentle and it didn’t disgust her nearly as much as it should. She yanked her hand away the second he loosened his grip. 

“Not so fast, Charlie. You might need help standing up.” 

“I can do it,” she shot back, trying to get her legs under her and pushing up off the ground before he could try to help. But, once again, she was doing things too fast before her poor abused body was ready for them, and she dizzily started to tip over, head not adjusting to the new altitude quickly enough. Monroe caught her under the arms and lifted her the rest of the way to her feet, holding her there until she was steady enough to stand on her own. She brought a hand to her traitorous head. “Just been laying down for too long,” she said dismissively. “I’m okay.” When he let her go, she managed to recover her balance enough to maintain some dignity. 

“Well, since you’ve made such a full recovery,” he said, bending down to pick up her empty bowl and press it into her hands, “why don’t you wash this while I hitch up the horses?” His tone was challenging, like he expected her to fail at even that small task. Determined to prove him wrong, she wobbled towards the bucket of water he had by the fire, completing that task as well as going back to fold the smelly blanket, even though she would rather have thrown it on the fire. It took her longer than usual, though, and he was finished with the horses in time to intercept her before she could climb in the back of the trailer to put them away. 

“I’ll do that,” he said, whisking them out of her hands. 

“Afraid I was going to grab a weapon on my way out?” 

He jumped out of the trailer, closing and latching the door before answering. “You were.” 

She turned to watch him put out the fire, hands itching to do something and irritated that she couldn’t. 

“What’s your weapon of choice?” 

“What?” She blinked, surprised at the question. 

“The weapon you’re best with,” he said, rephrasing the question like she was a toddler. 

Charlie debated lying to him, keeping her true strengths hidden. But it might be good for him to know them, after he’d spent all this time carrying her around and practically spoon-feeding her. She wanted him to know she was just as capable as him. So maybe it was her pride speaking for her, but she answered truthfully. “Crossbow.” 

He paused to look at her, raising an eyebrow. “Really?” 

Charlie crossed her arms and leaned against the trailer to take some of the strain off her unsteady legs. “Really. I used to live in this place called the Monroe Republic. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” He wasn’t looking at her, busy pouring dirt over the embers, but she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twist up. “Anyway, it was run by this guy called General Monroe. Real douchebag. He wouldn’t let us have any guns. So we had to get really good at using other things.” 

When he straightened to look at her, she thought he might be angry, but instead he was fighting a genuine smile, lips compressed together but his eye-corner wrinkles betraying him. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange. “If you think this is gonna get you a weapon sooner, you’re sadly mistaken.” 

“I wasn’t trying,” she said innocently. “Just telling a story. I wasn’t done.” He walked past her, and she followed him to the front of the trailer. “I practiced every day for years and I got really good. So good that I usually bagged enough game for the whole village. We had gardens too, but they appreciated the fresh meat.” 

He was double-checking the horses' harnesses, snorting at her not-so-subtle hints. 

“Squirrel. Rabbit. Venison.” The only thing this was accomplishing was setting her stomach growling again. She gave up and eyed the seat above her, wondering if she could summon enough equilibrium to be able to hoist herself up without getting dizzy. 

Warm breath in her ear startled her. “Answer’s still no.” Monroe was standing behind her, so close his chest was almost pressed up against her back. Before she had time to step away, he’d seized her around the waist and was lifting her up onto the seat. Her hands flew to his arms, to steady herself or to push them away, she wasn’t sure. But it was too late; she was already settled on the hard wooden bench. She spluttered in protest anyway. “That wasn’t necessary.” 

He didn’t answer, just hoisted himself up right after her, forcing her to scoot down the bench to make room for him. “Am I driving?” she asked. Apparently she was cracking jokes at Monroe now. As if this day could get any weirder. 

“No. You’re…” He shifted on the seat to pull something out of his back pocket, then dropped it into her lap. “…the navigator.” 

She unfolded it gently, running her fingers over the worn creases. It was an old map from before the blackout, covered in states and cities and roads that didn’t exist anymore. But there were newer markings all over it as well, indicating territory boundaries, passable highways, centers of population. It must have belonged to the bounty hunters. Someone had penciled in an X and marked it New Vegas. She elbowed Monroe in the arm, pointing to it. “Hey, Jimmy King. Someone knew you were there. Didn’t just stumble on you by accident.” Judging by his grim expression, he’d already come to the same conclusion. He slapped the reins across the horses’ backs, and they lurched forward, the trailer jostling over uneven grass to reach the nearest road. 

Charlie leaned back, trying to get comfortable while she shook the map out to its full size and studied it. “You know,” she said, not able to resist getting one last dig in, “since I’m riding shotgun, it only makes sense for me to have…a shotgun.” She rolled her head to the side to look at him as she spoke. 

He just stared straight ahead, not so much as a twitch pulling at his mouth. Man, Monroe was cranky all of a sudden. Maybe she’d finally stepped on the line of his patience. She sighed dramatically and turned back to the map. 

“How do you even know that phrase?” he asked after a minute, when she thought the moment was past. 

“I’m not illiterate. I’ve read some westerns.” 

“You calling us cowboys?” 

“Of course not,” she said disparagingly. “Cowboys didn’t drive stagecoaches. But people tried to rob them, which is probably a problem we’re going to have.” 

“I think I can handle a few wannabe thieves without your help, Charlotte.” 

“Back to Charlotte now, is it?” Charlie asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. 

And then he turned to look at her, a self-satisfied grin creeping onto his face. Bastard. He’d only been calling her Charlie as part of his persuasion scheme, as if using the familiar name would make him come across like more of a friend. Now that he had her cooperation, he thought he could call her whatever he wanted. Well, she’d show him. He still needed her to find Miles, and she might just decide to take off in the middle of the night one of these days. Maybe he’d find her again, but she wasn’t going to make anything easy for him. She hid these thoughts behind a false, sickly sweet smile before turning back to the map to study it and seethe some more. 

They spent the rest of the day in uncompanionable silence, only speaking to clarify their route. Monroe was morose and quiet, thoughts clearly occupied by something unrelated to his current actions. Charlie wasn’t any more inclined to talk, exasperated with the entire situation he’d put her in, annoyed she had to work with him, annoyed she had to travel with him, annoyed she had to sit next to him, annoyed he wouldn’t give her a weapon. 

Brewing in silent anger as she’d been all day, she was surprised she hadn’t reached a boiling point by the time they stopped for the night. The only thing that cheered her up was that they’d made good time, covering about thirty miles even with all the stops to rest the horses that Monroe had insisted on. They’d passed through a few towns, and she’d tried to get him to stop so she could buy some decent food, but he wouldn’t stop anywhere with lots of people around. Too paranoid after New Vegas, she supposed, and she thought it was stupid. He’d blend in with the crowds, and besides, how many people outside of Philadelphia knew what he looked like anyway? But he had the reins, and he got his way. 

So it was another night of eating whatever non-perishables the bounty hunters had kept stocked in the trailer. But it wasn’t raining, and that was something. And Charlie was feeling immensely better, which was also something. The bouts of dizziness had passed and the only residual effect she still noticed was a slight headache. Maybe best of all, she’d claimed one of the blankets that didn’t smell like the old Russian man. 

Monroe had grown more and more exhausted-looking as the day went on, and in the light of the fire he looked just about dead on his feet. He was good at hiding it, but Charlie supposed everyone had a breaking point, even him. He’d probably only gotten a few hours of sleep total in the last three days. 

When they were finished eating, she broke the silence. “I can take first watch.” 

His eyes were wary, but all he said was, “You should sleep.” 

“Can’t. I’ve done nothing but sleep for the last two days.” It was true. She felt wide-awake and restless. She needed to do something. “You know, you can’t stay awake forever. You’ll get delirious. Start hallucinating. You won’t be any help at all, and I’ll ditch you.” She raised an eyebrow, trying to show him how dead serious she was. 

“I’m sure you’re such an expert on sleep deprivation,” he said wryly, but he looked like he might be relenting. He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked back at her. “Fine. But you wake me up halfway through the night for my turn, and you wake me up if you hear anything. Anything.” 

“Yeah, I got it. Go to sleep before you fall over.” 

He settled down on the other side of the fire, and she got up to walk around the perimeter of the clearing they’d camped in, partly checking for danger but mostly just making sure she could walk a reasonable distance without getting dizzy. She made it around a half-dozen times before she felt satisfied, then she sat down again, drumming her fingers against her leg silently. It was like they didn’t know what to do with themselves when she wasn’t holding a crossbow. Damn Adam for putting her in this situation. If that was his real name. It was almost his fault as much as Monroe’s. Well, if she was being honest, it was partly her fault too. If she hadn’t been so single-mindedly set on killing Monroe that she’d put her crossbow down for a second in exchange for a gun, which she’d thought at the time would be a better way to ensure that he was actually dead. But she’d failed that time too, and in the process lost her crossbow. Stupid. Miles would yell at her for that. Rookie mistake, Charlie. Never put your weapon down. Which was why she wasn’t going to tell him. 

She looked over at Monroe. His chest was rising and falling at steady intervals, one hand wrapped around the handle of a sword, the other thrown up over his head like a baby. Danny used to sleep like that. Charlie tried to shove the thought away, but it propelled her to her feet and towards Monroe. He was deep asleep, and for a moment she imagined gently prying the blade out of his hands and sliding it soft as a whisper right through his ribs. But it was just that, her imagination. She wasn’t going to do it. Wouldn’t or couldn’t, she wasn’t sure. She sat down again, just a few feet away from him, eyes trained on his face. He looked younger in his sleep, not that he looked that old anyway. Sometimes she had to remind herself that he was the same age as Miles. There was just something boyish-looking about him, and it was weird considering everything he’d done in his life. She tried to imagine the person he was before the blackout and couldn’t. All she could see was General Monroe. Which was why she still didn’t understand why he was doing any of this. How much could she really trust him? 

She didn’t know why she did what she did next. Maybe it was a test. She knew she couldn’t kill him, and now she wanted to know if she could just walk away again. She pushed herself silently to her feet and started walking, not in a circle around the perimeter, but straight off into the woods. She could always come back if she changed her mind, and he’d never know. 

She wasn’t even to the tree line when his voice stopped her dead in her tracks. “Charlotte.” She swiveled around to look at him, trying and probably failing to not look like a little kid who’d just been caught doing something her parents told her not to do. He hadn’t moved a muscle from how she’d left him. And his eyes were still closed! The man had uncanny senses. She swore he’d been dead asleep just seconds before. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, eyes still closed. 

“I have to pee,” she snapped. “Is that okay with you? Or would you like to watch?” 

“No, thank you,” he said calmly, shifting under his blanket and settling his hands on his stomach. 

Charlie watched him for a minute, distrustful. 

“Thought you had to pee,” he mumbled. 

She whirled around, stomping off into the woods without answering, since it obviously didn’t matter how quiet or noisy she was. He’d hear either way. It was infuriating. Why did he have to be so good at everything? She’d assumed he might be hopeless in the wilderness, that he’d lost all his survival skills from sitting pretty in Philadelphia for too long. How wrong she’d been. 

She didn’t actually need to pee, but she stayed out in the woods for a while anyway, savoring the time away from him. When it was getting to be long enough that he probably thought she had diarrhea from all the beans he was making her eat, she made herself go back. He hadn’t moved, still looked peacefully asleep, but she could see past that trick now. She settled back on the ground, grumbling softly to herself as she dislodged a few pinecones from underneath her and pulled the blanket up to huddle under. She still wasn’t tired, and she decided she wouldn’t wake him up when it was his turn to watch. She’d just let him sleep right through the night. It’d serve him right. 

But Monroe outwitted her once again, startling her out of a bored daze a few hours before dawn. He was adding logs to the fire before she’d even noticed he was awake. 

“Your turn,” he said, jerking his arm back to avoid a flying spark. 

“I told you, I’m not tired.” 

“Your eyes are half-closed.” 

Charlie was tired now, but she’d die before admitting it. “Fire’s smoky,” she muttered. 

“Suit yourself.” He sat back down, and she stared into the fire for what felt like ages, mesmerized by the shifting flames, trying and failing to keep her eyes open for the rest of the night.

 

Chapter Text

To Charlie’s relief, Monroe didn’t bring up her half-hearted escape attempt the next morning. Apparently they were both willing to pretend that wasn’t what she’d been trying to do at all. Charlie couldn’t guess Monroe’s reason, but her own was that she was surprisingly tired of fighting with him. Just a few days of it had exhausted her, first physically, then verbally. She was afraid she was already moving into the next stage of fighting him, a silent battle waged in the conflicted corners of her mind. 

He looked like a new man in the early-morning light, all traces of fatigue erased by what she had to assume was a good night’s sleep. She didn’t know how that could be when he was such a light sleeper, attuned to any slight change in his environment. He’d probably wake up if a fly landed on the ground yards away from him. But she couldn’t deny the evidence right there on his face; he looked years younger, and almost…happy wasn’t the word. Contented was more accurate. It wasn’t an expression she’d seen on him before, and she found her eyes landing on him more than they should as they broke camp. 

Much more than they should, and apparently enough for him to notice. “Do I still look terrible?” he asked, amusement creeping into his voice. 

She didn’t know which he thought was so funny: her assessment from the previous morning or the fact that he’d caught her outright staring at him this morning, and she was so busy trying to decide which one that a “No” slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. She darted her eyes away guiltily, not wanting to see his reaction to that. 

Fortunately, he misunderstood the staring and the quick denial. “Flattery won’t get you a weapon any quicker than the other ways you tried.” 

“No,” Charlie agreed, relieved to change the subject. “I’m trying something new.” 

“Really,” he deadpanned. “What’s that?” 

“Patience.” 

His hands stilled on the harness buckles and he looked up at her, blue eyes infused with surprise and warmth instead of their usual icy wariness. Despite that, she felt the tiniest shiver run down her spine. She didn’t want him looking at her like that. So she spun on her heel, walking away to finish loading the supplies they’d used back into the trailer. He seemed to trust her with that job today, despite their constant bickering over weapons. Not that it mattered anyway; she’d given the interior a cursory glance and didn’t see anything promising. He must have hidden them somewhere, and if she tried to go rifling around looking for them, he’d yank her out of there in a heartbeat. No, patience really was the best course of action now, much as she hated to admit it. 

After Charlie bolted the door shut, she walked back to the front, ready to climb up and be on their way. Monroe was bent over, examining one of the horse's front hooves. She'd already noticed how surprisingly gentle he was with them, and now she found herself watching him yet again as he set the hoof down and straightened to stroke the horse's neck. His mouth moved as he spoke to it, too quiet for Charlie to hear. The horse snorted and tossed its head slightly, and Monroe leaned away a little, a rare, genuine smile flashing across his face so briefly it was almost like she’d imagined it. 

It disappeared when he glanced up and realized she was watching him. Their eyes locked for a second, then he turned away to pat the horse on the nose. "Shoe's loose," he said. 

"How loose?" 

"Enough to cause problems if we don't get it replaced." 

Charlie moved forward impatiently, brushing past him to check for herself. She wasn't exactly an expert on the subject, but it didn't take a trained eye to see that a few of the nails weren't as tight as they should be. We don't have time for this, she thought, feeling irrationally irritated with the poor horse. She put her hands on her hips and looked at Monroe. "I don't suppose you can count re-shoeing among your many talents?" she asked dryly. 

He gave her a withering look. "As a matter of fact, I can. But I don't have the tools for it. None in the trailer," he added, anticipating her next question. 

"That's convenient." It was probably better not to antagonize him, but most the time it was too tempting to resist. 

"I don't see you leaping to offer assistance, Charlotte. If you’ve got a hammer and anvil hidden in there,” he gestured vaguely towards her chest, “feel free to hand them over.” 

She ignored that, crossing her arms defensively and sighing in resignation. "Okay, what do we do? Can he walk on it for a while?" 

"Should be fine for a few miles, if we take it easy." He frowned down at the hoof in concentration, like it could provide answers. "You said yesterday there's a town not too far away?" 

"Yeah." She'd told him more as a warning, since he seemed so anxious to avoid the slightest bit of habitation. Under normal circumstances he'd skirt around it, but now it seemed he intended to stop there. 

"What's it called?" 

"Dodge City. I went by it on my way north, but I didn't stop there. It seemed decent-sized. There'll probably be a farrier there." 

"What?" he asked sharply. 

"Dodge City?" she repeated, voice slightly unsure. 

His frown deepened and he swore softly under his breath. 

"Is there a problem?" she asked. 

"It's only the hellhole of the Plains Nation." 

She smiled mockingly. "Can't be worse than New Vegas." 

Monroe's eyes took on that serious expression he got when he wasn't in the mood for snarking. That's just great, Charlie. A couple of days with the sociopath and you can already read him better than your own mother. She felt her smile disappear. 

"There are a lot of places worse than New Vegas. This is serious, Charlie. We're gonna have to be careful." 

"Okay. What are we talking about here?" 

"Drug trafficking. Rival gangs. Brothels. Gambling dens." 

Charlie laid a hand across her chest in feigned horror. "Brothels and gambling dens? They didn't have any of those in New Vegas!" 

Monroe ignored her, raking a hand roughly through his hair. "It's not the places, it's the people. They're dangerous. Suspicious. Trigger-happy. If anyone still kept records of stuff like that, it’d have the highest homicide rate of any city on the continent.” 

Charlie thought it was ridiculously hypocritical of him to accuse other people of being suspicious and trigger-happy, but she bit her tongue and climbed up onto the wagon behind him. 

As he started the horses at a gentle pace, she asked, "So what's the plan?" She hated deferring to him for anything, but in this case it seemed the most expedient way. He knew more about this place than she did, and maybe paranoia was good for something sometimes. It'd kept him alive this long, after all. 

"We go in, look for a blacksmith or a farrier. If there isn't one, we get out of there as fast as we can." 

No hope for a decent meal, then. "And if there is?" 

"You stay with the horses and trailer while I take a look around, see if I can find out any more about this U.S. Government." 

Charlie twisted on the bench to look at him askance. "What? No! Why do I have to babysit the horses?" 

Monroe didn't even spare her a glance. "You'll be safer there." 

"I'll be safer?" She felt her voice squeak the slightest bit in outrage. "I'm not the one with a bounty on my head!" 

"Exactly. I'm more likely to be recognized if I stay in one spot for too long. So that's why you need to do it." He finally turned to look at her. "And you shouldn't be wandering around Dodge City anyway." 

"Why? You think I'm naive or something?" Her tone was challenging. 

"It's not that, Charlotte," he said patiently, dropping his eyes from her face to slide them down over her body, leaving her skin feeling heated in their wake. Oh. Apparently it wasn't her he didn't trust. Memories flashed through her head of the men in the bar taunting her, laughing at her, leering at her with hungry eyes. She stifled a shiver. She'd been trying very hard not to imagine what would have happened if Monroe hadn't found her. And he was wrong if he thought she'd ever be so trusting of strangers again. She was torn between feeling irritated that he thought she couldn't handle herself and admitting that the whole situation hadn't reflected her true self to him very accurately. If he thought she was some innocent, small-town hick, well—no wonder. She hadn't given him much proof to the contrary yet. She'd told him he wouldn't be able to track her, but he did, far too easily. She'd tried to kill him and failed a couple of times. She'd tried to escape him a couple of times and hadn't fared much better. And worst of all, she hadn't been on-guard enough when her life was at stake, and he of all people had to be the one to rescue her. 

Her entire body revolted at the thought of capitulating to him, but for now at least, he seemed genuinely concerned for her well-being. She was sure that would change once they got to Miles, but that didn't matter for now. One step at a time, Charlie, she told herself. And besides, she'd decided being patient and agreeable was the only way to persuade a weapon out of him. So she swallowed her pride and said lightly, "Fine." 

Monroe side-eyed her like she'd grown a second head. "What did you say?" 

Of course he had to push it. "I said fine," she repeated, a little more tartly this time. 

His eyebrows shot upwards in disbelief, and she could see the question in his eyes more clearly than if he'd spoken it. "You obviously know more about this place than I do." She spoke the words in a reluctant mumble, half-hoping he hadn't caught them. 

But he had. Of course he had. His eyes narrowed and he studied her for longer than he should have, considering he was supposed to be directing the horses to stay on the road. Then the corner of his mouth twitched suddenly like he was fighting a smile. "Well, look at us getting along." 

"Don't get used to it," she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest and slouching down on the seat. 

As the miles between them and Dodge City decreased, Charlie could sense Monroe growing tenser and tenser beside her, and it put her on edge as well. By the time the town came into sight in the distance, she was surprised she didn't have splinters all over her palms from clutching the wooden seat so tightly. As was usual for post-blackout cities, they had to pass blocks and blocks of overgrown and crumbling abandoned buildings before reaching the section that was still inhabited. But as they rolled into the town proper, she was surprised to find herself relaxing a little. It didn't look so bad. No worse than some other places she'd been. It was rundown, of course, but what town wasn't these days? So maybe an unusually high number of houses had been requisitioned into bars, and maybe the brothels were a little more blatantly front-and-center than such places usually were. And maybe there was a larger-than-usual amount of people packing guns across their backs and in holsters. Seriously, where did they get all these guns? They weren’t just a limited resource in the Monroe Republic. From her travels across the Plains Nation, she’d realized they were even less well-stocked. But what guns existed weren’t kept in the hands of a government; they were only owned by those who were willing to use them in order to keep them. Apparently there were a lot of those types of people around here. 

She heard Monroe give a low whistle next to her. “You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered. “It’s like Gunsmoke around here. Without the marshal.” 

Charlie frowned in confusion, feeling like this was yet another reference from the old world that made her feel clueless. She was about to say something when there was a loud crash of a window breaking, followed by a man being shoved out the door of one of the many taverns. He lurched unsteadily on his feet and tumbled down into the street a few yards in front of them. Monroe calmly directed the horses around him. Another man exited the door, pointing a pistol at the fallen one. A small crowd hovered in the tavern doorway, watching. Charlie twisted around in the seat as they moved past, just in time to see the man on the ground get shot in the head, blood spattering across the uneven gravel. She flinched violently at the sight. She’d thought she was inured to killing by now, but it was different witnessing someone else doing it in broad daylight with a group of people watching. They’d all dispersed back into the bar without a second glance at the dead man. The killer still stood in the same spot, holstering his pistol and regarding the body with an impassive expression on his face. He started to lift his head and Charlie felt a quick stab of fear that he might see her watching and shoot her too. Before she could look away, she felt Monroe’s hand close firmly around her arm and tug her back facing forward again. 

“Don’t stare, Charlotte,” he hissed. “You pretend like you didn’t see anything.” 

She clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead. He was still talking. “That goes for anything you see here. Got that?” She could feel his icy eyes boring into her even though she wasn’t looking at him, so she nodded perfunctorily. 

On the next block, Charlie spotted a heavily made-up prostitute lounging on the porch of one of the brothels. As they drew up even with her, she called out to Monroe. “Hey, handsome. How about a good time? I won’t charge extra if your girlfriend wants to join.” She winked at Charlie. Charlie’s mouth dropped open, not sure which part of what the woman said had her the most flustered. 

To her horror, Monroe reined the horses to a stop. She grabbed his wrist so tightly her fingernails dug into his skin. “What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered fiercely. “This isn’t the time to be thinking with your—” But he’d already shaken her off and jumped to the ground. 

If her glares could kill—and how she wished they had that power right at the moment—he’d have been dead before he reached the woman. Instead, he reached her very much alive. A charming grin slipped onto his face as he leaned towards her and placed a casual hand on her waist, speaking so softly Charlie couldn’t hear a word he was saying. She was seething, but she found herself strangely captivated by the sight as well. It was like he was a whole other man. Maybe this was the pre-blackout Bass Miles had always referred to so obliquely. It certainly wasn’t General Monroe, or even Jimmy King. Whoever it is, he’s going to be short his balls, two horses, and a trailer by the time I get done with him. 

Except he wasn’t entering the brothel, and the woman was gesturing down the street. Monroe dug in his pocket and dropped a diamond into her palm, swooped his head in to brush a kiss against her cheek, then jumped back onto the trailer and grabbed the reins almost before Charlie had time to blink. 

“What—” Charlie started to say as they rolled forward, her voice a mix of rage and confusion. 

Monroe raised an eyebrow at her, face a perfect mask of innocence. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Charlotte. She directed me to the blacksmith.” 

Charlie’s mouth snapped shut. “Like you could have any effect on my panties.” 

He snorted. 

“Why would she assume I’m your girlfriend?” she blurted out, still flustered by the whole incident. 

“I don’t know, maybe because that’s a normal thing to assume when you see a man and woman together,” he said wryly. 

“No, it’s not. You could be my—uncle.” She’d caught herself before saying father. Better to not even speak the word. 

“Do I look old enough to be your uncle?” 

“You are old enough to be my uncle.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her again. He really didn’t. He looked younger than Miles, young enough to possibly be her much older…brother…which was another word she needed to avoid right now. She supposed it wasn’t that strange for someone to assume they were a couple, but she’d be more likely to have a threesome with Monroe and a prostitute than ever admit that to the smug asshole. 

She was pulled away from that bizarre train of thought when Monroe spoke again. “We might need aliases.” 

“It’s a shame you can’t use Jimmy King anymore. That one was pure gold,” Charlie said scathingly. 

“Dave,” he announced to no one in particular. 

“That’s it? Just Dave? Not Davey Prince or something?” 

“Harrison,” he added, sounding oddly satisfied with himself. 

“Please tell me that’s not the last name of some historical dictator or something.” Judging by his scowl, she’d hit at least somewhat close to the mark. She rolled her eyes. “You have serious issues. You can’t even have a fake name that would help you blend in with us common folk?” 

“The Mathesons are hardly common folk,” he muttered. She hardly had time to take that in before he was demanding, “Your turn.” 

“Olivia,” she answered without hesitation. She’d been using a different name every place she’d stopped the last few months. She hadn’t known why she was doing it at the time, but now that there was a bounty on her mom, she was relieved she had. “Livvy for short,” she added. She’d had a friend named that once. They’d braided each other’s hair and played in the woods and whispered secrets, until Livvy’s mom died of pneumonia and her dad decided to move the family to Chicago. Charlie hadn’t seen her since. She didn’t even know if she was alive anymore, but using this name hurt less than some others she could think of. 

“That’s it?” he said dryly, mimicking her earlier words. 

“Cooper,” she added hastily, before he could bestow the same last name he was using upon her. Faking any of the possible relationships that would give them the same fake last name was just too much for her to handle right now. 

Monroe accepted the one-word implication without protest. “If anyone asks, we’re bounty hunters. But don’t go around volunteering the information.” 

“Yeah, got it,” Charlie snapped, impatient that he was still treating her like she was clueless. 

When they were nearing the eastern outskirts of town, Monroe took a turn down a side road and pulled the trailer to a stop outside a metal-sided building that was somewhere between a shed and a barn in size. The large sliding door on the side was open in welcome and there was a wooden sign above it with the word Blacksmith written neatly on it in black paint. The sounds of clanging metal drifted out the door. 

Monroe shifted on the seat, reaching under it and pulling out a belt and holstered gun she’d never seen before. It was like the man produced weapons and accessories out of thin air just to torment her. He glanced up at her as he buckled it around his waist. “If he has the time, might as well get them both re-shoed. So we don’t have to stop again later. You have the money?” 

Charlie patted her right hip pocket, where she had quite a stash safely hidden away. Monroe had actually trusted her with most of that too. He nodded in satisfaction and slung a rifle over his back before jumping to the ground. 

Charlie followed him down, then surveyed him with exasperation as he adjusted his swords in the sheath. She knew for a fact he had at least one knife on him somewhere too. The man was armed to the teeth, and she had nothing. “Got enough weapons there?” she asked irritably. 

He studied her face for a second, and she expected him to have some aggravating comeback. “Wait here,” he said instead before disappearing into the back of the trailer. She absently ran her fingers through the nearest horse’s tangled brown mane while she waited. 

“I assume you know how to use this,” she heard him say softly behind her, and she’d barely turned around before he was pressing a revolver into her hands. She stared dumbly at it, like it was a figment of her imagination, before finally looking up at him. His eyes were wide and serious. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely, not quite knowing what to think or say. 

“Good. Only use it if you have to. I locked the back of the trailer, but keep an eye on it anyway. I’ll be back soon.” His mouth pressed into a grim line. 

She nodded and pushed the revolver through her belt. She noticed the sounds of clanging had stopped and she turned around in time to see a man who must be the blacksmith emerge from inside the building. He had a friendly smile, but his voice was wary when he spoke. “How can I help you?” 

Charlie put on her most charming smile. “We were passing through town, and one of these guys is just about to lose a shoe.” She patted the horse’s neck affectionately. “We thought we’d get them both re-shoed if you have the time?” 

“Sure thing. Bring ’em right on in.” There was something vaguely familiar-looking about him. Not like she’d met him before, but like he resembled someone she knew. She didn’t have time to puzzle over it at the moment, though. 

“Thank you,” Charlie said gratefully, moving forward to unharness them when Monroe’s hand on her wrist reminded her that he was still standing behind her. “Excuse us just a minute,” she said to the blacksmith, then turned to face her travel companion. 

“Still won’t tell me what you’re going to be doing while I’m here?” she muttered. 

He shook his head slightly then stepped close to her, setting a hand on her waist just like he had with the prostitute. He bent his head down, mouth nearly brushing her ear. “Be careful.” His warm breath raised goosebumps on the side of her neck. 

She craned her head up as much as possible while in this position. “If you gamble or get drunk or go back to that prostitute,” she breathed, “I will cut you somewhere you never want to be cut.” 

His eyes crinkled up at the corners, catching her off guard as much as his close proximity. “Why would I do that when I have a girlfriend like you?” She was about to shove him away when his fingers tightened on her waist and his eyes grew serious again. “Be careful.” 

“Yeah, you said that already.” 

“Charlotte.” His voice was whisper-soft but stern. She felt like she was being scolded by an older relative, which felt all the worse coming from him. 

“I will,” she whispered. 

He nodded and released her, stepping back. “I’ll be back soon,” he said cheerfully, but Charlie detected the false note in his tone. She knew the real intent behind the words. It was a warning as much as a promise. She watched him walking down the street, realizing with a sinking feeling that she didn’t want him to leave her now that they were actually in Dodge City. 

She turned back around to see the blacksmith watching her with curiosity in his eyes. She wondered how long he’d been standing there, and if Monroe had noticed. Maybe that was why he’d gotten all up in her personal space. She flushed at the thought. Now this guy probably thought they were a couple too. 

In an attempt to shove her discomfort away, she stepped forward to shake the blacksmith’s hand. “Hey, I’m Livvy.” 

“Jake,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. He was probably a good foot taller than her; she had to crane her neck back to look up at him. The sleeves of his stained gray shirt were pushed up to the elbows and she could see the muscles standing out in his forearms. He didn’t look any older than thirty, and his coloring was dark—dark hair, dark eyes, skin the deep bronze tone that hers only ever reached after a summer spent in the sun. She realized with a twinge the reason he’d looked familiar to her earlier—Jason. Maybe it was his looks, or something about his smile, or maybe it was just the fact that Jason was yet another person who’d been lost to her, and it was a habit of hers to search for familiar faces even when she knew they were gone forever. 

Charlie pulled her hand away hastily, feeling suddenly awkward. “This isn’t interrupting your other work, is it? I can wait.” 

“Why would I make you wait?” He smiled disarmingly. “It’s not every day a beautiful woman needs her horses shoed.” 

Charlie pushed her hair behind her ear and squinted up at him. He was very good-looking, and he was flirting with her. Under normal circumstances she might be pleased, but not in this case when she was anxious to get out of town as soon as possible and was busy worrying about the cranky former dictator who was currently wandering around town unsupervised. “Right,” she said lightly, hoping to cut the flirting to a minimum. “And I’m sure you’re lacking for beautiful women.” 

His grin turned rueful and more genuine, and he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah, that was totally cheesy. Guess I shouldn’t be hitting on my customers.” 

Charlie grinned back, more charmed by this new transparency. “Do you do that a lot?” she asked, turning to unbuckle the harness on the nearest horse. 

“Honestly, I don’t get a lot of women coming in here. I’d probably get shot if I tried that line on any of my regulars.” 

Charlie appreciated his good humor. It was a breath of fresh air after spending a few tense days alone with Monroe. She glanced up at him for a second and joked, “I’m still considering it.” 

His grin widened. He must not get many customers willing to crack jokes with him either, judging by his pleased expression. 

When the horse was free, she led it into the barn and tethered it to the spot Jake indicated. For a while she stood in the corner, leaning against the wall and watching him prying the nails loose, removing the shoes, trimming the hooves. While he was measuring different shoes against one of the front hooves, he finally spoke up again. 

“So what brings you through town?” 

Charlie didn’t know if Monroe would consider that asking, but she did. “Oh, the usual. Tracking someone.” 

He looked up at her. “You’re bounty hunters?” 

She quirked her lip up at one corner and half-shrugged a shoulder as if she was trying to be noncommittal about it. 

He laughed. “Oh, come on. I pound metal into different shapes for a living. I’m not going to go steal your bounties.” 

She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You didn’t happen to hear of a man named Bob Wilson passing through town a few days ago, did you? Big guy, long beard, eyepatch?” 

His brow furrowed like he was actually taking the time to think about it and Charlie pressed her lips together to hold in a smile. “Can’t say I did,” he finally answered. 

Charlie let the smile crack through. “Good. Because he doesn’t exist, as far as I know.” 

Jake looked affronted for a second, and then he shook his head and chuckled. “Fine, keep your secrets. Could you at least tell me how someone like you became a bounty hunter? Might help pass the time.” 

So she did, between bouts of him pumping the bellows to heat the forge, hammering the horseshoes into shape on the anvil, and switching out the horses when he was finished with the first one. She told him a long, twisting, mostly false story, with some nuggets of truth nestled in. She told him how she grew up in rural Wisconsin with her mom and her stepdad. How she never had any siblings, and she and some of her friends got conscripted into the Monroe Militia when they were old enough. She showed him the brand on her wrist as proof. How she didn’t particularly like serving the Monroe Republic, and how she got captured by rebels, who let her live because she was so young. How she fought for them for a while, then deserted when whispers about the Republic trying to turn the power back on started, because it seemed too dangerous to her. How she wandered around aimlessly for a while before getting captured by some bounty hunters who were trying to sell Militia deserters back to the Republic. How the group of them managed to escape, but one of the men wanted to go back and steal the bounty hunters’ supplies, and she’d decided to help him. 

“That’s how I met my partner, Dave.” Charlie had never known she could be such an elaborate liar. The story was almost getting a little out of hand, but it was keeping both her and Jake entertained and, more importantly, keeping him from any more dangerous questions he might be prone to ask. “He’d been a soldier for a while, Monroe Republic and Georgia Federation.” When Jake stopped mid-hammering to raise an eyebrow in surprise, she grinned. “Don’t ask how that worked out. Not well. Then he was a bounty hunter for a long time, mostly for Texas. Somebody sold him out to the Republic and that’s how he wound up chained to a wagon with me.” 

“So you became a bounty hunting team,” the blacksmith supplied, turning away to plunge the flame-hot horseshoe into a tub of water. Steam rose up and obscured her view of his face for a moment. 

“Yep. He had a lot of connections in Texas, so mostly there, but sometimes for Georgia. But since the bombs dropped, pickings have been a little slim.” 

Jake squatted down, lifting up a hoof and positioning the shoe on it. “I hear there’s some guys claiming to be the U.S. Government hiring bounty hunters these days.” 

Charlie tilted her head to the side, alarm shooting through her veins and tensing up her limbs, but she forced herself to look calm and knowing. “Where’d you hear that?” 

He smirked. “You’re hardly the first bounty hunters to come through Dodge City.” 

Oh no. Had someone come through looking for her mom? Or Monroe? Maybe Adam and his partner had come through on their way to New Vegas and Jake recognized the trailer. If she could have, she would have bolted out of there in an instant, but Monroe was still gone and Jake was currently nailing a shoe to one of her only escape route’s hooves. She forced herself to breath evenly. Keep your cool, Charlie. 

“I haven’t actually met any of these U.S. guys,” she said. “But we figured it’s good to keep our options open. I just didn’t know word spread this far north.” 

“Word’s pretty much everywhere by now, I think,” Jake answered, pulling a nail out from between his teeth and positioning it. Charlie watched him for a second, relief flowing through her that he was halfway done with the second horse and she wouldn’t have to stay much longer. “I’ve heard different things, that they’re calling themselves the U.S. Government, that they’re calling themselves Patriots, that they’re heading for the White House. Think they’re the real deal?” 

The word Patriots brought vivid images of Randall launching the ICBMs and shooting himself in the head to her mind. Charlie forced a smile onto her face. “I don’t care who runs the damn continent. As long as they’re willing to hire me, and as long as I get my money.” 

He studied her for a second. “You’re pretty jaded.” 

“Can you blame me?” She sighed. “I’m not really old enough to remember the United States anyway. All I’ve known is militias and war clans and fighting. Guess someone’s gotta clean up the mess all that left behind. That and the nukes.” And that someone’s not going to be these Patriots if I can do anything to prevent it. She didn’t really know what to believe about anything right now, but she knew anyone who torched their own people in an effort to gain control didn’t deserve control. The bounty on her mom just made her hate them more than she already did. 

“I’m old enough to remember,” he said softly, then fell silent. Charlie didn’t know what to make of that. 

She absentmindedly ran her hands along some of the tools hanging from the wall. “Some of these look pretty new,” she said, mostly just for something to say. 

“They are. A lot of mine were antiques. They were falling apart from all the use they were getting.” 

“I’m sure keeping up with the horses alone in this town keeps you pretty busy.” Charlie picked up a heavy pair of tongs and weighed them absently in her hands. Jake had turned away to the forge again, and she was just about to set the tongs back in their place when her finger caught on something engraved in the metal. She turned towards the door, holding it up to the sunlight so she could see. An eye, in the middle of a triangle. She nearly dropped the tongs in her haste to check if the blacksmith’s back was still turned. It was, and she hefted the tongs back into their place, letting her fingers linger on a handle so it didn’t look like she’d replaced it suspiciously fast. 

Her mind was running so quickly she could barely keep up with it, instincts kicked up instantly into fight or flight mode. Unfortunately, she could do neither of those things at the moment, and she was stuck in a barn with…what? An undercover Patriot? One of their allies? There was no way he’d just stumbled on these tools. Maybe he stole them, but that was an assumption she didn’t feel safe depending on. What if he’d recognized Monroe, what if he’d been caught already and Jake was supposed to keep her here until someone came to capture her too? They might not know she was a Matheson, but traveling with the former General Sebastian Monroe would probably be enough evidence for them to justify anything they might do to her. 

She backed up to lean against the wall again and hooked her thumbs into her belt in an effort to calm herself down. Her hand brushed against the revolver hidden under her jacket and she felt a tiny bit of relief course through her. She might have a chance to get away, if she was very careful. She watched the blacksmith finish with the last hoof and return it gently to the ground before standing up and leaning in towards the horse to speak softly in its ear and feed it an apple from the pocket of his leather apron. He seemed so nice and genuine and friendly, she hated to think the worst of him. But she’d told herself earlier that she’d learned caution these last few days, and she had. 

When he straightened again, she thought of something else that might distract him. She dug one of the little bags of diamonds out of her pocket. “Hey, sorry, I probably should have paid you up front.” 

“Oh no, that wasn’t necessary,” he protested, but she’d already moved toward him as she picked through the bag. She’d expected him to be a little more eager to be paid. He wasn’t even holding his hand out.

She stopped in front of him and tilted her head up to meet his dark eyes. “How much was it again?” 

The flirty grin from before was easing onto his face. “I don’t know, you might qualify for a discount.” 

Charlie’s instinct was to dump the whole bag onto his palm, grab the horse, and hightail it out of there, which probably meant she should do the exact opposite. Instead, she leaned towards him a little, plastering a flirty smile onto her own face and asking, “How would I do that?” 

His eyes flickered down to her lips and she tamped down the stab of panic that shot through her. If she had to kiss him to get out of here in one piece, well, that wasn’t so bad. She tipped her face up a fraction farther, an open invitation. One of his hands settled lightly on her hip and he leaned down closer to her before murmuring, “I have a two-for-one deal going on now. One horse for free. Plus a damsel in distress discount.” 

Charlie grinned. “That’s nice, but I don’t qualify for that one.” 

“I know, I wasn’t offering it,” he answered, right before their lips met. He smelled of sweat and hot metal and apples, but he was a good kisser and she felt the muscles ripple under his sleeve where her hand rested, bag of diamonds still dangling from her wrist. It would have been entirely enjoyable if her other hand wasn’t at her side, in easy reaching distance of her gun, and her mind on the alert for the slightest out-of-place noise. 

Which is why she heard the footsteps at the door and whirled around to see Monroe standing there. Charlie didn’t know whether to feel relieved or embarrassed. She heard Jake shifting uneasily behind her and suddenly remembered that he possibly thought Monroe was her…something. Nobody spoke for a long moment. 

Charlie broke the silence. “Uh…I was just paying…Jake here.” She fumbled with the bag and dumped what was probably way too many diamonds into his waiting hand. So much for all those discounts. She walked towards Monroe, mostly to get farther away from Jake. “The horses are done. All done.” She snapped her mouth shut before she could descend into gibbering nonsense. Fear and embarrassment were not a good combination. 

Monroe's icy blue gaze never left the blacksmith. The man had a good several inches and probably a few dozen pounds of muscle on him, but there was something about Monroe that tended to cow other men, even when he was a nameless nobody. Charlie couldn’t quite understand it. “Thank you, Jake,” Monroe said softly, but it was his dangerous voice. 

Charlie glanced between the two men, then stepped forward to fetch the horse so they could be on their way. “Well. I’ll just get...” she trailed off, looking down confusedly to see one of Monroe’s hands wrapped around her hip, fingers entwined tightly in her belt loop. He drew her up against his side. She put a hand up in surprise and it landed awkwardly on his chest. Great. 

“Olivia,” he breathed. He would use her full name, even when it was a fake one. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I had a nice time in town?” 

Was he trying to pretend they were a couple? She didn’t know why, but she figured she’d better play along. She smiled sweetly at him. “I think I’d rather not know the answer to that question.” He chuckled, and she heard Jake laughing uncomfortably behind her. “Did you get a lead on our man?” she asked, leaning in closer and pretending she was half-trying to keep the blacksmith from hearing. 

If Monroe was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. “Possibly,” he said smoothly, his tone belying the tension she could feel radiating off of him. She never would have known it to look at him, but pressed up as tightly as she was against him, she could feel the tautness of his muscles, coiled like a spring and ready to strike. Something had happened to put him just as much on edge as she was. 

“Are you going to tell me?” 

“Possibly,” he repeated, and the charming grin he’d used on the prostitute slipped onto his face. Was Sebastian Monroe fake-flirting with her? And at a time like this? 

She wrapped her fingers around his shirt collar and yanked on it, trying to bring his face down closer to hers. “At least you don’t smell like booze this time,” she said teasingly, but she really meant every word. There was a different smell on him though. The tangy, iron scent of blood. Now was not the time to question that. She leaned in like she was going to kiss him, then veered away, shoving him off of her saucily. She hoped that was a good enough performance for whatever show he was trying to put on for the blacksmith. She went to get the horse and thank Jake again, mouthing “Sorry” to him when her back was to Monroe, figuring he could make of that whatever he wanted, hoping the whole thing had been enough to distract him from speculating about their true identities if he really was working for the Patriots. He smiled regretfully at her, and he was either a really good actor or else innocent of everything she’d been suspecting him of. 

Once outside, she backed the horse up to the trailer and attempted to fasten the harness, but her hands were shaking so hard the buckles were jangling. She jumped slightly when Monroe’s hands took over, gently pushing hers out of the way. She twisted to look at him and he darted his eyes up to the seat, a silent command that she didn’t mind obeying for once. She hoisted herself up and perched on the edge, fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm on the wood as she watched him finish harnessing the horse in what looked like slow motion. Jake had stayed in the barn; she could hear the muted clank of metal as he rearranged tools. The small side street was otherwise deserted. It didn’t look like anyone was following Monroe yet. Still, she breathed a little easier when he climbed up next to her and slapped the reins, propelling the horses into motion and back towards the main street. 

They’d barely turned the corner and Charlie couldn’t contain herself any longer. “That man had the eye symbol on his tools,” she hissed.

Monroe looked foreboding, but also unsurprised. “What?” Charlie nearly spluttered. “Did you know that?” 

“No,” he said shortly. 

“Well then why aren’t you—” She cut herself off when his shirt fluttered slightly in the breeze and she spotted a large, dark stain on his undershirt that she swore hadn’t been there earlier in the day. She pinched the fabric gingerly between her fingers and leaned in to inspect it. Monroe yanked it out of her hands and shifted irritably away from her. “Is that blood on your shirt?” Charlie demanded as urgently as she could in a whisper. “What—why is there blood on your shirt?” 

“It’s not mine.” 

She scooted in closer to him again. “You think I care if it’s your blood? I want to know whose blood it is, and if someone recognized you, and why you weren’t surprised about the eye symbol, and what the hell that performance was you put on back there.” 

Monroe said nothing, just held his nearest hand out palm up. Charlie stared at it in confusion. 

“Revolver,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Charlie was so angry she was reduced to mostly incoherent splutterings, so the most she could manage in reply was an indignant “No!” 

“Give me the revolver, Charlotte.” His voice was even, and he finally turned to look at her. She would have resisted farther, but something in his eyes convinced her not to. They had far bigger problems at the moment than this ongoing weapons spat. 

“I need answers,” she gritted between her teeth as she reluctantly handed over the revolver. 

“Later,” he said, shoving it through his belt and eyeing the other vehicles and pedestrians on the street with the most uneasy expression she’d ever seen him wear. “First we need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

 

Chapter Text

Answers were not as forthcoming as Charlie had hoped. Not that she was surprised. Monroe was nothing if not stubborn. Charlie was stubborn too, but when the two of them came into conflict with each other it was like the fights between stags she’d witnessed a few times in the woods of Wisconsin. Antlers would clash, lock together, both would stand their ground for a while, but inevitably one would begin sliding backwards when their strength started to give out. When it came to a clash with Monroe, that one was usually her. 

Charlie’s definition of later was as soon as we’re out of sight of Dodge City, but Monroe’s seemed to be tending towards hours from now, if ever. Well, the latter wasn’t going to fly with Charlie, but she was growing more accepting of the former as the day wore on. She’d started questioning him as soon as her version of later arrived, and that had gone about as well as expected. She’d questioned, demanded, sulked, and prodded by turns, each less successful than the last. All she got out of him was a couple of noncommittal grunts and an icy glare. Just one. He didn’t look at her again for the rest of the day. There was no way to fight someone who refused to engage. 

Not that Charlie ever gave up fighting, but she knew the value of a strategic retreat. She’d back off for now, but he’d have to break eventually, and she’d get her answers then. 

Once they seemed relatively safe and her adrenaline rush had worn off, she found herself with nothing to do but study the map and try not to doze off as the hours stretched on interminably. It was odd, she reflected, how quickly circumstances could shift from mortal danger to boredom and back again in this world they lived in. In fact, those were just about the only states of existence she’d been living in for the past year. She would wish for something in between the two extremes, but there was no point. 

Monroe pushed the horses much harder than usual all day, only stopping once to let them drink from a stream by the road. He kept them going well after dark, when Charlie’s stomach was growling like an angry bear and she was afraid the horses were going to drop from exhaustion. She’d expected Monroe to have the good sense to stop at any minute, but when that didn’t happen, she resigned herself to charging back into the fray. 

“We should stop,” she said, voice a little hoarse after long hours of silence. No acknowledgement. Not a nod, not a finger twitch. “The horses need to rest.” She raised her voice a little, irritation slipping into it. “Hey! I know you hate listening to me, but if the horses drop down dead, I’m blaming you. And then I really won’t shut up about it.” She punched him in the arm, hard, just for good measure. He flinched and a little surge of vindictive pleasure ran through her. 

“Where do you propose, Charlotte?” he asked tiredly, and she hid her surprise behind her knowledge of the road they were traversing. She’d come this way north, and she’d committed to memory all the best places to stop, planning on eventually making her way back to her family. She just hadn’t planned on having Monroe in tow when she did it. 

A couple of miles farther on, they left the road to camp by a small river. Monroe wouldn’t allow a fire. Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow, but she was too busy wolfing down her dinner to actually question it out loud. She was so starving, she didn’t even care that she had to eat the food cold, or that it was the same jarred mush she’d been complaining about for the last few days. Monroe ate his dinner slowly, staring off into the woods the entire time. 

When Charlie was finished—although her stomach still felt only half-full—she set the jar down on the ground and drummed her fingers against her thighs, the nervous energy she’d been filled with earlier in the day now returned in full force. She studied Monroe as well as she could in the moonlight, but she could only see his profile and even that was half-covered in shadows. He was still spooning bites deliberately into his mouth, the picture of serenity, when earlier that day they’d practically run out of town and he had what looked like a person’s worth of blood on his shirt to boot. Yet still no explanations were forthcoming, and Charlie had run out of patience. 

“I’m still waiting for my answers,” she prompted, trying for a conversational tone so she wouldn’t put him immediately on the defensive. 

He said nothing, just turned to look at her while he pulled his spoon out from between his lips. 

Her voice hardened and she stood up to glare down at him. “Look, I’ve been extremely cooperative today, and you didn’t deserve it for a second. I even gave your stupid revolver back. The least you can do is talk to me. And when I say least, I really mean least.” And before she could stop herself, she’d stomped over to him, yanked the spoon out of his hand, and tossed it off into the grass. 

Monroe met her furious gaze, unfazed. “I was using that.” 

Charlie crossed her arms over her chest. “I was using the revolver. Didn’t stop you.” 

Monroe tilted the jar back, emptying the rest of its contents straight into his mouth. He took his time chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “Were you, though? It looked like you were using something else.” 

Charlie dropped her hands to her sides, clenching them into fists in an attempt to quell the wave of anger that washed through her. If he was trying to turn this back on her, it wasn’t going to work. She didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. “What are you trying to say, Monroe?” She spat the words out like a challenge. 

“I’m trying to say you looked awfully comfortable before you noticed I was standing there.” 

“It’s called a distraction.” 

“Oh?” Monroe leaned back on his elbows, sprawling his legs out straight in front of him. “Does your method of distraction usually involve so much tongue?”

Very much against her will, Charlie flushed. She was grateful he couldn’t see it in the darkness. “What should I have done, shot him?” she asked acerbically. 

“Of course not. Wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun for you.” His tone was even, but he was hiding something behind it. He was irritated about something, but Charlie was at a loss to figure out what. Maybe the fact that, unlike him, she could escape a dangerous situation without leaving a bloodbath behind. But she’d never known Monroe to regret a bloodbath anyway. 

“Yeah, I’m sure you weren’t having any fun stabbing people in a bar, making sure we had to run out of town like criminals,” she shot back. 

“Is that what you think I was doing?” He had the nerve to sound affronted. 

Charlie threw her hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what you were doing, since you refuse to tell me!” 

Monroe sighed, like she was being the unreasonable one. “Sit down, Charlie. I’ll tell you.” 

She didn’t budge. She was kind of enjoying towering over him, even though it seemed to have little effect. He was still sprawled out like they were having a picnic or something. “Did someone recognize you?” 

It was hard to tell in the dark, but he might have looked a little sheepish. “Yeah.” His tone was reluctant. “This is why we were avoiding towns.” 

“You were avoiding towns,” Charlie snapped. “I’m starting to rethink how helpful it is to have you around.” 

Monroe scowled. “He had a militia brand.” 

Charlie laughed humorlessly. “Great. Now you’re killing people who used to work for you. Just when I thought you couldn’t get any classier.” 

Monroe pushed off his elbows and back to a sitting position. He pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “I didn’t exactly have a choice. He was already running his mouth off, then he spotted me—” 

“Did you do it right there in front of everyone? I’m sure that didn’t look suspicious at all.” Charlie walked away and sat down before she could kick him or something. Verbal altercations with him were the norm now, but she’d rather not get into any more physical ones. Not after she’d personally experienced what one well-placed punch of his could do. 

“Give me a little credit, Charlie,” he said, voice sour. “I did it in an alley. Quietly. No one saw.” 

“Well you sure made a mess.” Charlie waved vaguely at his shirt. “That’s all from one guy?” 

He was suspiciously silent. 

“Monroe?” Her tone came out sounding like the one her father always used when he knew she and Danny were hiding something from him. Like Monroe was a disobedient child. The thought almost made Charlie snort in disbelief at the absurdity of it all. 

“There were a couple others on my way back. They were following me. I had to take care of it.” 

If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he sounded almost…repentant. Which couldn’t be. Monroe didn’t think he had to answer to her in any way. Their thoughts on that topic couldn’t be any more opposite. “A couple?” she pushed. 

“Four,” he snapped. He seemed more irritated that he had to admit it to her than that he had to do it in the first place. 

“Excellent.” Charlie flopped back on the ground, throwing an arm over her eyes. “You couldn’t be more conspicuous if you’d tried. Unless you were trying.” Suspicion crept uninvited into her voice. 

“Of course I wasn’t trying.” Monroe sounded scandalized, which might have been funny under other circumstances, but Charlie couldn’t find her sense of humor right now. “What about the eye symbol?” she mumbled. “Care to share why you weren’t surprised the blacksmith’s a Patriot or whatever?” 

“Apparently they’ve had several bounty hunters on the Patriots’ payroll pass through town. These guys aren’t joking around about catching all their wanted war criminals.” Monroe’s chuckle was bitter. “If a couple of drunk gamblers are to be believed, there’ve been some Patriots in town too.” 

Charlie raised her head to look at him. “They get around quick.” She couldn’t keep the apprehension out of her voice, or the fear that they’d already found her mom out of her head. 

“Too quick,” Monroe said grimly. “Rumor is they leave spies behind wherever they go, or at least pay people off to keep an eye on things for them. There can’t be enough of them to cover every town on the continent. But if they’re calling themselves the United States, they’re probably finding allies pretty easily most places.” 

Charlie rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand. “Your drunk gamblers were feeling patriotic?” 

The moonlight glinted off Monroe’s teeth when he smiled. “Hardly. The good citizens of the Plains Nation don’t exactly bleed red, white, and blue anymore. But they’re not stupid either.” 

Charlie sighed. “How much did that info cost you?” 

“If you’re talking money, just a couple of diamonds. Pride…that’s another story.” His tone was rueful. “A few losing hands of poker to a bunch of idiots I could have beaten with my eyes closed,” he added, as if she couldn’t have figured that part out for herself. 

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Glad to know you still have standards,” she said sarcastically. There Monroe sat with blood still on him from the people he’d killed that day, and what he was regretting was having to pretend he was bad at cards. The man was revolting. 

But like it or not, she was stuck with him for now. She plucked absentmindedly at a patch of grass in front of her for a couple of minutes, lost in her own morbid thoughts. “Wash your shirt,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence. 

“Excuse me?” 

“We could run into people on the road and it might be better if you don’t look like, you know, a mass murderer.” Even though he was. Charlie swooped an arm towards the river a few yards away from them. “Plenty of water right there.” 

Monroe got up silently, dropping his overshirt to the ground without comment. His face was hidden in shadow, so for all Charlie knew he might have been glowering at her, but she couldn’t care less. At least he was cooperating. It must have been surprise, then, that kept her eyes locked on him as he walked away, yanking his undershirt over his head as he did. The moonlight highlighted the ripple of muscle that ran through his arms and back at the motion. 

He was crouched by the water’s edge before she remembered how difficult bloodstains were to get out, especially after they’d been drying all day. She heaved a reluctant sigh and got to her feet, rummaging in the back of the trailer for the bar of soap she’d found the night before. She’d been planning on hoarding it for the next chance she got to take a bath. 

Monroe didn’t turn around when she walked up behind him. He obviously knew she was there, but apparently he felt like ignoring her. He was swishing his shirt around in the shallows, not even bothering to scrub the fabric together. Charlie stifled the urge to roll her eyes. She used the bar of soap to tap his bare shoulder, inching her fingers to the opposite end to make sure they avoided contact with his skin. 

He turned his head, taking the soap without comment. 

“Don’t use it all,” she warned. “I’m saving it.” Monroe mumbled something that sounded like assent, so Charlie moved back and sat on a patch of grass, avoiding the muddy spots on the bank as best as she could. 

Monroe wasn’t exactly an expert at washing clothes, that much was obvious. Now that he had the soap, he was at least scrubbing a little more vigorously. He probably hadn’t had to wash his own clothes in years. Sometimes it was strange to imagine how refined his life had been as general of the Republic. When he wasn’t killing people, that is. Did he drink out of crystal glasses? Eat off china plates? Did he have people to cook for him? And servants to clean? It was so far from anything she’d ever known, which made it even more satisfying to witness the state he’d been reduced to, struggling to wash his own shirt. Charlie could have gotten the stain out better, but she wasn’t about to start doing Monroe’s laundry for him. 

“You didn’t answer the rest of my questions,” she said as he set the soap down for a minute. 

He glanced at her briefly. “I’m having difficulty remembering them all.” 

“You suspected the blacksmith was working for the Patriots.” 

“Is that a question?” 

“If you’d let me get to it,” Charlie snapped. “Why?” 

Monroe pulled the dripping shirt out of the water and squinted at it in the darkness, then sighed and picked up the soap to commence round two of scrubbing. “Once someone mentioned they were paying people off as spies, it didn’t seem too much of a stretch. Anyone who sees a lot of people coming and going. Bartenders, waiters, store clerks, and yeah, blacksmiths.” 

“Great. Thanks for leaving me there.” Even Charlie knew that wasn’t exactly a fair accusation, but she liked blaming him for things. Most of them were his fault, so what were a few more? 

“Actually, Charlotte, I lost the game as fast as I could and headed back for you. It was too risky being there, too close to New Vegas, too close to where the bounty hunters found me. Someone might’ve recognized the trailer.” 

“Someone still might’ve,” Charlie pointed out glumly. 

Monroe rinsed the suds off the bar of soap and set it down again. “One of the reasons we don’t have a fire tonight.” 

“You think someone’s following us?” Charlie tried to keep the alarm out of her voice. It wasn’t like she hadn’t considered the possibility, but it seemed more legitimate when Monroe was saying it out loud. 

“Could be. Might as well be cautious.” 

Well that wasn’t very reassuring, but Charlie still had one more, mostly unrelated question, and she was determined to ask it. “So what was with the show you put on back there?” 

“What show?” There was no artifice in his voice. It was like he honestly didn’t remember. 

“Oh, you know, the whispering and the general handsy-ness and your freaky I’m going to kill you stare that you gave Jake.” 

Monroe took his time answering, wringing the water out of his shirt in slow, deliberate twists. “I thought we were pretending to be a couple. Didn’t expect to walk in on you kissing somebody.” 

“I told him we were bounty hunting partners!” 

“Close enough,” he said dismissively, standing up to hang his shirt to dry on a tree branch. Charlie found her eyes resting on his torso again, absently wondering how he managed to have more defined abs than men half his age. 

Then she realized whose body it was she was staring at. Beyond irritated at herself and at him, she yanked her eyes back up to his face, anger infusing her voice. “Damn it, Monroe, the last thing I’m going to do is pretend to be your…your—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. 

Monroe turned to face her, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Grow up, Charlie. No one’s looking for a couple. They’re looking for me, traveling alone. It’s less conspicuous this way.” Charlie could feel his eyes on her, but she stared stubbornly at the ground instead of meeting them. “As long as you’re not throwing yourself at every guy who crosses your path,” he added flippantly. 

Charlie shot to her feet. “Don’t even go there, Monroe. I don’t owe you an explanation, but I’m going to give you one anyway because you’re being a dick about it. He was flirty, I wasn’t, then I saw the eye symbol and I panicked a little. I couldn’t leave until the horses were done and you got back. I didn’t know where you were, I didn’t know what you were doing. For all I knew, it was a trap for both of us. I’m so sorry my first instinct isn’t to start stabbing people when I feel like I might be in danger. He was clearly interested in me, so that seemed like the best way to put him off our scent. And then you came in all…weird and possessive, and you probably ruined the whole thing. When it comes down to it, what was more conspicuous, me kissing one guy or you killing five?" 

Monroe stood in stunned silence at her outburst. It was the most she’d spoken to him at once since…well, ever, so that was probably why. Plus, she hoped it was a reality check for the man who seemed to think he was always right. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said triumphantly, grabbing the bar of soap and stomping off towards the trailer. She couldn’t stand looking at him anymore. 

They spent the rest of the night in surly silence. Charlie paced in restless circles so he would get the hint that she wanted to take first watch without her having to actually speak to him. Monroe didn’t hesitate for a minute, settling down under a blanket and dropping off to sleep with the rapidity of someone who had a clear conscience. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t have a conscience at all. 

He was always restless once he was asleep, though, tossing and turning endlessly. He startled himself awake what probably amounted to dozens of times each night. Charlie could always tell from the break in his steady breathing, although he gave no other indication. Sometimes he mumbled things too, but Charlie tried extra hard to avoid making sense of them. She didn’t want to know what filled the man’s dreams. 

When it was time for his watch, Charlie woke him up with a not-so-gentle kick to the arm. He was sprawled on his back, and he didn’t even flinch when her boot made contact. A cloud had passed over the moon and it was too dark for her to see if he’d opened his eyes, but she could tell that he was awake. The very air around them seemed tenser somehow, as if his constant vigilance radiated out from him to his surroundings. Charlie moved away to her makeshift bed, listening for the soft rustle of Monroe sitting up before she let herself relax enough to close her eyes. 

Morning came too early, as it always did, rays of sunlight invading the corners of her eyelids and making her groan and shift to her other side in a useless attempt to avoid it. 

“Rise and shine,” was the first sound that greeted her in Monroe’s gruff, slightly mocking tone, and she huffed in irritation as the words resurrected flashbacks of their time in the abandoned pool. Charlie sat up slowly, brushing her fingers through her tangled hair and squinting to take in her surroundings. Monroe was no longer sans shirt, thankfully, and it looked like the bloodstain had washed out as well as could be hoped. He’d been ambitious that morning; the horses were already hitched up and ready to go. All that was left for Charlie to do was fold up her blanket and help herself to some breakfast. She fished a jar out of the trailer—of what, she didn’t really care anymore—and climbed up onto the seat. Monroe seemed eager to be gone, and she wasn’t about to slow him down. 

He’d been the one disinclined to talk the day before, and now it was Charlie’s turn. She was still irritated at him after their last argument, and all she wanted to do was eat in peace and doze in the bright morning sunlight. Surprisingly, he let her, and another nearly-silent day stretched out between them. Charlie was torn between feeling relieved that Monroe wasn’t the chatty type and dreading the next few monotonous weeks that lay ahead of them if they kept this pattern up. Boredom’s better than talking to him, she insisted to herself. She really didn’t want to hear a thing he had to say. 

They made good time that day, which was an advantage to them if someone happened to be following, but Monroe stopped for the evening a good two hours before sundown. Charlie eyed him askance as they pulled off the road and headed into the trees, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

She waited until he’d brought the horses to a halt before asking. “Why’re we stopping?” 

Monroe barely spared her a glance as he jumped down, throwing over his shoulder, “Unhitch the horses, would you?” 

Charlie clambered down on stiff legs, muttering under her breath about dictators who didn’t know how to ask nicely for anything. She unhitched the horses slowly, taking time to wave flies away from their twitching ears and rub their soft noses. She was so absorbed in the task that when Monroe softly cleared his throat behind her she almost jumped out of her skin. 

Charlie whirled on him with a scowl. “What are you trying to—” Her voice faded when her eyes fell on what was in his hands. A crossbow. “Where’d you get that?” she snapped. 

“It was in the trailer,” he said casually, turning it over in his hands and eyeing it as though it was fascinating. 

All this time. Maybe she shouldn’t have gone with that whole “be patient” plan. Her eyes were darting between his hands on the crossbow and his face, trying to decipher if this was some new test or taunt or display of superiority. He knew that was her kind of weapon; she’d told him so herself. 

“I thought we could use some meat,” he was saying, and Charlie’s eyes shot back up to his to see they were filled with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. Was he laughing at her? He had a lot of nerve, considering he was the one dangling the crossbow from one hand like he’d never used one before. 

But then she noticed his eyebrows were arched expectantly, and it dawned on her that he wasn’t dangling the crossbow—he was holding it out towards her. Charlie’s hands wrapped around it instinctively, but she was sure distrust was obvious on her face. That is, until she looked down and it was replaced with confusion when she realized it wasn’t just any crossbow. It was her crossbow. 

Monroe gave his short breath of a laugh. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Kind of have. This is my crossbow.” Charlie ran her fingers over the string, greeting it more tenderly than an old friend. She’d never felt more powerless than during the last week she’d spent without it. 

Surprise colored Monroe’s tone. “How’d the bounty hunters end up with it? You had a gun when they knocked you out.” 

Charlie scowled again, not at him this time but at her own stupidity and the fact that she had to admit it to him. “I put it down for a second. Thought I’d be better off using a gun that time.” The words to kill you hung unspoken in the air, and for some reason even thinking them made Charlie shift uncomfortably. 

She looked up to see Monroe watching her with a strange expression on his face. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be inclined to show him any hint of gratitude, but he had just handed her a weapon almost at the same time as she’d admitted yet again that she’d tried to kill him. “Thanks,” Charlie mumbled grudgingly. 

His expression didn’t change. “It suits you.” 

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she settled for a bemused look.

Which he ignored, of course. “Bit of advice, in the unlikely event you’ll actually listen to it. Don’t put your weapon down. Ever, if you can help it.”

Charlie grimaced. “You sound like Miles.” 

“No. Miles would say, ‘Never put your weapon down again, idiot.’” 

The words were so uncannily accurate that Charlie chuckled before she could stop herself. Sometimes she forgot how well this man knew her uncle. Far better than she could ever hope to know him. They shared a lifetime of memories, so why should it surprise her that Monroe would know exactly what Miles would say in any given situation? 

“Yeah. He would,” was all she said, trying and failing to hold back a fond smile. 

The expression in Monroe’s eyes shifted so quickly from amusement to its opposite that Charlie had to look away. She knew that she missed Miles, but it had never occurred to her that Monroe might too. They’d both tried to kill each other multiple times, after all, but maybe there were some bonds that even that couldn’t break. 

Monroe slung a small quiver of crossbow bolts off his shoulder and shoved it in the general direction of her stomach as he moved towards the horses. “Go get some of that meat you’ve been such a nagging pain in the ass about.” 

Charlie’s free hand shot up to loop through the strap before the quiver could fall to the ground as Monroe let go of it and brushed past her. “You want me to go hunt?” She twisted around to watch the path of his hand down the horse’s neck. 

He turned to give her a patronizing look. “Is there any other way to get meat?” 

Charlie’s temper flared up again, any lingering sense of gratitude shoved aside. “You don’t have to be such a dick about it. Yesterday you wouldn’t even let me hold a gun in your presence.” 

“Are you really going to stop and question this?” 

He had a point there. Charlie turned to go. 

His voice stopped her before she’d taken two steps. “Charlotte.” She turned back in time to see a bitter little smile twisting his mouth. “Just don’t shoot me in the back.” 

Charlie didn’t know if that was a joke or a metaphor or if he was serious. Her forehead creased as she studied his face for a moment, trying to understand. She settled on giving a curt nod before walking away. 

She’d already turned a corner on being able to kill him. Much as she wished she was still capable of it, she wasn’t. She owed him too much now, and almost against her will she was realizing that she was seeing him more and more as Monroe the man instead of Monroe the monster. She might be more hardened now than she used to be, but she wasn’t that cold yet. Monroe had no way of knowing any of that though, and yet he’d handed her the crossbow almost as casually as she’d handed him the bar of soap the night before. Did that mean he trusted her now? He’d said as much a few days before. Later, when I can trust you. 

Or maybe his stomach’s just getting the better of his common sense. Charlie brushed her troublesome thoughts away as she melted deeper into the woods, letting her hunting instincts take over as senses replaced thoughts. A familiar stillness took over her brain, and there was nothing in the world but the shifting of leaves in the breeze, the smell of damp earth, the scamper of tiny animal feet across tree roots, the solid weight of the crossbow stock pressed against her shoulder, the cool metal of the trigger against her finger. 

About an hour later, she’d bagged two decent-sized rabbits. Her mouth still watered for venison, but there wasn’t much point in going after bigger game; it was just her and Monroe and they had no way to keep large quantities of meat fresh on the road. A glance at the sky told her she had enough time to get back to camp and cook her dinner before dusk arrived, and with it, Monroe’s no-fire policy. She still couldn’t decide whether to be irritated at or grateful for his constant paranoia. 

When she arrived back at the clearing, she was surprised to see Monroe had already dug a fire pit and filled it with kindling. Charlie couldn’t prevent the small, satisfied smile that crept onto her face at the sight. She’d spent so much time looking inept in front of him that it was gratifying to see he still took her at her word when she said she was good at something. 

And then she remembered that this was Monroe’s good opinion she was reveling in, and a scowl replaced the smile. 

The man himself was seated near the fire pit, occupied with cleaning one of his many guns. Charlie dumped a rabbit into his lap without comment, then unslung her crossbow from her back and squatted next to the kindling, picking up the flint and steel Monroe had left lying next to it. 

She heard a chuckle behind her. “Right through the eye. I’m impressed.” 

Charlie gave a surly grunt. She concentrated on the flint and steel, getting more and more irritated as she struck them together repeatedly and the sparks refused to catch in the dry wood every time. She'd probably lit thousands of fires by this point in her life, and it didn’t usually give her this much trouble. 

Monroe took pity on her after a few minutes, crouching down beside her and pulling the flint out of her hands. A little spike of something shot straight through her veins at the touch, and she flinched away from it. She frowned and said brusquely, "I can do it." 

He chuckled as he struck the flint against the steel, the first spark he produced catching in the tinder. He leaned down to blow softly on it, then added kindling as it started smoking. Charlie’s anger flared hotter than the flames he'd just coaxed out on his first try. And Monroe must have noticed, because he was laughing at her. She stood up to stomp away, but his soft voice stopped her. "I know you can." 

"Then stop being so smug about it." 

He looked at her then, eyes wide and confused, brow furrowed. She hated when he made that face. It made him look like a wounded puppy she'd just kicked. "I'm not." 

"You were laughing." She hated how petulant that sounded. 

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "That's not why I was laughing." She crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow. "That's not the first time you've said that to me," he offered. 

Charlie couldn’t remember saying any such thing to him before. She waited for further explanation, but apparently that was all he was willing to say on the subject. 

Monroe stood, and Charlie heard the familiar scrape of metal against leather as he unsheathed his knife, flipping it deftly in one hand and offering it to her handle-first. 

It said something about how far they’d come that Charlie had taken the knife, settled down next to the fire, and started skinning her rabbit before she even realized he’d offered her the knife when she was crouched within stabbing distance of his femoral artery. 

Monroe had retreated to his side of the fire, but she could feel his eyes on her. He did that a lot. Just watched her, silently. It set her nerves on edge. She tried to ignore why that might be. 

"You know, Charlotte, it doesn't mean you're weak if you accept help sometimes." 

She snorted, keeping her eyes on her work. "What's that saying about the pot and the kettle?" 

"I'm not the one who left everyone behind and tried to turn into some sort of lone wolf assassin." 

She ripped savagely at the rabbit's pelt. "I don’t need help. I've been on my own for months. I'm not a child." 

"I'm aware." There was something strange in his voice. She looked up, curious despite herself, and noticed his eyes had darkened. A shiver ran through her. There was an implication there, but she didn't want to think about it.  

Fortunately, he spoke again before she could. "You and I, we can both take care of ourselves. We have a special skill set." 

"Yeah. Yours is killing." 

"So is yours, darling." 

The endearment sounded all wrong coming out of his sneering, patronizing mouth. "You've killed way more people than I ever could," she shot back, voice tight. 

"Oh, you want to compare numbers now? Do you even know how many people you've killed?" She didn't have an answer to that question, so she stared resolutely at him instead. "I'm guessing you lost count. So did I, a long time ago. And don't try to tell me it was self-defense. They're all somebody's parent. Kid. Sibling. They all mean something to someone, somewhere." She felt herself flinch visibly at his words. He always knew how to get under her skin. She could feel his eyes appraising her, appreciating the involuntary reaction he'd coaxed out of her. "But you can't think about that, because it's inconvenient." He rolled the word around on his tongue, drawing it out. "Guess we're not as different as you'd like to think." 

She blinked, unwilling to even deign that with a response. He wasn't done, though. "I'm good at killing. I'm good at surviving. I can do it on my own, easily, but I'm better with someone else. I'm better with Miles. I could be better with you." She must have looked surprised at the admission, because a slow grin stretched across his face. "And you could be better with me. That doesn't make either of us weak." 

She'd never let him know it, but he was hitting a fragile spot. She'd been trying so hard, for so long, to prove to everyone that she didn't need to be protected, didn't need to be coddled. She didn't need her mom to suddenly come back and start trying to be a mother again too little, too late. Miles hadn't stopped her from leaving, but that was about the first time he'd let her make her own decision about something. And now Monroe had shown up in her life, and she'd ineffectually tried to kill him, multiple times. His first escape was sheer luck, but the other times he'd made her feel so inefficient. Even worse, he'd been so careful not to hurt her, like she was a pesky child trying to punch him in the stomach and all he had to do was wrap his hands around her fists to stop her. He treated her attempts to murder him like an annoyance, which angered her even more. Monroe, of all people, wouldn't even take her seriously when she was dead set on killing him. Which was why she was so surprised about how seriously he was taking her now. Like she was an adult, unlike how everyone else in her life treated her. She'd become an unwilling student of his moods in the last week, and she knew him well enough now to know that he wasn't mocking her; he was in earnest. He almost seemed begrudgingly respectful. That couldn't be. Could it? 

She smiled a false, brittle smile. "That sounds like crap. I know you're still congratulating yourself on saving me in that bar." He tilted his head, looking perplexed. "Oh, don't even try to deny it." She waved her knife around in the air, trying to make her voice low and breathy like his. "Poor, stupid Charlotte almost getting herself gang-raped and killed if I hadn't literally kicked the door down and killed everyone." 

Monroe's mouth was twitching and his eyes had crinkled up at the corners in genuine amusement. "Is that the best impression of me you can do?" 

An exasperated groan worked its way out of her mouth without her permission, and she set the skinned rabbit down so she could sharpen a stick into a makeshift spit. She threw way more effort into it than necessary, the knife slipping past the end of the stick a few times and nearly stabbing her in the leg. 

"On the contrary," he said, voice soft and even. She didn't understand how he did that, how he always used such a polite, civilized tone, even when he was angry or sad or had just killed someone. It made her feel like he was always winning, because he was always in control, if not of circumstances, at least of himself. She couldn't say the same. "It looked like you were doing pretty well on your own if those bastards hadn't drugged you." 

She was so shocked she dropped the knife. It fell blade first, stabbing into the soft dirt. "Was that a compliment?" she asked warily. 

"No. Just a fact." 

He was either telling the truth, or he already knew her well enough to know she'd respond best to respect. With him, it was impossible to tell. 

"It wasn't the first time something like that happened," she confessed. "Just...no one drugged me the other times. And I made them sorry they didn’t.” She clamped her mouth shut then, not willing to go into any more detail on that subject. 

"I figured. Most men would look at you and think they see an easy target." 

"But you wouldn't," she said skeptically. 

"I'm not most men," he smirked. 

She narrowed her eyes. He was being suspiciously flattering lately. Definitely up to something. 

He wasn't done though. "Most men would be wrong if they thought that. I'd be right." It took a second for his meaning to sink in. He was so disgustingly full of himself. She seized the nearest thing her hand landed on and chucked it hard at his face. It turned out to be a pinecone, but she wished it'd been the knife. 

He ducked, but not fast enough, and the pinecone ricocheted off his forehead. He sat back, rubbing his head, a rueful grin slipping onto his face. "Really, throwing pinecones? Little childish, don't you think?" 

"You're lucky it wasn't a rock," she growled, stabbing the poor dead rabbit onto the spit with more violence than was strictly necessary, pretending it was Monroe's arm. She propped it over the fire and tossed the knife on the ground next to Monroe on her way to the trailer to get water. 

When Charlie returned to the fire, Monroe seemed to be struggling with skinning his rabbit. She observed him silently for a minute. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, but his method was slow and much messier than it needed to be. She cleared her throat to get his attention, then smirked when he paused to look up at her. “You’re pulling it in the wrong direction,” she said patronizingly. “Need some help with that?” She leaned down to rotate her rabbit on the spit, expecting him to reject her offer. Sure, he’d said all sorts of things about accepting help and cooperation not making you weak, but she suspected he didn’t even believe the things that came out of his mouth half the time. Charlie sure didn’t. 

She was shocked, then, when he held the rabbit and the knife out to her without protest. She’d been calling his bluff, but there was a challenging glint in his eyes now like he was calling her bluff. Damn it, he’d tricked her into half-preparing his dinner for him. Charlie bit back a sigh as she took the rabbit, not feeling nearly as triumphant as she’d expected when she handed it back to him fully skinned moments later. 

“Thank you, Charlotte,” was all he said, and try as she might to detect a note of sarcasm in his tone, it just wasn’t there. 

So Monroe won that round, but Charlie was determined not to let that spoil her enjoyment of the first substantial meal she’d eaten in days. They ate in oddly content silence. When darkness fell, Monroe put out the fire and offered to take first watch. Charlie curled up on her side, one hand on her full stomach and the other curled around her crossbow that lay next to her, and fell into the most peaceful sleep she’d had in months. 

 

Chapter Text

It’d been three days since Bass handed the crossbow to Charlotte, and to his complete surprise, he hadn’t had cause to regret it yet. In fact, he was finding himself feeling the opposite of regret, especially when he settled down each night with a satisfied stomach and the taste of freshly-cooked meat still lingering on his tongue. 

He had to admit—to himself if not to her—she was good. She was very good. Bass considered himself a passable hunter, a passable tracker. He’d never have survived so long in this world if he wasn’t. They were necessary skills that he’d worked to acquire, but never excelled at. Not like fighting. For him, fighting was as easy as breathing, as effortless and as necessary. 

The opposite seemed to be true for Charlotte. He’d seen her fight, experienced it firsthand a little, and while she was good compared to the general population, Bass picked up the flaws in her technique like he had a special radar for sensing them. Her hunting and tracking skills, on the other hand—he didn’t even need to follow her on a hunt to know they were unparalleled. The silent way she moved spoke to it, the graceful way she melted into the woods like she belonged there, and especially the fact that she never returned empty-handed. Bass was almost jealous, but he knew his own deficiencies in those areas were mostly his own fault. He’d sat pampered in Philly for too long, not that he’d had much choice in the matter. General Monroe could hardly go gallivanting off to the woods to shoot his own game, let alone prepare it and cook it. 

So no, he didn’t regret giving Charlotte the bow. If someone had told him a week ago that he’d be feeling that way now, he would’ve laughed in their face. But it’d been another show of faith on his part, and it seemed she’d taken it as such. He was still wary, not fully trustful of her, and he suspected that would always be the case. He couldn’t fall into a deep sleep around her, not that he’d had a truly restful sleep since the night the bombs dropped. A small, paranoid corner of his mind was always screaming that she was simply waiting for the right moment to cut his throat. But she’d had more than enough opportunities to shoot him since getting her crossbow back, and she hadn’t tried. She even wore a knife slung low against her hip now, and she never so much as glanced at him when she was using it to skin game or split sticks. Slowly, against his better judgment, Bass was beginning to accept the fact that Charlie had changed her mind about killing him. 

Why that might be was more difficult to pinpoint. He’d hoped the bounty on Rachel’s head would be enough to convince her, and it hadn’t been. He would say it was because he saved her life, had assumed after his initial failed attempt to convince her that this, at least, she couldn’t ignore. But she’d tried to snatch the knife and lunge for him almost the moment she woke up after being drugged. If he’d expected gratitude, which he wasn’t even sure he had, he would’ve been terribly disappointed. But he’d at least expected slightly less hostility, and been disappointed in that as well. 

But now, there was—well, Bass didn’t know what there was. Hostility still radiated off of both of them in waves—Bass was pretty sure they spent half their waking hours arguing—but it was different now, tempered by a kind of grim determination that they needed each other. He’d been feeling that since finding the bounties, but he hadn’t identified it in Charlie until sometime after Dodge City. Ill-advised as that whole fiasco had been, it was necessary at the time. He’d left a trail of dead bodies in his wake, yes, but he’d come away with information he didn’t have before and a Charlotte Matheson who was now on the same page as him. Well, closer to the same page. Let’s not kid ourselves about that. 

It helped to be able to put faces to the nameless enemy. Not that either of them had seen any actual Patriots, but Bass was fairly certain a large chunk of Dodge City was secretly working for them. Or if they weren’t yet, they would be soon. Once again, he had to admire the bastards’ tactics, even if he loathed them with every fiber of his being. They’d already gotten a good chunk of the Plains Nation on their side just by promising them what they wanted and setting them loose to do what they did best. If a war clan here and there resisted, the Patriots would use the allies they’d already secured to crush them. 

So there was no use hoping for support from anyone in the Plains Nation. It was Texas or nothing now, with the Republic and Georgia in ruins and California so far away, separated from them by the Wasteland and a mountain range. Bass’s plan had been formulating in his head since the bounty hunters captured him, churning around and taking nebulous shape until something happened to ruin part of it, after which he had to reform it into a new shape that was equally as nebulous. There were so many factors to take into consideration, but if he knew one thing it was that Sebastian Monroe was not going to be captured by these Patriot sons of bitches, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life hiding from them. That left one option: take them down, destroy them utterly and completely. 

He hadn’t told Charlotte this plan in so many words, but if she thought about it enough, she’d realize it was the only option. Her mom would never be safe again if they didn’t, and he knew family was a powerful motivating factor for his reluctant ally. 

Bass had no intention of actually voicing his plan to her anytime soon, considering it consisted of just three steps, only one of which he was certain he could accomplish. One—getting himself and Charlotte safely to Miles—seemed feasible. Step two, convincing Miles they needed to defeat the Patriots, might prove more difficult. And step three, actually defeating the Patriots, was a whole mess of its own that would require more brains than just his to work out. 

Fortunately, he had a lot of time to figure all of that out. They were still weeks away from their destination, which Charlotte still refused to tell him. Actually, he hadn’t asked again since that first time, and she was hardly going to volunteer the information. If she felt she needed that little bit of leverage, well, he’d let her have it. After all, they both had all sorts of secrets, half-truths, and withheld information they were keeping from each other. Working together didn’t require that they divulge all of that, and Bass had more than one thing that he didn’t want her to know. Like the fact that the former militia member in the bar had actually spoken his name out loud before Bass managed to grab his arm and drag him bodily out the door. He’d hoped nobody would be listening to a drunken idiot running his mouth off, but Bass had felt more than a few pairs of eyes burning holes in his back as he exited. And the four men who followed him into the alley—well, no one may have witnessed the actual fight, but when Bass dug through their pockets afterward, he found paperwork tying them to both a local drug ring and possibly the Patriots. Needless to say, he’d high-tailed it out of there and back to Charlie, only to find her in a compromising position with a probable Patriot spy. For a second, a wild panic had flashed through him that she was double-crossing him, turning him in to the blacksmith and slipping away back to her mom and Miles in the commotion that no doubt would follow. Anger and a strange jealousy for her loyalty had propelled his actions then, and he’d clamped a hand around her hip and pulled her flush up against him. He’d still been suspicious when she played along with his ruse, plastering herself even closer to his body. Close enough to feel her erratic breathing as her chest moved up and down against his side. Close enough to feel her hipbone pressing into his hand, and the warmth of her skin through both of their shirts—or maybe that was just the blood; it was difficult to tell with fury and fear and irritation running rampant through his head. Close enough to see the emotion in her wide blue eyes, which had been further from the coldness and revulsion he expected and closer to guilt, and that was when he knew she hadn’t betrayed him, because the last thing Charlotte Matheson would feel about that was guilt. 

“…you think?” A voice interrupted his thoughts. Not a voice, her voice. The only voice he’d heard in days. This part of the country was sparsely populated, and the few travelers they encountered on the road tended to bite out an unfriendly greeting and continue quickly on their way. Which couldn’t have made Bass happier. 

“Monroe? Hello!” Charlotte’s voice was snappy now, impatient. Her emotions were easy to read, when she wasn’t taking the effort to cover them up. Bass dragged his eyes from the trees around them to Charlotte’s expectant face, highlighted and shadowed alternately by the flickering orange light of their fire. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh good, you’re alive. For a minute there I thought you’d stopped breathing. You’ve been staring over there forever. Starting to creep me out. Pretty sure you didn’t hear a word I said for the last five minutes either.” 

She was looking at him like it was his turn to say something. “Lost in thought,” he mumbled, unwilling to admit that he actually hadn’t heard a word she’d said. 

“Care to share?” By the way her lips quirked up at the corner, he knew she was cracking a joke. She wasn’t expecting him to do any such thing. 

Bass sighed and stood up to put out the fire. “What were you saying?” he asked, and that was the closest he’d come to conceding. 

She looked a little exasperated, but she pointed over his shoulder towards the top of the treeline, where, off in the distance, a thin column of smoke could be seen against the darkening blue of the sky. “Looks like a campfire. Not many people spending the night out in the open around here.” 

Bass narrowed his eyes, studying the smoke. Yet another secret he was keeping from Charlie. He’d seen it the last two days as well, although he suspected she hadn’t if this was the first time she was pointing it out. Better deal with it tonight, then, he thought tiredly. He’d been putting it off, but he really couldn’t any longer. He wasn’t about to cross into Texas with people still tailing them, or he’d wind up on the wrong end of a Ranger’s gun before he knew it. 

“What do you think?” 

He turned back to Charlotte with a sigh. “I think I’m going to go check it out.” He resumed putting out the fire. 

“Could be nothing,” she ventured. “A hunter, or travelers.” He could feel her eyes intent upon his face, probing for any sort of reaction. The girl was nothing if not persistent. Bass kept his expression carefully neutral. “Or not. You think someone’s following us.” 

Damn, she’s good. Most people had difficulty reading his face even when he wasn’t keeping it blank. “I think I’d like to know one way or another before we cross into Texas,” was all he said, sheathing his knife as he spoke and striding towards the trailer to load a shotgun. 

Charlotte trotted after him, already slinging her quiver onto her back. “I’ll come with you.” It was more of a statement than an offer. 

Bass loaded the last shell and snapped the pump handle back with a decisive click to chamber the first. “No you won’t.” He holstered a handgun at his hip and turned to face Charlotte’s patented righteous indignation. 

He’d gotten so used to it, it was almost like greeting an old friend. Her mouth dropped open a little and her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes blazed a shade of bright blue they only reached when angry. In fact, Charlotte’s shocked outrage was downright adorable, and it was possible that he spurred it into existence more than he needed to just so he could enjoy it. 

And Bass didn’t know where that wayward thought came from, so he shoved it back down into the depths of his mind where it belonged. 

She’d already moved on to the next stage, where her mouth snapped shut and her jaw clenched with determination. “You can’t stop me.” 

“That’s debatable,” Bass said mildly. He’d found that the calmer he was, the more worked up she got, and the more enjoyable their little confrontations were. He had to take his fun where he could find it these days. “Charlie, someone needs to stay and watch the horses.” 

“That someone doesn’t need to be me!” She was really in a pique now; Bass was pretty sure he saw her nostrils actually flare, and it was all he could do to keep back a smirk. “Look, I know you think you’re the leader or whatever of this whole trip, just because you’re older and you have more experience and, I don’t know, led a country—very badly, I might add—but you’re wrong. I’m the one taking you to Miles. Cut the condescending crap and treat me like an equal, or you will be very hungry and very alone in short order.” 

And Charlotte actually poked him in the chest with her index finger. Bass stared down at it like he didn’t know how it got there, which he kind of didn’t. When had she stepped so close to him? She had him backed up against the trailer. He was still holding the shotgun in his right hand, so he closed his left over Charlotte’s hand, skimming it downwards to wrap around her wrist and pull it away from him. Her arms were bare without her jacket on, and he didn’t realize his mistake until his thumb met the rest of his fingers on the soft underside of her wrist, then brushed against the scarred ridge of her militia brand. She jerked away like his hand was the burning piece of metal that had given it to her, crossing her arms over her chest and staring stubbornly at the ground. 

Bass watched her sudden change in demeanor with confusion, until he realized some sort of shame had clouded her face, and she was afraid he was going to say something about her brand. Taunt her about it. Maybe he would have once, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it now. 

Bass cleared his throat awkwardly, wishing he could erase the last thirty seconds and go back to Charlie raging in his face. But he still needed to win this fight. He’d discovered an easy way out now, while she was vulnerable, but he wasn’t going to take it. “One of us needs to check it out and one of us needs to stay here,” he said, voice sounding a little rougher than he meant it to. “Which’ll it be, then?” 

Charlie pressed her arms more tightly against her torso, burying her wrist in the fabric of her shirt. “I’ll stay here,” she muttered, still refusing to look at him. 

Bass studied her for a second. “Okay then. I’ll be back soon.” 

He headed out towards the road, then retraced their steps towards the thin column of smoke, keeping to the trees when he could. It was still light enough to be seen, and he couldn’t afford to be reckless. 

It took longer than Bass expected to reach it, considering how visible the smoke had been from a distance. It was either a very large campfire or else someone was using some very damp wood. The second was doubtful; it hadn’t rained in days. Bass gripped his shotgun more tightly, circling deeper into the woods so he’d be approaching from a less vulnerable position. 

He heard voices before he saw the light of the fire, and he reacted instinctively, pressing himself into the shadow of the nearest tree, eyes flicking over his surroundings to ensure no one had seen him. All clear. The voices were a low rumble, and he couldn’t make out the words. All he could ascertain was that it sounded like several men. He needed to hear what they were saying, or else this entire venture was pointless. 

Raising the shotgun to his shoulder and slipping his finger onto the trigger, Bass stepped out from behind the tree and moved to the next as quickly as possible, mindful where he was placing his feet to avoid snapping twigs or rustling dead leaves. A good hundred feet of woods lay between him and the circle of evergreens that partially blocked his view of the fire. He took his time behind each tree, checking his surroundings repeatedly. There was no guarantee the entire group was sitting by the fire. 

When Bass was as close as he dared to get, he took up position behind a pine with branches scraggly enough for him to see through. He knew he had the advantage of dusk on his side, while the fire gave him a clear view of the men around it. Bass counted five of them, and they were nondescript enough. A cowboy hat here and there, lots of dirty jackets and worn boots. He could hear the soft, restless snorts of horses off to the side. So they weren’t on foot. Half of a deer was roasting over the large fire, which explained all the smoke. Bass counted the gun barrels he could see glinting in the light of the flames. One for each of them, and more to spare. 

He didn’t like it at all. So far, they were just eating, speaking around mouthfuls of venison about nothing of particular importance, telling a joke here and there. Bass kept his gun steady, pressing farther into the tree, inwardly cursing the pine needles that poked through his sleeve as he did it. They could just be travelers. It could be a fluke that the same kind of campfire had been trailing after them for days. Unlikely, though. They outnumbered him, so he should probably take the advantage while he had it. He was, after all, the shoot first, ask questions later type. It’d kept him alive this long. He sighted down the barrel towards the nearest man. 

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Miles invaded his head. Idiot. Information first. Don’t go all Rambo on me now. To hell with suspicion, it was definitely Miles. And it was followed by a surprising, far more inconvenient voice, though it shared Miles’ exasperated tone. I’m so sorry my first instinct isn’t to start stabbing people. Shooting, in this case, but her point stood. It might not be necessary this time, and her way was far less conspicuous. He’d eat his own boots before ever admitting it to her, though. She was already difficult enough to live with. 

So he lowered the gun a fraction and waited as the minutes rolled by interminably, listening to their inane conversation, waiting for them to give some clue as to who they were or what they were doing. 

Finally, it came. “We’re going to be in Texas soon. We’ll have to be more careful then.” 

“Damn Rangers don’t know how to mind their own business.” 

“I still say we should speed up, catch him now before someone else does. Take him to Dallas, or Austin. Maybe Texas’d pay more.” If Bass had any doubts before, that squashed them all. He tightened his grip on the gun, forcing himself to listen longer before doing anything. 

“Would you stop saying that? He’s slippery as an eel. I told you, the best way is to follow, catch him as close to Dallas as we can. We’re not taking him to Austin. It’s the Patriots that want him.” 

“What if he’s not heading that direction?” It was the same voice that had objected before. 

“I told you before, we’ll follow until he stops heading that way, then we won’t have a choice.” 

The disgruntled one still sounded unhappy. “Reckon Texas’d pay just as much. I heard he tried to have Blanchard assassinated.” 

“That was years ago,” the other man said dismissively. “What’s your sudden fixation on Texas? Scared of the Patriots?” 

“I don’t trust ’em. Where’ve they been all these years, and why are they showing up now all of a sudden?” That is the question, isn’t it? Bass thought grimly. The man seemed to have the minority opinion of the group, but he was talking the most sense. 

“We don’t have to trust them to take their money. You don’t like it, you can leave.” 

“Maybe I will,” the disgruntled one drawled, then stood up and left the circle of the fire. When the others jeered him, he grumbled that he was just going to rub down the horses. 

Bass watched him walk away, then eyed the remaining four, debating what to do. They were still talking, so he delayed his decision once more. 

“We’re sure he’s traveling alone?” one of them asked quietly, seeming reluctant to be the brunt end of everyone’s derision like the other man. “I swear I saw him driving through town with a woman.” 

“The blacksmith said he was.” The confident one was speaking again. “He was the last person to see him before he left town. What woman in her right mind would risk traveling with Monroe anyway?” 

Under less dire circumstances, Bass would have been hard-pressed to keep back a chuckle. Charlotte would not be pleased to hear this man’s opinion on her mental state. 

A twig snapped behind him and Bass whirled around to see the disgruntled man emerging from the woods behind him. He must have circled around, gone to fetch water for the horses or take a piss in the trees. Their eyes locked for half a heartbeat, both widened in confusion, then the other man’s hand flew to his holster. Not quickly enough. Bass dropped him with a shot before the man’s hand could close around his gun, not even taking the time to aim. Cursing, he turned around to face the consequences of his blown cover. 

Chaos was reigning in the group around the campfire, some of them dropping to the ground, others grabbing for their guns, all of them looking around wildly for the source of the echoing shot. He aimed more carefully this time, managing to take out the nearest one with a headshot before the others could pinpoint his tree as the origin. A spray of bullets followed, but he’d anticipated them, throwing himself to the side, then sprinting off into the trees so he could circle around to the other side of their camp. Like Pittsburgh, Miles would’ve shouted cheerfully, except this wasn’t like Pittsburgh at all because Bass had to do it alone. 

The trees were narrower than he expected on the other side, with fewer branches close to the ground, and one of the remaining men had tracked his movement. Bass sidestepped out from behind a tree, determined to kill the man before he could draw attention to his location. He squeezed the trigger—and his gun jammed. Shit, this is not how I’m gonna die, was all he had time to think before his instincts had already taken care of it for him, dropping the shotgun, yanking his knife from its sheath, and hurling it straight into the guy’s neck in one smooth motion. He fell with a quiet, bloody gurgle, not even getting off a shot, giving Bass time to whip out his handgun and drop the fourth man before hurling himself behind the nearest tree again. He pressed his back to the trunk, panting and taking quick stock of the situation. He was down two weapons, with only the handgun left. One man left, with three definitely dead. He wasn’t sure about the first, but the guy had to be badly wounded at least. 

A bullet whizzed past the tree, nearly taking off his ear, followed by several more that embedded themselves in the bark of the tree or in the dirt near his feet. A clicking sound followed, indicating the chamber was empty, followed by a muffled curse. Bass only had a couple of bullets left himself. It was now or never, before the man grabbed one of his fallen comrade’s guns. He launched himself out from behind the tree, his first shot a blind one that startled the man just enough for Bass to fire a carefully aimed second one that ended the shootout. 

Four bodies lay still around the fire, and Bass stepped carefully into the ring of light to survey the scene. He squatted next to the one who’d been most determined to take him to the Patriots, reaching into his jacket pocket to see if he could find any paperwork. 

“Not so fast,” a voice said behind him. Bass closed his eyes, wincing at his own mistake. There’d been a sixth man away from camp, and he hadn’t even stopped to consider the possibility. He was out of ammo, and he cast his eyes around looking for a gun, but there weren’t any in easy reaching distance. 

“Hands up.” Bass reluctantly obeyed, hoping the man knew who he was. Having a bounty on his head could come in handy this time—save his life. 

“Bastard, you kill them all?” the man muttered. “Joe and I told them this would happen. Should’ve caught you days back. Where is he? You kill him too?” 

Bass assumed Joe was the disgruntled one, and he couldn’t answer that question because he didn’t know. Instead, he turned his head slightly, throwing over his shoulder, “Did you a favor. Now you don’t have to share the bounty.” 

The man took a few slow footsteps forward. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. I can’t get you to Dallas by myself. I can find easier bounties. And you killed my friends.” 

This was only heading one way. Bass was desperately looking for an escape. He had a knife hidden in his boot, but even he couldn’t move fast enough to get it before the man could get a shot off. He could hope for bad aim, but the man had moved closer and was in nearly point-blank range. 

“You just signed your own death warr—” There was a sharp whizz as he spoke, followed by the meaty, unmistakable thunk of an arrow hitting flesh as the man’s words cut off. Bass was up and around, knife in his hand, in a flash, just in time to take in the man’s scraggly brown beard and blank eyes as he fell limply to his knees, then collapsed sideways on the ground. 

Bass could feel his mouth hanging open as his brain struggled to catch up with what had just happened. His chest was heaving, each breath reminding him that he was still, miraculously, alive. 

Charlotte stepped into the circle of light, crossbow already reloaded and held at the ready. Bass felt a surge of relief, then panic, then relief again when she lowered it slightly. She had the most smug expression he’d ever seen on her face. “A thank you would be nice.” 

Bass stared at her blankly. He recognized the words, but he couldn’t pay attention to them when so many thoughts were rushing through his mind. Of course she’d ignored him and left their camp unguarded. But if she hadn’t, most likely he’d be dead. She could have killed him herself, right here, before he would have even known it was her. But instead, she’d killed the person who was about to kill him. And here she stood, firelight catching the blonde in her hair, a patronizing half-smile on her face as she looked at him like some vengeful angel come to pay back everything he ever did, good or bad. 

He didn’t even know what he was thinking anymore. He was going insane. He snapped his mouth shut. 

The moment was over, and Charlotte had moved from smug to survival mode with dizzying rapidity. Her crossbow was back up. “Are there any more?” 

“Uh.” Bass struggled to collect his thoughts, moving to put his knife back in his boot and pick up the nearest rifle one of the men had dropped. “I shot one back there, I don’t know if he’s dead.” 

They were both silent for a second, listening, then Bass registered a nervous whinny and the stamp of hooves. His reaction was a reflex, scrambling away from the campfire and sprinting towards the sound. The dark shadow of a group of horses came into view, and the even darker shadow of a man, hunched over atop a horse like he was in pain, just breaking away from the group at a full gallop. Bass fired the last few shots left in the gun, but the man was already out of easy range and disappearing quickly, back down the road the way he’d come. 

The rifle was empty, the trigger pulling at nothing, and Bass threw it down with a hissed, “Damn it!” He heard Charlotte jogging up behind him, and he rounded on her angrily. “I told you to stay back with the trailer!” 

Charlotte held her crossbow in one hand, the other resting on her hip, and she looked thoroughly unperturbed. “I just saved your life. And me not staying with the trailer has nothing to do with that guy getting away.” 

Bass glowered at her. He was in no mood to have all of his recent failures thrown in his face like that. He unsheathed his knife, slicing through the ropes holding the horses in place and sending them trotting off with a few slaps to their backsides. 

Charlotte watched in silence until he brushed past on his way back to the fire. “We could’ve used those.” 

“Don’t need them,” he snapped. Unless something had happened to theirs while they were left unattended. Bass shoved the thought away, squatting by the nearest body and yanking his bloody knife out of the man’s throat, aware of Charlotte’s eyes on him as he wiped it off as well as he could. 

“Didn’t have a choice, right?” she said scathingly. “Did you even get any information before you killed them all?” 

Bass tilted his head skywards, wishing in vain for patience, for a break from this unrelenting woman. But when he spoke, his voice came out more tired than angry. “Actually, yeah. There are Patriots in Dallas. They were going to turn me in there. They’d been following us for days. And they didn’t know you were with me.” He stood up and turned to face her, jabbing his knife in the direction the injured man had ridden off in. “Except now, he does.” 

Charlotte’s voice was small. “Dallas?” 

Bass wiped his sleeve across his nose, not understanding why that was the one thing she was focusing on. “Yeah.” 

Now her voice was infused with worry. “That’s directly in our path to Miles. The Patriots may have gotten to my mom already.” 

And that was the last straw. Bass lost his temper finally, moving to kick a nearby log violently into the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air, his “Damn it!” not a hiss but a shout this time. 

 

Chapter Text

“My turn.”

Charlie sighed, lowering the binoculars from her eyes and passing them to Monroe with a flick of her wrist. He took them carelessly, hand brushing against hers like he didn’t even notice. Charlie tried not to flinch at the touch, keeping her eyes on the checkpoint in the distance.

“You went to kindergarten before the blackout, right?” he murmured. “Didn’t they teach you to share?”

“Not with people like you.”

Monroe chuckled. “Well, Charlotte, feel free to find your own pair of binoculars then. These are mine.”

“Only because you stole them,” Charlie said with disgust.

Monroe dropped the binoculars and twisted to look at her in disbelief. “Really? You’re going to take the moralizing that far? They were bounty hunters. Safe to say they stole these too. And I got news for you, Jiminy Cricket, you’ve been riding around on a stolen trailer and using stolen weapons for the last couple weeks, so maybe take the hypocrisy down a couple of notches.”

Charlie frowned at the new nickname, mostly because she didn’t know what it meant. Quick as a flash, she yanked the binoculars out of Monroe’s hands, bringing them back up to her eyes as she adjusted her elbows on the ground. “By that logic, they’re mine now,” she said smugly.

Monroe only snorted. She had to give him credit for being oddly patient with her most of the time. She took inward delight at pushing all of his buttons, seeing how far she could take things. She was fairly certain that would have been a dangerous, deadly game to play with General Monroe, but he was just Monroe now, and he let her play it for whatever reason. He even seemed just as much amused as he was irritated when she did it, which was not something she could ever have predicted. She still didn’t know what to make of it.

She focused the binoculars on the figures in the distance, squinting like that would help bring them into focus even more. “I count at least a dozen Rangers, plus whoever they’ve got stopped right now.”

“I’m not surprised. This is one of the main thoroughfares into Texas.” Now irritation crept into his voice. “Why did you bring us this way, again?”

“It wasn’t like this on my way north,” Charlie protested. “Plus I was on foot. I left the road sometimes. Maybe the checkpoint was here and I just missed it.”

Monroe gave a long-suffering sigh. Charlie rolled her eyes behind the cover of the binoculars. She was not going to apologize.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, like it was his problem to figure out. She had an idea, but he wasn’t going to like it, so she was saving it as a last resort. She shifted on her stomach, batting a rock out from under her hip. The sun was beating down overhead and there was dry grass poking into her sides, but she didn’t dare change positions. They were sprawled out next to each other on the crest of a hill, using the long grass as cover while they observed the checkpoint. They’d left the horses and trailer at the bottom of the hill, safely out of sight of the road.

“Terrain’s too rough for the trailer to leave the road for long.” Monroe shifted on the ground beside her, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “We could take it back the way we came, circle around and take one of the passable backroads.”

“How would we know which are passable?” Charlie asked doubtfully.

Monroe’s tone was mirthless. “Trial and error.”

Charlie shook her head. “We don’t have time for that. Could take us weeks out of our way.” She thought of her mom, and all the horrible things the Patriots could do to her in those extra weeks. “And besides, we might run into more bounty hunters.”

“Okay, we’ve got two options then. Ditch the trailer and take the horses cross-country, or bluff our way through. I’m leaning towards the first.”

Charlie lowered the binoculars again to look at him, surprised he was actually waiting for her opinion instead of trying to tell her what they were going to do like she had no choice in the matter. She was silent for a minute, thinking his preference through and considering all the pros and cons.

“It would be easier to get lost that way,” she offered as a strike against it.

“We have a map,” he said dismissively.

“It’s not always that easy,” Charlie countered. “And there are supplies in the trailer, way more than we can carry on horseback.”

“Food wouldn’t be a problem, with you around.” It was so close to a grudging compliment that Charlie’s lips curled up at the corner. “But you’re right about weapons. It would be a shame to leave so many behind.” Monroe turned away from her to eye the checkpoint in the distance, even though it was too far away to see much without the binoculars. “Less dangerous than bluffing our way through, though.”

“Scared?” Charlie taunted, although it came out in more of a teasing tone than she’d intended.

Monroe gave her a withering look. “With good reason. The Texas government and I didn’t always…well, let’s just say see eye to eye.”

Charlie snorted. “Shocking. I heard you tried to have some of the top officials assassinated. No wonder they don’t want to play nice.”

Monroe held up a finger like he was about to give her a lecture. “Okay, first of all…that was Miles.” Charlie’s eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Crazy bastard,” Monroe muttered. “Told him it would backfire. And where does he go hide now? Texas, of all places. Somehow I always end up getting blamed for everything, while he waltzes off to play bartender or house or whatever it is he’s doing these days.” His tone was bitter and admiring at the same time, like he both resented Miles and wanted to be like him. In fact, that probably wasn’t far from the truth. But which version of Miles did he want to be? General Matheson, or just Miles?

Charlie felt the need to defend her uncle. There were a lot of things in his past she didn’t know about and therefore couldn’t defend, but this wasn’t one of them. “There was no waltzing. We needed somewhere safe to go after the Tower. Grandpa’s the only family we have left.”

Monroe frowned, looking unconvinced. “Well, for whatever reason, the Patriots aren’t demanding his head on a stake, even though he’s committed just as many crimes against the U.S. Government as me.” He said the last part scathingly, and Charlie knew he was quoting his warrant.

She was confused, trying to figure out if he wanted Miles to have a bounty on his head too, if he was just venting some bitterness, just what he was trying to say. “Monroe…” she said slowly, trying to decide which question to ask first.

“Never mind,” he said dismissively. “Conversation for another time. Point is, I can’t risk being recognized. We ride through that checkpoint,” he gestured at it, “bold as brass, and maybe we pull it off. We could come up with a story about the trailer and what we’re doing in Texas, keep most the guns in the hidden compartment, but it’s all for nothing if even one of them recognizes me. And don’t think you’d get off free if that happened. They’d arrest you for collusion, just for traveling with me.”

Charlie bit her lip and stared through the binoculars again, trying to buy more time to think. She’d been hoping once they crossed into Texas they’d be safer from the Patriots at least, and possibly bounty hunters as well. She hadn’t considered that they might just be adding one more adversary. Monroe’s adversary, and now hers by default, just for associating with him. She wished, probably not for the last time, that she’d never agreed to work with him. Too late now, she thought grimly, and then another voice in her head interrupted those thoughts. Her dad’s. Own your choices, Charlie. You’ll make bad ones sometimes, terrible ones. But they’re still yours, and no one can fix them but you.

Charlie lowered the binoculars to the ground in front of her, mind made up. “I’ve got a better idea.” She twisted to look at Monroe. “Ever heard the story of the Trojan horse?”

Monroe’s blue eyes were wide with bewilderment for a moment. Charlie didn’t explain further, letting him catch up on his own. She watched a bead of sweat sneak down from under his dark blonde curls and trail down his neck. “What—” he started to say, then understanding dawned in his eyes. “No,” he said decisively, mouth clamping into a firm line. “That’s a terrible idea. If we get caught—”

“We won’t get caught,” Charlie interrupted with false bravado. False on the inside, but it rang true in her voice. Monroe raised his eyebrows, considering her. Charlie’s lips twisted into a small smile. “You’ll just have to trust me. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Monroe let out a tiny, unamused breath. “Trust isn’t exactly our strong suit, Charlotte.”

“You have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Monroe sighed heavily and took the binoculars out of her hands once again, studying the situation for a few more silent minutes. Charlie watched him as he did it, watched another bead of sweat drip down his neck, watched his jaw clench and unclench with indecision, watched the way the bright sunlight turned the stubble of his beard a golden-blonde. For all his inner turmoil, his hands were steady on the binoculars, and Charlie watched them as well, jealous once more of the outward serenity he wore so well.

Finally, he turned to look at her again, two small worry lines between his eyebrows the only indication of his uncertainty. Charlie raised her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side, silently daring him to take her up on her offer. Monroe tilted his head to the side too, frowning, eyes locked on hers like he could read her thoughts through them. Maybe he could.

“All right, you win,” he said heavily, collecting the binoculars and his gun and crawling his way backwards down the crest of the hill. When he was safely hidden behind it, he stood up and picked his way carefully down the slope.

It was only after, when Charlie was following him down, that her doubts caught up with her bravado and started overshadowing it. Could she really pull it off? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was stupid to even try. They’d both be dead or worse if they got caught. The safer way, the more logical way, was to take the horses and cut across country. But the thought of Miles and her mom was pulling her towards the road like a magnet, and she didn’t know why. The horses would travel faster if they weren’t pulling the trailer. But not having supplies would slow them down. And she had a sinking feeling in her gut that when they finally got to Willoughby, they might regret all those weapons and ammunition they left behind because they couldn’t carry it all. What would Miles do? Suddenly, she needed to know the answer to that question before she could go through with this.

When she reached the trailer, Monroe was already crouched in the back, redistributing all the supplies, putting the most innocent ones, like the food and blankets, front and center, and piling as many guns and boxes of bullets as he could in the hidden compartment.

Charlie watched him for a second. “Don’t forget to leave space for you.”

“I know, Charlotte,” he grunted as he pushed a particularly heavy box full of spare parts towards the trapdoor. “That is the thing this whole plan hinges on.” He paused to look at her, rapping a palm on the top of the wooden box. “Push this over the door when I get in.”

Charlie nodded, leaning into the trailer to pick the pile of warrants up off the floor. “Monroe,” she said to capture his attention, holding the stack out to him. “Put these in there too.”

He did, then jumped out of the trailer, wiping an arm across his forehead and surveying his handiwork. He pointed at the few guns he’d left out. “You can explain those away easily enough, woman traveling by herself and all. You have a story in mind?”

“Yeah, a partly true one, which makes it better. Grandpa’s a doctor. I ran away from home, wanted to see New Vegas. Hit it rich and this is my peace offering to get back in his good graces.”

“Don’t use your real last name,” Monroe warned.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “You think I’m an idiot?”

Monroe said nothing, reaching into the trailer to readjust one of the crates.

Charlie seized his arm suddenly, before she knew what she was doing. They both froze, eyes traveling down to her hand on his sleeve, then back up to lock gazes. They were standing close, so close Charlie could see the tiny laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, smoothed out now as they usually were. He didn’t laugh much. The bright blue of his eyes was slightly clouded with surprise. When Charlie spoke, she couldn’t manage anything more than a hoarse whisper. “What would Miles do?” She hated how raw, how desperate the question sounded, but she was desperate. In this case, she just didn’t know. Monroe would know, though. She was sure of it.

For a second his face softened, something like sympathy flashing across it, and Charlie’s eyes widened because that just couldn’t be. And then he chuckled softly. Her temper flared, ready to be offended, ready to think he was laughing at her. But he wasn’t. It was more self-deprecating than anything. “Do you know, I was just thinking the same thing. Look at the pair of us, useless without that damn man.”

A frown tugged at Charlie’s mouth. “You didn’t answer the question,” she said insistently.

Monroe wiped a hand down his mouth, shaking his head slowly. “I told you, the man’s a crazy bastard. He takes gambles, and he usually wins. I swear, you’re a chip off the old block. This is exactly what he’d do.” He eyed her with a strange expression, part rueful, part wistful, part amused.

Charlie couldn’t keep a slow smile from edging onto her face. “Really?”

Monroe frowned a little. “That is not a compliment, Charlotte.”

“It is to me.”

His eyes dropped, and Charlie realized too late that her hand was still resting on his arm. She yanked it away, brushing it off against her pants like that could erase the touch itself. She turned to put her jacket on, then thought better of it, slipping it through the metal loops of her belt instead. She combed her fingers through her hair, then glanced down at her tank top, considering. In situations like these, a little cleavage never went amiss. She pinched the fabric between her fingers, adjusting the neckline a little lower.

“Charlie, what are you doing?” Monroe’s voice was pitched low, rough as sandpaper. Charlie whirled to the side to look at him with startled eyes. She hadn’t realized he was watching her.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she said peevishly, waving an arm in the general direction of the checkpoint. “There’re a dozen men I have to get by, and it’s going to take all the weapons in my arsenal.”

Monroe’s voice was so low it was almost a growl. “I didn’t save you in that bar just to have you walk right back into the same—”

“This is completely different,” Charlie interrupted. “I’m in control here.” She gave her tank top one last tug for good measure, then eyed Monroe askance. “What do you care, anyway?”

Monroe’s jaw tightened, and she swore his eyes had turned a few shades darker. He took a step closer to her, and she tilted her head back defiantly. “I care, Charlotte, because I’m putting both of our lives in your hands. And I’m not going to be able to come to the rescue this time.” His voice took on that dangerous edge again, the one that always made a shiver run down her back.

Charlie angled up slightly onto her toes, getting right in his face, not flinching, not backing down. “Good. I don’t need you to rescue me.”

He just stared down into her eyes, unblinking, and she watched them turn from darkened to ice blue in seconds. It was like a shade dropped down in front of them, and they were unreadable, despite the fact that she was standing close enough to feel his breath on her face. When his eyes turned icy like this, it made him look like General Monroe again, and the change was so vivid it always left her unsettled. Her instinct was to fall back a step, but she resisted, standing her ground instead, toe to toe with General Monroe. She knew she’d won when he swore under his breath and turned back to the trailer.

He loaded two pistols with sharp, angry movements, then shoved one of them unceremoniously into her hands. “Keep this close to you.”

“I’ll have my crossbow.”

“I don’t care. Gun’s better for close quarters, and you don’t have to reload it after every shot you take.”

“I’m not planning on taking any shots.”

Monroe squeezed his eyes shut for a second, breathing deeply through his nose like he was holding his temper at bay. “Plans go wrong. I didn’t plan on almost getting shot in the back of the head, execution-style, by that last bounty hunter the other day. I didn’t plan on you following me. I didn’t plan on one of them getting away.” He tapped a finger against his temple, a condescending expression on his face. “Think, Charlie.”

She scowled, but took the pistol and holstered it at her hip anyway.

Monroe snatched up his double swords and the other loaded pistol and swung himself up into the trailer, then paused to look back at her. “If they find me, I’m not going down without a fight.” He said it like a warning, almost regretfully, like he was sorry to cause her so much trouble.

But he wasn’t sorry. Neither of them were. They’d caused each other all sorts of trouble and would continue to do so without much remorse until this partnership or whatever it was stopped being mutually beneficial. But today wasn’t the day that would happen, so she was in it as far as Monroe was in it. She grimaced. “That makes two of us.” But if she could do anything about it, it wasn’t going to come to that.

Monroe’s eyes shifted down to her right wrist, and Charlie twisted it up against her shirt self-consciously. She’d known he was aware of her brand since he accidentally touched it two days before, but she’d thought both of their reactions meant they were going to pretend it didn’t exist. She didn’t know which she hated more—the brand itself or the fact that Monroe knew it was there.

When she looked up again, she realized he’d unwrapped the scrap of fabric that was always wound around his own wrist and was holding it out to her. She stared at it like it might bite her. “Can’t have them thinking you’re Militia,” he said softly.

She must have stared at it for too long, because his hand started to move towards hers. She yanked the cloth out of his grasp and started wrapping it around her wrist before he could do something so incredibly stupid as to do it himself.

Monroe watched until she tied it off, then picked his way to the back of the trailer, disappearing into the hidden compartment, contorting himself into whatever compact, uncomfortable shape was necessary to fit in there. He’d swung the door closed above him as he went in, so all Charlie had to do was push the heavy crate full of spare parts over the door. It took some effort, but she finally got it to budge when she braced her feet against the wall behind her and used both her arms and her shoulder to leverage the crate into place. She pushed a few, lighter containers around it then stepped back to survey her handiwork. The door would stay hidden, as long as no one shuffled the trailer’s contents around too much. All she could do was pray for credulous Rangers and a cursory inspection.

When she swung herself up onto the seat and took the reins, she kept the pistol in her hip holster (loaded) and her crossbow on the seat next to her (unloaded). Miles and Monroe could say all the scathing things they wanted about Texas; Charlie kind of liked it. Well, to be honest, what she liked was their weapons policy. It was about the farthest thing you could get from the Monroe Republic. Maybe the Texas government would have liked to have a civilian no-guns policy too, but Charlie had a feeling if they ever tried to institute one, they’d all be dead before they could say right to bear arms. Miles had told her it’d been that way before the blackout too. Whole world goes to hell, Texas stays the same, he’d grumbled, but she’d detected a note of begrudging admiration behind the words.

She steered the horses around the hill and back onto the road, trying to breathe deeply and evenly, trying not to clutch the reins too tightly. She was terribly nervous, but she couldn’t afford to show it or she might as well fling open the trailer door now and announce to the world that she had Sebastian Monroe hidden inside.

The checkpoint was simple—just a small building to serve as barracks and a stable behind it—and it looked like it’d been constructed fairly recently. Charlie guessed within the last year, judging by the newness of the wood. The dozen Rangers seemed a little superfluous, but half of them weren’t manning the checkpoint itself, walking between buildings, tending to the horses, chopping firewood. She brought the trailer to a stop to wait her turn behind a man and woman on a pair of horses, huge strings of fish hanging from their saddles.

One of the Rangers held his hand out, and the woman dug in her pocket and handed him a piece of paper. A sudden panic fluttered through Charlie’s stomach. Damn it, when did they start requiring identification to leave and enter the country? Definitely not on their way in from the Tower. Probably not on her way out. She hadn’t even been gone half a year. Big changes in a short amount of time. She couldn’t prevent the sinking feeling that it had something to do with the Patriots.

When it was her turn, she plastered on her most wide-eyed, innocent expression. It wasn’t difficult to do. It was the girl she’d been scarcely more than a year ago, before most the people she loved had died in her arms, before she’d killed anyone, before she’d personally experienced how cruel the world could be. Better to play it naïve to start out with, and play it by ear from there. Some men took advantage of naïve girls, but others took pity on them. She’d have to see which kind these men were.

The man who greeted her looked about her grandpa’s age and sported a cowboy hat and a thick gray mustache. He wore an easy smile, and when he spoke, it was in a thick Texas drawl. “Hey there, young lady. ID please, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”

Charlie blinked a couple of times, like the words surprised her, and then a sheepish smile slipped onto her face. “ID?” she asked blankly.

“Identification,” the man said patiently.

“Oh, I know, I just—” she dropped her voice and leaned forward a little on the bench. “Nobody asked for one on my way out a few months ago, so I didn’t know—”

“It’s a fairly recent development. We have orders out of Austin to check everyone who enters the country.”

Charlie’s eyebrows furrowed in worry. “Oh, I never would have left if I knew that. Does that mean I can’t come in?” Then she added, under her breath like she didn’t intend for him to hear, “Grandpa’s gonna kill me.”

“What was that?”

“Well, I kind of…ran away from home before, and I’ve been gone quite a while but now I need to go home and I’m already in big trouble probably and I’m going to be in even bigger trouble if I can’t get there,” Charlie explained breathlessly.

She thought she saw a flash of sympathy in the man’s brown eyes, and she almost dared to hope that she’d finally encountered a genuinely nice person, someone who wouldn’t stab you in the back at the first opportunity. She wasn’t going to count on it, though. “Well,” he said, running a hand over his mouth, “sometimes we make exceptions. Why don’t you pull your vehicle over there and climb on down and we can have a little chat about it.”

Charlie smiled gratefully. “Okay.” She followed where he’d pointed, then jumped down from the bench, leaving her crossbow behind. Her fingers itched to wrap around the butt of her pistol, but she knew that would be a terrible idea, so she resisted. She leaned against the side of the trailer instead and played with a few strands of her hair while the man paged through a leather-bound book and pulled a pencil out of his pocket.

“I’m just gonna need to ask you a few questions.”

“Yeah, of course.” Charlie squinted up at him with a smile.

"Name?"

"Charlotte Porter."

"Birthdate and place?"

"January 20, 2007. Chicago, Illinois."

"Destination and next of kin?"

"Willoughby, Texas. Dr. Gene Porter. He's my grandfather. My dad is…deceased…." Her struggle with the word wasn't faked. "And I haven't been in touch with my mom for a long time." That last part was the truest of any of it.

"Current residence?"

"Willoughby. Well, I've been traveling for a while. But that's the only home I have."

"Reason for leaving and reentering the Republic of Texas?"

Charlie bit her lip. "It's kind of embarrassing. This isn't going on the official record or anything, is it?"

A smile twitched the man's mustache. "I'm afraid so."

She heaved a reluctant sigh, wishing she knew how to blush at the drop of a hat. Her cheeks were a little hot from the blazing sun; maybe that would pass for a sheepish flush. "Grandpa and I got into a huge argument. It was probably stupid. I barely remember what it was about. But I'd always wanted to travel and he wanted me to stick around so he could start training me. He wanted me to go to medical school in Austin eventually. But I wasn't ready yet. He told me something like, 'You're not going anywhere, young lady,' and then of course I had to go. Left in the middle of the night, wandered around for a couple months. It was a total let-down, to be honest. But I couldn't go home empty-handed, so I got the idea to go to New Vegas." The mustache twitched again, and Charlie leaned forward conspiratorially. "It was a terrible idea. Pretty sure I drank some bad moonshine and blacked out for a couple of days." Her eyes darted down to his pencil. "Please don't write that part down. Anyway, I'm pretty decent at poker, so I thought I could stay for a while, hit it rich or something. I won this stupid trailer off somebody." She rapped her knuckles against the side. "Idiot bet everything he had. So then I hightailed it out of there before he had time to sober up. He was a really big guy. And angry. Obviously." Charlie shook a playful finger at the man. "Moral of the story is, don't get drunk in Vegas and bet everything you own against me in a poker game. You'll lose."

He chuckled. "That's the only thing you learned?"

Charlie scuffed a boot against the ground. "Also don't drink bad moonshine, and Grandpa's not always totally wrong, I guess."

It was silent for a few moments while the Ranger finished writing in his book. He reached up to adjust his hat on his head, studying her from under bushy eyebrows. "Well, that's quite a story."

Charlie smiled, holding her breath and hoping he bought it.

"I can issue you a temporary permit, but it'll expire once you reach your destination."

Charlie's grateful smile was genuine this time. "Oh, thank you! I was afraid you'd send me back to the Plains Nation for a second there."

The Ranger shook his head. "There's no need for that." He lifted the book again, holding the pencil ready to write. "I just need a list of what you're carrying across the border, and then you'll need to open the back for us so we can have a look."

It took some effort to keep her smile bright, but the request wasn't totally unexpected. She waved an airy hand. "Lots of spare parts for this old heap of junk. Supplies for the horses. Canned food.  Blankets. A couple of guns and some ammo. Some really disgusting spare clothes that I probably should have burned. First aid kit. Oh, and a couple flasks and bottles of alcohol I haven't touched. I’ve sworn it off." She grimaced and put a hand to her stomach. "Vegas'll do that to a person."

The man chuckled and shook his head, part-disapproving, part-indulgent. “Hey, Murray,” he said to the nearest Ranger. “Tell this young lady how many times I’ve sworn off alcohol.”

Murray was a younger man with a thick brown beard. He grinned, a flash of white showing through the tangle of facial hair. “Three times—just this week!”

Charlie’s Ranger and a handful of others within earshot all guffawed heartily. Charlie joined them, feeling like this was the most cheerful bunch of Texans she’d ever encountered. Her Ranger seemed to find it particularly hilarious, closing his book and leaning over to slap his knee. “And I meant it every time!” he told her between chuckles.

“Make that four,” Charlie amended saucily, “after you confiscate a bottle of my whiskey.”

That sent them into further gales of laughter. Murray gave her a friendly slap on the back, and it was all easy camaraderie after that, like Charlie was one of the Rangers. She still didn’t lower her inner guard, keeping a constant eye out for anything suspicious and a hand ready to grab her pistol if it was needed. But it wasn’t. She opened up the trailer for their inspection. Two of them climbed in, shifted a couple of things around, lifted a crate here, moved a blanket there. The whole thing couldn’t have lasted longer than thirty seconds. When they climbed back out, grinning and each holding a bottle of whiskey, Charlie couldn’t help grinning back. They passed the bottles around, and she took a swig every time they got to her. She was pretty sure the Texas government and whoever was in charge of the Rangers would be highly disapproving of this jovial group of them drinking on the job, but she was thanking her lucky stars these were the ones she’d encountered today.

The bottles were empty when they finally let her go. The Ranger with the mustache sent her off with her signed and stamped temporary permit and a “You be careful out there by yourself, Charlotte Porter.”

Charlie patted her pistol. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a good shot.”

“Oh?” he said, sounding delighted. “Let’s see.”

So she pulled out her pistol and shot the empty whiskey bottle out of Murray’s hand. He stumbled back, startled, and went crashing into the fence by the side of the road. The other Rangers had another round of raucous laughter at his expense, and the one with the mustache actually tipped his hat to Charlie before she climbed up on the trailer and continued on her way.

She tapped her foot nervously on the footboard for a couple of miles, thanks to a combination of nervous energy and alcohol running through her blood. She hadn’t been in the habit of drinking much lately, so she was feeling it more than usual. When she’d covered a safe enough distance, she pulled the trailer to the side of the road and climbed in the back.

Everything was just as she’d left it. She stared at the floor, finding it hard to fathom that Monroe was hidden down there, even though she’d watched him climb in herself. I should let him out now. But she didn’t feel like it. As long as he was out of sight, she could almost pretend he wasn’t there at all. Like she could open up the compartment and find nothing but a stockpile of guns there, then be on her merry way to Willoughby and her family.

She sat on the box of spare parts that was covering the hatch, propping her chin in her hands.

“Charlotte?” Monroe’s voice sounded muffled and distant, but so much for pretending he wasn’t there. “What are you doing?”

Charlie heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Just sitting here. Debating whether I should let you out.”

“Excuse me?” It was hard to tell through the trapdoor, but Monroe sounded a little outraged.

That brought a grin to her face, a bigger one than the whiskey and the good-humored Rangers had. “I don’t know, Monroe, I think I like it better when you’re in there.”

“Charlotte.” That was definitely a growl. “Let. Me. Out.”

She didn’t move. There was a sharp bang, and the spare parts rattled in the box, but she still didn’t move. She laughed though, a genuine laugh that sounded like joy and tasted like relief. She’d forgotten how that felt.

He popped out of the compartment like a jack-in-the-box the second she let him out. His expression was sullen and half of his hair was matted to his forehead with sweat and the other half was sticking up at odd angles. The whole thing was too ridiculous. She collapsed back on the floor, breathless from pushing the heavy box and from laughing.

Monroe only glowered more, clambering out of the small space and trying to stand up in the trailer. He stopped suddenly part of the way up, a hand flying to his back, and he collapsed to the floor of the trailer too with a pained groan. Their eyes met, and for a second it looked like he was daring her to laugh at him again. But then he cracked a reluctant smile and settled on his back with a labored huff. “I’m too old for this.”

“You sound like Miles.”

Monroe chuckled, then winced. “That’s because he’s too old for this too.”

Charlie pushed herself to a sitting position. “That’s some great odds. Just me and a couple of geriatric men against all of the Patriots.”

“I don’t know, Charlotte, if you can pull off a couple more performances like that, we might just be golden.” His smile was genuine, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say there was a hint of admiration in it. “You just left a troupe of Texas Rangers drunk and laughing back there.”

“You’re welcome,” Charlie said dryly.

“I don’t even know what to say. That was—that was—” And words actually failed Monroe. He ended up just twisting his head to stare at her. “That was something.”

Charlie shifted to her feet, suddenly uncomfortable with how he was looking at her. “Well, take your time getting up, old man. I’m driving.”

She was out the back of the trailer before the indignant sound of protest could leave his mouth.

 

Chapter Text

Charlie got sick of driving the trailer long before her pride would let her admit it. Somehow it managed to be nearly as boring as riding shotgun. One of the horses had a tendency to veer slightly to the left, and the other one followed mindlessly, so every once in a while she had to remember to give the reins a tug to the right. Other than that, it was monotonous in the extreme. She didn't know why Monroe was so obsessed with driving. Oh wait, yes I do. He's a control freak. He'd kept quiet the day before, maybe in deference to the fact that it was her quick thinking and persuasion that got them into Texas. But today—today he was insufferable.

She hadn't even wanted to drive anymore. When they'd broken camp that morning, she'd been sorely tempted to climb up on the passenger side of the bench, but then she'd pictured the smug look on Monroe's face that would no doubt follow, and it was enough to send her scurrying for the driver's side before he could reach it. Except now she was torn between which was more annoying—the smug look or his constant comments on her driving abilities, ranging from the critical (Give the reins more slack) to the snarky (Are you driving, or are the horses driving themselves?) to the totally unhelpful (Make sure you go around that log up ahead). She'd started out by launching back cutting replies (I'm sure I wouldn't have noticed that gigantic log if you hadn't pointed it out), but eventually resorted to irritated grunts accompanied by the occasional eye roll. They'd reached an impasse—he wouldn't let her drive in peace because he knew that's what she wanted, and she wouldn't give up and let him drive because she knew that's what he wanted.

The bigger horse was drifting towards the left side of the road again. Exasperated, Charlie yanked the reins in the opposite direction. Instead of correcting his angle, the horse dipped his neck and came to a sudden halt. The other horse followed suit, leaning down to nose at a patch of grass growing through a crack in the asphalt. Charlie jiggled the reins impatiently across their backs. No response.

"You need a gentler touch." Monroe's voice was definitely smug. Charlie refused to look at his face to see if his expression matched.

"What are you, some kind of horse expert?" Charlie grumbled. 

Monroe ignored her. "That's what Traveller needs, and then Kentuck will follow him anywhere."

That made Charlie turn to face him. "Are you kidding me? You named the horses?" She'd noticed him murmuring to them a lot when he harnessed them every morning, but she hadn't wanted to listen in closely enough to actually catch what he was saying. No. Just no. Monroe couldn't name the horses. That was something nice people did. Little kids and her dad and that sweet old man who mucked out the stable in Sylvania Estates. Not deposed dictators with a gambling problem and a mile-long list of sins.

"Why wouldn't I?" He sounded scandalized, like she'd accused him of eating the horses instead of naming them.

"Because…because you're…you," Charlie spluttered incoherently.

"They've been hauling our asses all over creation. They deserve a little respect."

Charlie detected a note of disapproval in his tone, and her mouth gaped open like a fish, desperately scrambling for a topic to divert the direction this conversation was headed in. She was not going to sit through some weird, condescending lecture about respect from Sebastian Monroe, of all people. "What kind of a name is Kentuck, anyway?" she mumbled grouchily. Great change of topic, Charlie. At least she'd averted the respect lecture. She hoped.

"General McClellan's favorite horse," he said absently, reaching over to tap the reins gently over the larger horse's rump (Charlie was not going to start calling them by Monroe's names, even if it was an easier way to refer to them). The horses resumed walking, and the wagon lurched forward behind them.

Charlie made an unimpressed noise. "Never heard of him."

Monroe eyed her askance. "You serious?"

"Is he anything like Strausser?" Charlie asked cuttingly.

"Was," Monroe corrected, then scowled. "And no. Of course not."

"You kill him?"

"No, Charlotte. That would be kind of difficult, considering he died 150 years ago." She could see him shaking his head in her peripheral vision. "Sixteen years without electricity and suddenly no one cares about history anymore."

This. This was what she hated the most. When he tried to make her feel stupid. "Whose fault is that?" she demanded sourly.

"Your parents, for one," he shot back without hesitation.

Damn. Can't argue that one. "People care about history. We had school in Sylvania Estates. After a fashion. In between learning survival skills." Aaron had thought it was important. Maybe because education was the only thing he felt like he could contribute. Her dad and Maggie had agreed with him. What's the point of living without civilization? they'd all said. At the time, Charlie hadn't really understood. She'd wanted to be out hunting, finding food for her family, not giving oral reports about Nazi Germany. But now, tempered by time and loss and experience, she understood.

If she wasn't mistaken, Monroe's voice sounded a little softer now, like he'd been privy to her thoughts. "McClellan was a Civil War general. Union side. History's not always so kind about the decisions he made, but his men loved him."

There was a moment where Charlie wondered if that was the kind of leader Monroe had hoped to be—perhaps still hoped to be—before she leveled the thought with the weight of her scorn.

"And Traveller?"

"Robert E. Lee's. Commanding general of the—"

"I know who Robert E. Lee is," she interrupted. Her education had been heavier on the math and science, but she knew her basic U.S. History. "You have some weird obsession with the Civil War?"

"I call it more of a healthy interest," Monroe said mildly.

"And what's your opinion of the illustrious General Lee?"

"Good man. Good soldier. Good general."

Charlie deigned to give him a generous amount of side eye. "He fought for the pro-slavery side."

"Wars are never about one issue, Charlotte. There's good and bad intentions on both sides." He fixed his intense blue stare on her, and she heard his voice in her head add and in every person as clearly as if he'd said it aloud. "Funny, you weren't so gung-ho about human rights when you buddied up with Georgia."

Charlie didn't know what he was implying, but she had an argument ready. "I saw chained-up, forced laborers more than once in the Monroe Republic."

"Political prisoners."

Charlie snorted. "Whatever you want to call them, Monroe."

He nodded shortly. "That's fair. What do you want to call forced labor in Georgia?"

Charlie went cold all over. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, you don't," he said softly, voice suffused with a mix of pity and accusation. "But you always think you do."

A heavy silence followed that. Charlie concentrated on driving, trying not to let Monroe's words circle endlessly through her head.

He broke the silence first. "I used to have a horse named Traveller." It was a new tone for him. Wistful, like he was talking to himself. "Best horse I ever met. Smarter than most people."

A fond little smile was twisting up the corner of his mouth. Weirdly, Charlie felt like she was intruding on a private moment. She cleared her throat. "What happened to it?"

She regretted the question immediately, when he turned haunted eyes on her, and she suddenly knew. "Same thing that happened to everyone who trusted me," he said hoarsely. "Cooked in his own skin." He gave a quavery laugh that wasn't a laugh at all. It sounded more like the beginnings of a sob, and Charlie looked away very quickly because she was not prepared to deal with that.

Her eyes settled on a copse of trees separated from the road by an open field, initial distraction giving way to intense focus as she noticed smoke emerging from it in strange patterns. She could feel her eyebrows furrow, trying and failing to make sense of it, and she realized she'd pulled the horses to a stop on the side of the road.

"Charlotte, what are you doing?" Monroe was sighing heavily.

Charlie shushed him and pulled her crossbow from under the seat, loading it with swift, silent movements. Sounds floated across the field, gunshots and definitely a scream, although it sounded slightly inhuman. She patted her pistol and threw a rifle strap over her back, slipping off the bench and right through Monroe's fingers as he grabbed at her.

"Charlie, stop!"

She ignored him, setting off at a steady jog across the field.

"You gotta be kidding me!" he shouted after her. "You're on your own for this one! I don't run towards shots and screams." His voice faded behind her, and she forced herself to speed up. She didn't need him. She hadn't expected him to follow her anyway. Not really.

Except now her ears were playing tricks on her, because beneath the pounding of her footsteps and the soft breaths she sucked in and the increasingly loud sounds of some sort of fight, she could swear Monroe's voice was growling her name again.

"Charlie—Charlie, hold up!" No trick, then, because those were his footsteps behind her, a slightly faster staccato against the dirt. He was quick for a self-proclaimed old man. "You can't just go in guns blazing!"

Charlie chanced a brief glance over her shoulder, adrenaline surging through her veins. He was closing the gap between them, no more than ten feet behind her. "Watch me!" she shouted, feeling more free than she'd felt in a long time.

"Damn it," he panted, right at her shoulder now. "Why is it that I'm always chasing you?"

He was so stupid for following her. She'd never hated him less. "You're an idiot," she shot back gleefully, not even caring what sort of a disaster they were running straight into.

Monroe muttered something between breaths that sounded like "Probably."

And there was no more time to talk, because they were bursting into the trees and everything was chaos. There were several fires burning, and more inhuman screaming, and it looked like the fires were moving, but that wasn't possible and Charlie didn't have time to spare them a glance because she was distracted by a man on the ground, cowering against the base of a tree with his hands up helplessly. He was babbling things like stay back and not again and leave me alone. The voice sounded familiar, but it had a crazy, desperate tinge to it that made it difficult for her to place. All she saw was a man in khaki advancing on him with a gun. Her crossbow was up in an instant, aimed at the man's heart, her finger pressing the trigger, but the bolt hadn't even left the bow when flames erupted from his feet, spreading upwards so rapidly that they met the bolt just as it hit his chest. Charlie stared at the scene in front of her in confusion. The man on the ground hadn't moved a finger, and the man on fire was emitting a high-pitched wail like nothing she'd ever heard before, and the fire had come out of his skin.

She'd forgotten to reload her crossbow, and her rifle lay undisturbed across her back. There was a pillar of fire moving straight towards her, arms outstretched like it wanted to embrace her, and Monroe was shouting hoarsely, "Charlie, look out!" Before she had time to move, a knife flew through the air, taking the pillar of fire straight through the neck, and it dropped to the ground at her feet, burning and writhing and gurgling. Charlie stared down at it in stunned fascination. It didn't look like a man, it didn't sound like a man, but it was a man. The smell of burning flesh stung her nostrils.

She looked up and met the eyes of the cowering man across the flames. His glasses were askew, his expression was horrified, and his mouth was moving but no words were coming out of it. "Aaron?" she gasped.

Monroe's hand was suddenly like a vise on her arm. "What the hell?" he breathed in her ear.

Aaron's mouth opened and closed. "Charlie?" He sounded dazed. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and curled in on himself, rocking slightly back and forth. "It's not real. She's not real. It's the nano. It's not real." He chanted the words to himself, over and over.

Charlie stepped around the burning man, trying to get closer to Aaron. Monroe wouldn't let go of her arm, so she dragged him like a weight behind her. He dug in his heels when they were within a few yards, so she couldn't get any closer. "Aaron?" Charlie said softly. "It's okay, you're safe."

"Go away! Just leave me alone!" Aaron shouted hysterically. "Why won't you leave me alone? I know you're not Charlie!"

He was acting like a crazy person. It was scaring her more than the people who were inexplicably on fire. She took a step back, colliding gently with Monroe's chest.

"You know this guy?" The rumble of his words vibrated through her back.

"Yeah," she whispered.

"I don't know about you, but I'm very flammable. I vote we get out of here." He sounded nervous, but he didn't move behind her, and for some reason courage flowed like warmth into her body from everywhere they were touching.

Charlie suddenly registered the agonized groans of the burning men like her brain had been filtering them out. She nodded towards them and asked quietly, "Can you take care of that? I can handle Aaron."

Monroe made an unhappy noise, but he let go of her. Charlie moved gingerly towards Aaron, like he was a wild animal she didn't want to spook. "Aaron?" she said soothingly. "I don't know what happened to you, but it's really me. It's Charlie." She crouched next to him, but he still refused to look at her.

Shots sounded behind her, steady and sure. One, two, three, four, followed by absolute silence. Aaron flinched at each one, and his eyes flew open at the last. Charlie placed a hesitant hand on his arm, and he met her eyes, and some of the fear was gone from them. "Charlie?" he whispered hopefully.

She squeezed his hand and mustered a smile for him. "It's good to see you. Been a while."

A shaky laugh escaped him. "Yeah. You left without saying goodbye." His other hand reached up to straighten his glasses.

Charlie glanced down sheepishly. "Yeah, um, I only said goodbye to Miles, and that was because he followed me. I just had some…stuff to work out."

He laughed shakily again. "That makes two of us." His grip on her hand tightened, like he was trying to make sure she was real and concrete in front of him. "I can't believe we ran into each other like this."

"Small world?" Charlie offered, then couldn't contain her worry anymore. "Aaron, is my family…?" She couldn't finish the question.

"They're fine," he hurried to assure her. "Guess I emulated you a little. Took off without telling anyone. At least I left a note, though."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, her mind spinning with questions, but Aaron's eyes wandered up and behind her, and his face registered disbelief. "Uh, Charlie? Mind telling me why that guy you're with looks like General Monroe's long-lost twin?"

Charlie twisted around to look up at Monroe. He was staring at Aaron with a puzzled look on his face. "Mind telling us why you can set people on fire with your mind?"

Charlie gaped at Monroe, then whirled back around to look at Aaron. She expected him to categorically deny the outrageous accusation. There had to be some other explanation. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes. "It's…kind of a long story," he said, then mumbled, "Understatement of the year."

Charlie forced a pained smile onto her face. "Guess we both have a lot of explaining to do."

"Hate to interrupt the reunion," Monroe cut in, "but can we do this somewhere else that doesn't smell like charred human?"

Aaron flinched at the words like they were an accusation, even though Monroe's tone had been pretty flippant. Charlie stood up and tried to silence him with an angry glare. He shrugged and held out a hand to help Aaron up. Aaron stared at it distastefully, but Monroe ignored the look. "Up you go, Stay Puft," he said, twitching his fingers impatiently.

Aaron gave him a dirty look, but he let Monroe haul him to his feet. While Aaron was brushing himself off, Monroe studied him, his head cocked to the side. Charlie's eyes darted between the two men uncomfortably. Aaron was a really laid-back guy, but he'd been rambling like a crazy person just minutes before, and Charlie had strolled up to him accompanied by their mortal enemy like it was no big deal. If Aaron was a violent sort of person, they would've come to blows already.

"Do I know you?" Monroe asked at length. “You look familiar.”

Aaron stopped brushing himself off to gawk at the other man. "If you count shooting at me with a helicopter multiple times as knowing me. Dick."

Monroe's expression was unreadable. “I guess apologies are in order.”

Aaron’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

Monroe wiped an arm across his nose. “I don’t really do that anymore.”

“What? Shoot people?” Aaron eyed the gun in his hands meaningfully.

Monroe frowned and slung the shotgun strap over his shoulder. “No. Just Matheson people.”

Charlie’s gaze had still been bouncing back and forth between the two men, but now her eyes snapped back to Monroe and stayed there. She knew him well enough now to judge when he was being sincere, and that was it. Apparently he’d decided Aaron was a Matheson person, and that was a relief. Why he'd gone from trying to kill Mathesons to protecting them with his life was a mystery she didn't have time to contemplate right now.

"I'm not a Matheson." 

Charlie rolled her eyes. Monroe had just as good as promised he wasn't a danger to Aaron, and Aaron was wasting time questioning specifics. 

Monroe gave him an amused once-over. "That's pretty obvious." 

She heaved an impatient sigh. "Okay, cut it out, Monroe. Nobody's shooting anybody, and you're coming with us, Aaron." 

"I have to get to Spring City, Oklahoma," Aaron said blankly, like he was repeating something from memory. 

"Huh?" Charlie stared at him. "Why?" 

"It's a long story." 

She rubbed a hand across her forehead. "You're not going anywhere until you explain what's going on. We're going to camp for the night, and you're going to eat, and we're going to have a nice long talk." 

Aaron looked like he wanted to argue, but Charlie raised her eyebrows warningly and he snapped his mouth shut, cowed into submission. 

"For starters," Monroe gestured around them, "why were these guys attacking you?" 

Charlie wanted to give him a withering look for speaking out of turn, but he'd asked the question that was forefront in her mind, so she focused a curious look on Aaron instead. 

He sighed heavily. "They're Patriots. Couldn't tell from the hideous uniforms?" 

"Haven't actually encountered any yet," Monroe muttered. 

Charlie's eyes were fixed on Aaron. "What happened in Willoughby and why aren't you there and why are Patriots after you?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady. 

Monroe's hand closed around her arm again. "I'm not kidding, Charlotte. We need to get out of here, stat." She looked up at him. His eyes were deadly serious. She realized, belatedly, that she was shaking, legs so unsteady that she felt like she might collapse. She needed to know what had happened to Miles and her mom and her grandpa now, before the stress and suspense of it all overcame her. 

He leaned closer, and his voice softened. He'd noticed, then. "Sticking around here and getting killed by Patriot scouts isn't going to help your family. We're gonna find somewhere safe to camp for the night, and then you can interrogate Pyro here to your heart's content." 

Charlie squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in deeply, nodding reluctant agreement. But she only succeeded in filling her nose with the choking, dizzying stench of burnt human flesh. She swayed unsteadily on her feet. His hand moved down under her elbow and his other arm wrapped around her waist to prop her up. She would balk at the proximity, but if he let go right that moment she was pretty sure she'd hit the ground. 

When she managed to open her eyes again, Aaron was staring at them with obvious astonishment. It must be strange to see her accepting help from Monroe. It was strange—she knew that—but she'd grown so used to their bizarre partnership over the last two weeks that it had almost stopped feeling bizarre and started feeling…natural. 

Monroe's arm around her waist suddenly felt like a weight instead of a support, and she pushed away from him. "I'm fine. Come on, Aaron." She grabbed his arm, tugging him away from the dwindling fires, suddenly needing to get out of there as quickly as possible. 

They couldn’t all fit on the bench seat, so Charlie let Monroe drive and sat in the back with Aaron. “Don’t go too far,” he said quietly before climbing in. “I’m headed in the opposite direction.” Charlie supposed he was talking to Monroe, but he refused to make eye contact with the man. 

She’d hoped once they had a little privacy, Aaron would start talking, but he sat across from her in complete silence, refusing to look at her as well. That didn’t stop her from staring at him, hoping the weight of her gaze would make him feel guilty. More than that, just seeing him—no matter how weird he was acting—was a little bit like coming home. Aaron was one of the last remnants of her old life. He was family, and he always would be. So she watched him silently, noticing the slump of his shoulders, the way he curled in on himself, the way he stared vacantly at the trailer floor. She was torn between wanting to yell at him and wanting to comfort him, so she settled on neither. 

By the time Monroe found a place to stop for the night, Charlie was full of nervous energy, fingers tapping on her crossbow. She wanted nothing more than to take off and do some hunting, if only to get her head straight, but she didn’t dare leave Monroe and Aaron alone together. That was a recipe for disaster. So they settled on food from the trailer and apples they’d found in an abandoned orchard a few days back. Aaron ate ravenously, and Charlie eyed his small backpack, wondering how he’d ever thought he could make it by himself traveling for weeks with only one pack of supplies and no apparent weapons. 

She shifted uneasily on the ground. Not that he needs weapons if he can set people on fire. She pushed the thought away, still clinging to rationality and insisting to herself that there was some other explanation. 

They sat in awkward silence. Charlie found she had no appetite, and she wound up scraping at the skin of her apple with her nail and shifting her gaze between the two men. Aaron was intent upon his food, occasionally glancing up to give Monroe a strange look. For his part, Monroe was mostly occupied with scowling at his own food and shooting looks at his two companions. His eyes met Charlie’s a couple of times, and each time she skittered her gaze away immediately, feeling strange about the whole thing in front of Aaron. 

Monroe broke the silence. “Charlotte, why don’t you tell Stay Puft what we’re doing together before he incinerates me? If looks could kill….” 

Charlie shot him her own version of a look that could kill. Now was not the time to go around antagonizing people. 

But Aaron was watching her now, something like curiosity replacing the previous blankness in his eyes, and he looked so much more like his old self that she found herself breaking her resentful silence. 

“I was just…wandering around the Plains Nation. Didn’t really know what I was looking for. I just needed to be…somewhere else.” The words were difficult to form, baring her family’s messed-up dynamics in front of her old friend and her old enemy. But it was stupid, because these two men knew more about her family than anyone else. Anyone else who was still alive, anyway. “About a month ago, I got a tip that Monroe had been spotted in New Vegas. And I guess…I finally felt like I found what I was looking for. I went there to kill him.” She chanced a glance up from her apple and accidentally met Monroe’s eyes again. He was looking at her with interest, like she’d just said she went there to throw him a party or something. Not at all how a person should be looking at someone who’d tried to assassinate them. It was harder for her to speak the words out loud than it had been to shoot a crossbow bolt at his heart. The two of them were more messed up than words could describe. 

The silence must have stretched on too long, because Aaron observed in his trademark sarcastic tone, “Well, that clearly worked out great for you.” 

Monroe gave a short, surprised bark of laughter, then tried to cover it by clearing his throat. 

Charlie scowled. “I took the shot. He’d be dead if some idiot bounty hunter hadn’t knocked him out right then and took off with him. I followed them. Monroe managed to escape, killed one of the bounty hunters, stole the trailer.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the object in question. 

“She’s left out the part where the bounty hunters caught her and tied her up in an empty pool,” Monroe said dryly. 

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to the story,” Charlie sniffed. “The other bounty hunter and I followed him, but Monroe knew we were coming somehow. Knocked the guy out and showed me what he found in the trailer. Patriot warrants for my mom’s arrest.” She looked at Aaron meaningfully, hoping for any flicker of reaction to cross his face. She thought she glimpsed a brief wince, but it was over quickly. 

“And warrants for my arrest,” Monroe added. 

Charlie heaved a sigh. “Yeah, that too. So we questioned the bounty hunter, who hardly knew anything, and then Monroe here gave me his little spiel about how we all needed him. Which is total crap, probably.” 

Monroe looked offended at that. Charlie felt a little twinge of satisfaction. 

“So I walked away, and he followed me, because I got into a bit of a tight spot the next day and he came swooping in to save my life and prove his point or whatever. Didn’t really give me much of a choice in the matter.” 

“Charlotte had nothing and I offered her everything she needed. Reunited her with her crossbow.” He made a magnanimous gesture at the aforementioned weapon. Charlie barely stifled the urge to roll her eyes yet again. 

“A tight spot?” Aaron questioned softly. 

“Yeah,” Charlie said, unwilling to elaborate. She shot Monroe a warning look. If you give him details, so help me…. 

Monroe raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her, then turned to Aaron. “Charlie was drugged,” he said matter-of-factly. “I killed half a dozen guys to get her out of there.” 

Aaron set his plate down and looked at her with concern. He was just about the only person in the world she could stand looking at her like that. “Are you okay, Charlie?” 

Her anger at Monroe melted away a little. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she mumbled. “He got there just in time.” 

Aaron gave Monroe a less hostile look than all his previous ones. She expected to see victory on the former dictator’s face for getting her to admit he’d saved her life. Instead, he just looked tired. 

Charlie was eager to change the topic. “So we’re headed to find Miles. We’ve already run into all sorts of trouble. Patriot spies, more bounty hunters. No actual Patriots though. Until today.” Her voice lilted up at the end, like it was a question, and in a way it was. 

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Aaron said wearily. “You’ll be walking straight into a mini-war.” 

The sudden tightness in Charlie’s chest felt like it was squeezing off her air supply. “Is that what you’re doing? Running away?” Her voice sounded cold, and she was a little ashamed of herself. 

“No,” Aaron protested. His tone was laced with hurt. “The Patriots are already in Willoughby. Your family’s fine, but they’re kind of on the run right now. Cynthia—Cynthia’s gone.” The last words sounded strangled. 

All the coldness seeped out of Charlie and she moved to sit next to Aaron. He gripped her hand like it was a lifeline and swiped his other hand across his nose. 

“We thought we could coexist with them, for a while. Well, I did. Rachel thought everything was shady from the beginning. And then some…seriously weird stuff started happening. Well, that was before the Patriots even got there. But they took an interest in it, and…me.” He pushed his glasses up slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I know I’m not explaining this very well. I don’t know how to say a lot of it without sounding totally nuts.” 

Now Charlie was gripping his hand like a lifeline, and a terrible, slow shiver was working its way down her back. “Aaron,” she whispered. “Does this have something to do with the fire back there?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.” He took a deep, bracing breath. “You remember the nanotech in the air? How it had the potential to set the world on fire? Rachel and I turned it off in the Tower, but then Randall launched the ICBMs and we had to turn everything back on again to shut the power off? Then the Tower started exploding and we barely escaped?” 

“Yes,” Charlie breathed. Almost against her will, her eyes darted to Monroe. He looked nauseated. 

“Well, the nano is…it’s hard to explain in layman’s terms.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Basically, the nano is sentient. And they kind of think I’m they’re dad. Except they’re going through the world’s worst rebellious stage.” 

It didn’t make any sense, but Charlie didn’t doubt him for a minute. The tightness in her chest had been replaced by a heavy pit of fear in her stomach, and she felt as queasy as Monroe had looked before. The whole world narrowed down to her hand clinging tightly to Aaron’s, and she thought her ears were ringing, but maybe that was the heavy silence.

Monroe’s voice broke through her awareness, low and incredulous. “You’re shitting me.”

 

Chapter Text

Charlotte looked thunderstruck, still clutching Pyro's hand like he hadn't just admitted to being the father figure to some bizarre, sentient technology. He didn't pull away, but he directed a morose look at the ground like he wanted to be anywhere but here at the moment. "Trust me," he said. "I wish I were." 

Charlotte was silent, so Bass figured that gave him time to ask a few questions before she recovered and started shooting him imperious glares again. He scrubbed a hand across his beard, trying to decide which one to ask first. "Why exactly do these things think they're your spawn?" He wasn't sure he even wanted to know the answer to that question, but there it was. 

Stay Puft heaved the largest, longest sigh Bass had ever heard. "I wrote the code. Not intentionally to create the nanotech. I wasn't part of the research team or anything like that. But they got a hold of it, and that's what they used to get it up and running." 

Threads of suspicion that had been dangling in his mind for a long time suddenly started tying themselves into neat little bows. "Was Rachel Matheson on this research team?" 

The other man nodded reluctantly. "Rachel. Ben. A couple of others. They were trying to create clean energy, but they needed money to pay for Danny's medical bills, all the procedures. Randall Flynn showed up and offered them Department of Defense backing, so they took it." 

Bass started chuckling, and he didn't know why because it wasn't funny at all. He shook his head in disbelief. "Those sneaky bastards. Should've figured they were the ones who caused the blackout." He felt personally offended somehow. "I put my life on the line for this country for years, two tours in Iraq, more close calls than I can count, and this is what I get?" 

"Pretty sure they didn't do it as a personal affront to you." 

Bass stared at Stay Puft, taken aback. The guy had been hanging around Mathesons for too long. Some of the sass had apparently rubbed off on him. He couldn't even pretend to be angry. He had a fondness for Matheson sass he could never quite manage to shake. 

"Anyway, Rachel insists the whole federal government wasn't in on it. Just the DOD." Charlotte turned reproachful eyes on him, and he added softly, "I'm sorry, Charlie. We’ve talked about it, as much as I could get Rachel to talk about it. Mostly on the way to the Tower, but a little bit…after.” 

His eyes darted to Bass, then back down. Right. They’d been on the road, trying to beat big bad Monroe and get the power back on before him. For the life of him, he still didn't understand why Rachel was so insistent it needed to stay off, until she suddenly wasn’t. Before the pendants and the amplifiers, Bass’d had no way of knowing Rachel could localize the power. She’d refused to turn it on for the whole world, and then for the Monroe Republic, but once she was free she’d gone off to do just that. Abruptly, it occurred to him that he might have been underestimating this chubby, bespectacled man. He wasn't exactly the type of person who tended to survive in the blackout world. Unless other people had been protecting him. 

Bass narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?" 

"Nobody," he mumbled. 

"I think that's crap," Bass said bluntly. 

He blew out a breath again. He was starting to sound like a winded horse. "Aaron Pittman." 

Pre-blackout, Bass had never paid much attention to the tech world, but everybody knew the big names. Steve Jobs. Bill Gates. Jeff Bezos. Aaron Pittman. He pointed a finger at the man, recognition hitting him swift as a punch. "Google! I knew you looked familiar!" 

"Funny, you don't seem like you would've been the type to read Wired." 

Bass gave a genuine chuckle now, shaking his head in disbelief. "I knew I recognized you from somewhere." He eyed the man for a minute, taking in his grubby clothes and battered glasses. He looked just like the rest of them, albeit slightly more well-fed. "Blackout hit you harder than any of us, I bet." 

Google gave him a dirty look. Apparently he didn't like being reminded of all the billions he'd lost. "Charlotte, you can't imagine all the stuff this guy had. He owned a tropical island." 

"A small island," Google protested, like that made a difference. 

"He had it good," Bass said, trying to keep the latent jealousy out of his voice. "Mansion in Malibu. Penthouse in New York. Condo in Silicon Valley. Couple of McLarens." 

“One. I had one McLaren. I had a Prius too.” 

“Oh, excuse me. A McLaren and an Aston Martin. A thing for British luxury sports cars, apparently.” Bass tilted his head, remembering. "And a hot wife." 

Google's face darkened and he looked like he was going to lunge at Bass. Charlotte moved her hand to his arm, restraining him, and scowled at Bass. "Knock it off. Patriots and nano and spontaneous combustion and this is what you're fixating on?" 

Bass leaned back against the side of the trailer, crossing his arms over his chest and studying Charlotte. All of that meant less than nothing to her, child of the blackout that she was. She couldn't even fathom what it had meant to be a tech genius billionaire in the old world. All those people moaning about commercialism and technology and their damaging effects on the culture, and what actually ended up damaging it beyond all repair was a permanent, worldwide power outage. His lips twisted up at the thought. If he didn't appreciate irony, there wasn't much left to appreciate in this world. 

Charlotte looked like she'd recovered from her previous shock, and now she turned the full force of her will on poor Google, demanding a complete explanation of events, start to finish. He looked reluctant, but didn't put up a resistance. Guy never stood a chance, butting heads with her. She would have made a damn fine officer, Bass reflected, had circumstances with her family turned out differently. It was a painful thought, picturing Miles and the rest of the Mathesons with him in Philly, one big happy family—and it was far from the first time he'd imagined it—so he pushed it away and focused his attention on the conversation taking place in front of him. 

"Okay, um." Google took his glasses off and wiped them on his shirt. Obviously stalling for time. "I'm just trying to figure out where to start. There was the war clan…no, wait." He gulped so hard his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Charlie, you remember the fire that killed Cynthia's husband?" 

Charlotte leaned away from him, probably trying to catch his eyes, because he’d suddenly found his own feet incredibly fascinating. "Oh, Aaron," she said softly. "You didn't." 

"Not on purpose," he muttered. "I didn't even figure out it was me until months later, after—ugh, I'm getting ahead of myself." 

Bass scratched the top of his head and squinted up at Charlotte. "Please tell me you never had to suffer through any of this guy's bedtime stories." 

Google looked deeply offended, but Charlie pressed her lips together and ducked her head. His stomach gave a strange lurch at the thought that he'd actually made her laugh. When she'd composed herself, she patted Google's arm. "Ignore him. At least I didn't have to suffer through his bedtime stories." 

The snort that escaped Bass was a reflex, and he covered it up immediately with a cough. Charlotte had loved his bedtime stories. Miles didn't have much patience for them, and little imagination. Ben and Rachel had even less, if that was possible. But Bass had almost made an art form of it, honed to perfection after years of practice with two younger sisters. Not that she would remember any of that. 

Google shot him one more dirty look, then resumed his story. "The first weird thing was the fireflies. They started…swarming around me. Then I started finding a disturbing amount of dead rats. Still don't know what that was all about, but it had something to do with the nanites. Pretty soon after that, a war clan from the Plains Nation attacked Willoughby." 

"What? Why?" Charlotte blurted out, confusion clear on her face. 

"That's what we wondered. Little hick town in the middle of Texas. It didn't make any sense." 

"Which war clan?" Bass interrupted. He was familiar with several of the bigger ones. They'd made a habit of attacking the Republic's borders over the years. They were more a nuisance than a serious threat, but he'd had to travel out to deal with them himself on several occasions. He could only imagine they were running roughshod all over the fallen Republic. With all that land up for the claiming, he didn't know why they would risk angering Texas. 

"Led by some creepy guy named Titus. Titus Andover." 

Bass frowned. "Never heard of him." 

"Well, he's dead now, so you probably never will. Anyway, the first time they attacked us, they captured Miles, and one of them slashed me across the chest with a sword." He shifted uncomfortably on the ground. "Uh, this is the part that's going to make me sound like an insane person. But Rachel witnessed the whole thing. You can ask her if you don't believe me." 

Charlotte smiled a little. "Aaron, I believe the nanite thing, and the fire thing. This can't be any worse than that." 

"Um, yes it can," Google insisted. "Because I died." 

There was a long silence. 

Charlotte's voice was hoarse when she said, "Like, for a few seconds?" 

"No," he replied, drawing the word out. "For two hours." 

Charlotte blinked, trying to register that information. Bass just stared at them both. He didn't know how much more of this stuff he could take. He didn't want to believe any of it, but Stay Puft was probably one of the smartest people left in the world, and he had no reason to lie about any of it. In fact, it was like pulling teeth trying to get the story out of him. Lies slipped easily off of people's tongues. They usually had a harder time telling the truth. 

"How?" Charlotte whispered. 

He shrugged. "Don't know. I don't remember any of it. One second I couldn't breathe and everything went dark, and the next I woke up and everyone was freaked out and crying. I mean, it was obviously the nanites, but I don't know how they did it." 

That was greeted with more silence, so he forged on with his story. "So, uh, yeah, crazy war clan leader had Miles, who turned out to have compatible blood with the guy's diabetic wife. Rachel mounted a rescue mission before the guy could use Miles as a living blood bag, and they took the wife with them. He attacked Willoughby in retaliation, and Miles was planning to use her as a hostage, but she committed suicide." He paused. "Guess she was even less of a fan of her husband than we were. So there we were, about to be slaughtered by a war clan, and the Patriots came swooping in and saved the town." 

"It was a set-up," Bass muttered. Google shot him a surprised look, like he couldn't believe he'd figured it out so quickly. Apparently the computer genius held his mental faculties in low esteem. "Those sneaky bastards." 

"Would you stop saying that like you admire them?" Irritation was plain in the other man's voice. "You're seriously skeeving me out." 

"Gotta admire their success rate." Charlotte shot him a look. "If not their methods," he added hastily. 

Stay Puft shook his head. "Rachel and Miles were suspicious right away. Rachel broke into their office without telling anybody, because she's Rachel. And she got caught. Gene talked her out of trouble. Miles started investigating—went to Titus's makeshift headquarters. I guess he only found Titus there, and the guy ended up dead." He paused for a minute, brow furrowed, ticking off his fingers like he was silently checking a list. "Um, let's see. Rachel went to one of her childhood friends for help, but it turned out he was a secret Patriot and tried to kill her, but she killed him instead." 

A bitter smile tugged at Bass’s mouth. Yet another person who'd underestimated just what that woman was capable of. 

"Miles went to the train yard and found cars full of the war clan members, and he recognized one of the Patriots guarding them as Titus's right-hand man. Secret Patriots everywhere. It's enough to make you paranoid of everyone. I'd started having really weird dreams around that time, and I dreamed about Miles being at the train yard. Except it wasn't really a dream, because he got caught and the guys who caught him…um, spontaneously combusted." 

"You can combust people with your dreams?" Charlotte had a troubled expression on her face. 

"Not on purpose," Google protested again. "It was really the nanotech." 

Bass's lips twitched. Whatever you want to tell yourself, Stay Puft. Anything to deny being a killer. Apparently the Matheson sanctimoniousness had rubbed off on him too. 

"Didn't take us long to put it together, though. That's when Rachel decided it was the nanites. I mean, it's not like there was any other explanation, but we didn't want to believe it. I didn't understand what was happening to me." He heaved a breath. Charlotte leaned forward and put a hand on his arm again. "Then a group of Rangers showed up, led by one of the big shots, I guess. Something Fry." 

"John Franklin Fry," Bass interrupted. 

Google nodded. "That's it. At first we thought there was going to be a showdown, what with Patriots invading Texas land, but they were there to make a treaty." 

Bass felt an unpleasant swooping sensation in his gut. He'd been relying on Texas to back them against the Patriots. They couldn't fight a war with a half-dozen people. 

"Miles came up with a scheme to talk to the guy. Said he knew him. Thought he could convince him the Patriots were up to no good and stop the treaty." 

Bass groaned and put his head in his hands. "Oh, Miles. Bad idea." 

"Isn't that one of the guys he tried to have assassinated?" 

Bass jerked up his head to look at Charlie. So she had believed him when he'd told her that was Miles' idea. That was…unexpected. "Yeah. Backfired considerably. I'd say it was his worst plan ever, but…." Bass gestured towards Google. 

"Well, Fry agreed to meet him. Miles planned to capture the Patriot spy who'd been with the war clan and get him to talk, but he killed himself before Miles could get him there. No proof for Fry, so the treaty got signed." Google hesitated. "Miles insists Fry believed him, even though he wouldn't say he did. All he kept saying was he needed proof for the president." 

The two of them swiveled their heads towards Bass like they thought he was a John Franklin Fry expert. He shrugged in response. "Sounds like Fry." 

There was silence again. 

"Aaron?" Charlotte prompted. 

He seemed even more reluctant to tell this next part. "More Patriots came to town, with a doctor. Dr. Horn." His voice was thick with repulsion. "First it seemed like he was going to have a weird fascination with Rachel's brain, but then he started fixating on me and my…relationship to the nanotech. I was scared for Cynthia. Miles tried to get us away, but we got caught. Horn…tortured us to test my healing ability." He laughed bitterly. "He took it too far. I freaked and the nanites knocked them all out so we could get away. We ended up hiding at a school, and the nanites…appeared to me for the first time." 

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Appeared?" 

"Yeah. Showed up as this kid I used to know. Stood right in front of me and talked to me, as real as you are now. Told me I had to go to Spring City, Oklahoma." 

"So what, you’re the nanotech’s bitch now?" Bass scoffed. 

"Basically," Google said seriously. Regretfully. "Didn't have much choice. They're everywhere. They're listening to us right now." 

You've got to be kidding me. I'm in a horror movie. A rare, unpleasant shiver ran down Bass's back. 

"That's why you thought I was the nanites," Charlotte said, understanding dawning across her face. 

"Can you blame me?" 

She shook her head. 

"The Patriots found us in the school. Horn…." His voice broke. "He shot Cynthia. I—I told the nanites to kill them all. I didn't tell them to save her. I told them to kill them all, and they did, and then they disappeared and…she was gone." A sudden sob shook his body, and he dropped his face into his hands. Charlotte leaned closer and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Bass looked away. 

It took a few minutes for Pittman to compose himself. When he did, he whispered, "I took off after the funeral. They want something from me. I have to find out what it is." 

Charlotte still hadn't let go of him. He straightened and pulled away a little. "Charlie, I need to tell you something. Don't freak out, okay?" 

She dropped her arms and made that face Bass was so familiar with. Wary, guarded, one eyebrow raised. 

Google poked at the food on his forgotten plate, stalling for time. "Gene was working for the Patriots," he blurted out at last, so fast it sounded like one long word. 

Charlotte blinked a couple of times and shook her head. "What? No!" 

"It happened a long time ago," Google said soothingly. "He said it was after your grandma died in a cholera outbreak. They showed up, offered him medicine he needed to save people." 

Those sneaky bastards. It was growing more and more difficult to admire them with every new revelation. At least Bass had always been nothing but upfront about what he really wanted from people. None of these sick mind games. 

She was still shaking her head. "Charlie…." Stay Puft reached out to put an arm around her shoulders. She shoved him away, scrambling backwards to put some space between them. Bass watched in silence as her face shifted through a dozen different emotions in the space of a minute. At last, it settled on one. A hardened mask, emotions tucked neatly away. 

"They want to kill my mom. His daughter. How could he do that?" 

"Charlie…." He reached out again, and she slapped his hand away. "Charlie, I'm mad at him too. He turned us in to save Rachel. It's partly his fault Cynthia's…gone." She shook her head again, stubbornly. Google offered up one more excuse. "He's not with them anymore. Wanted by the Patriots just like the rest of us. They're all hiding out in the country outside of town." 

"Is that supposed to make it better?" she asked coldly. 

"No. No. It's just—Rachel's mad enough as it is. You know how scary that can be. We've all—we've all done things we're not proud of." He shot a fleeting glance at Bass. Oh, now he decides that applies to me just as much as everyone else? Bass thought bitterly. His eyes shifted to Charlotte, and she was looking at him too. Her face was still cold, but she hadn't yet learned how to make her eyes match. Maybe she was incapable of it. He could see so many emotions there—fury and hurt and confusion. Everyone let her down. Even her family couldn't manage to be the people she hoped they were. At least Bass had an advantage there. She expected nothing from him. There was nowhere to go but up. And it made no sense, but he wanted to. He shied away from the thought. He'd spent too many years learning not to care about people's expectations of him. 

"So," Google leaned back and slapped his hands on his knees with false cheeriness. "That's my story. Real inspirational, huh?" 

"So you won't come back with us?" Charlotte kept her voice carefully neutral. 

Google sounded regretful. "I can't. I need to go and figure out this nanite thing. That's on me. That's my fight. Everyone else needs to take the Patriots down." 

"How are we supposed to find Miles if they're all in hiding?" 

"You know that road that runs east out of town? 487? There's an abandoned farmhouse near it about a mile out. They'll probably be moving locations a lot, but it's a place to start. They're trying to get a resistance going, but they've only found a few allies in town so far." 

Charlotte looked like she wanted to argue, but she clamped her mouth shut and said nothing. 

Well, if she's not going to say it, guess it's on me. "That's a terrible plan. You're like a WMD. We need to use that. Just tell the nanites to set all the Patriots on fire and bam, war's over almost before it's started." 

Charlotte turned a gaze on him that clearly said he was the scum of the earth. It'd been a while since she'd looked at him like that, and Bass suddenly found it bothered him more than he'd care to admit. He set his jaw, a silent protest against the growing importance of her opinion of him. "That would make us just as bad as them," she protested. "How is that any different than the Patriots dropping nukes on Philadelphia and Atlanta?" 

Bass adopted a patient tone, like he was explaining military strategy to a new recruit. "Easy. The Patriots are trying to kill us. Philly and Atlanta didn't even know they existed. There's a huge difference between a defensive move and an unprovoked attack." 

Charlotte's frown deepened, and Bass knew that meant she was considering his point, and it was probably one that had never occurred to her before. But she wasn't the type to give up an argument. "Maybe. But I wouldn't classify that as a defensive move. What if they have conscripts, people forced to fight for them? They can't all be bad, and we'd be murderers." 

That ship sailed a long time ago. But Charlotte still had some innocence to her, though she tried to bury it deep. But he could see it. Maybe that was the real reason he kept following her. "Collateral damage," he said tonelessly, already bracing himself for the disapproving look to intensify. Her eyes turned steely instead, and somehow that was worse. 

"It doesn't matter," Stay Puft interrupted. "It doesn't work like that. Didn't you hear anything I said? They don't really listen to me, and I don't think they'd approve of that anyway." 

The more this guy talked about the nanotech, the crazier he sounded. "Your creepy invention has a conscience?" Bass asked skeptically. 

Charlotte plastered a nasty smile on her face. "Look at that, Monroe. You have less of a conscience than a machine." 

Bass turned his own cold gaze on her, tilting his head to the side, and they had another of their silent showdowns, just one of many since being tied up in the pool together. Charlotte arched an eyebrow, daring him to deny it. Don't take the bait, he told himself, but he wasn't very good at taking his own advice. "This isn't about conscience, Charlotte. This is about not letting those bastards win." 

"Ends justify the means, right?" she sneered. 

Bass didn't answer, just worked his jaw and continued staring her down. 

"Uh…." Google sounded uncomfortable. "So you're going to have to come up with another plan." 

Damn. There was something about Charlotte that kept making him forget Stay Puft was sitting right there. She was an irritation, constantly challenging him, glaring at him, trusting him one minute and distrusting him the next, sparking anger in his chest—and he couldn't take his eyes off her for some mysterious reason. "Okay, then, Charlotte," Bass said softly, eyes still locked on her. "That's your cue." 

Her lips curled up mockingly. "You're the military strategist, General Monroe." She held up her hands in a show of helplessness. "I'm just some hick from Wisconsin." 

Bass crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, the hick didn't like my plan, so now it's her turn." 

Charlotte shot to her feet, all anger and fire, the cold mask she'd been wearing since hearing one of her family members worked for the Patriots shed in a fraction of a second. Bass couldn't keep the slow, satisfied smile from spreading across his face. There she was. 

She stomped towards him, and he scrambled up, immediately on his guard. He never could tell when she might turn violent. Not that he thought she'd try to kill him in front of Pittman, but the girl could pack a wallop, and Bass couldn't defend himself in present company without the risk of getting burnt to a crisp. 

She showed no signs of slowing down. Bass put his hands up at shoulder level in a gesture of surrender, trying to back up and bumping into the side of the trailer instead. "Woah, Charlie." Her nostrils flared, and he regretted the words the instant he realized he'd just talked to her like one of the horses. She tipped her head back, and he stared down into her furious eyes. Then she poked him in the chest, careful to use her left hand this time to keep her militia brand away from him. 

"This isn't Philly, Monroe," she growled, punctuating each word with a jab. One of these days he was going to have a bruise shaped like the tip of Charlotte's finger smack in the middle of his chest. "This isn't the Republic. You're not the general anymore. If you want to make this work, you're going to have to do it our way. And you won't be in charge. Miles will." 

"You sure you won't be?" He was only half-joking. 

Her eyes blazed. Okay, maybe that wasn't the best word to use under current circumstances, but there was no other way to describe it. 

"You think that's funny?" she demanded. 

She was way too close to him. He needed some space. He tried to shift to the side, but she followed. "No. I think it's probable." 

She frowned, and his eyes fell to her lips. Bad idea. He dragged them upwards to the little crease between her eyebrows, focusing on that instead. 

He tore his eyes away when Stay Puft cleared his throat and muttered something Bass couldn't quite catch, but it sounded like this is so weird. His eyes were round behind his glasses, expression a mix of horror and fascination. 

Charlotte whirled on him, her anger diverted momentarily, and Bass took his chance to slip away and put some space between them. "What?" she snapped. 

Stay Puft rearranged his expression into something he probably thought passed for innocence, holding his hands up defensively. There was a lot of that going around. "Nothing," he blurted out. 

Charlotte narrowed her eyes, and then she stomped off again, stopping to snatch up her crossbow and quiver. "I'm going hunting," she announced angrily. Her eyes darted between the two men. "Don't kill each other." 

Bass exchanged a look with Google, hoping he'd be the one dumb enough to protest, "But it'll be dark soon." Unfortunately, if his expression was anything to go by, he was hoping Bass would be the sacrificial lamb. No chance of that. Bass clamped his mouth shut. But she was waiting for some kind of answer. He made eye contact with Google and inclined his head towards Charlotte, hoping that would be enough to get the message across. She likes you better than me. 

Apparently Google responded well to prompting. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said with false cheerfulness. 

Charlie spun on her heel, storming away, crossbow in hand. 

Bass rounded on the other man. "Seriously, Stay Puft? Was that supposed to be some kind of joke?" 

"Yeah." He sounded surly. "If you can't have gallows humor, what else is there to laugh about?" 

Bass gave him a withering glance. "Nothing, when she's in a mood like that. Haven't you learned by now not to poke the dragon?" 

"She didn't used to be like that. This is new. Ever since the Tower…." 

Bass swiped a hand over his face. It was difficult enough dealing with (or rather, not dealing with) his own PTSD. He didn't think he could deal with Charlotte's as well. It wasn't like the term existed anymore anyway—it belonged to the world of artificial lighting and shrinks' offices and small orange pill bottles—but it'd been his constant companion for twenty years. More constant than any human companion. Hello, darkness, my old friend, he thought morbidly. Hell, at this point, it was probably the norm for everyone left alive. The entire post-blackout world consisted of one traumatic event after another. 

Although the sun was still up, he shook out his bedroll and slumped down onto it with a weary sigh. "I'm gonna get some sleep," he said, shooting a warning glare at Stay Puft. "I'm the world's lightest sleeper, so don't think you can sneak off to Oklahoma under my watch." 

"I told you, I'm not going back with you." 

Bass gave an impatient shake of his head. "That's not what I'm worried about. Charlie'd kill me if I let you take off while she's gone. Literally kill me. I'm not kidding." 

There was a silence Bass took to be assent, so he shut his eyes and threw an arm over his forehead, finally letting the weariness settle in. He was half asleep already when Stay Puft spoke again. 

"Can I ask you a question?" 

Bass gave an irritated grunt. 

"Why are you doing this?" 

His mouth twitched. "She asked me the same thing." 

"And you said…?" 

"A show of faith," Bass mumbled, remembering the distrust that had filled her eyes at his words. "Making amends." 

"What kind of amends?" His tone was carefully neutral, with an ocean of implications beneath. Pittman had guts, Bass had to give him that. Charlotte hadn't even broached that topic yet. 

Bass kept his eyes shut, not moving a muscle. Maybe if he took long enough to answer, Stay Puft would leave him alone. No such luck. He could feel his eyes on him. "Justice for Philly." 

"Justice or revenge?" There was no judgment in his tone. 

"Doesn't matter," Bass said. "Those damn Patriots are up to something big, and anyone who gets in their way is disposable. Whole cities are disposable. I don't know about you, but that's not the kind of government I want to live under." 

"I heard you sent a nuke to Atlanta." 

“I wasn’t myself. I was desperate, officers were betraying me.” Bass didn’t know why he felt the need to explain himself to Stay Puft, but the words kept slipping off his tongue. “It was Randall’s idea. It was the Patriots all along. And I played right into their hands.” He tried and failed to keep the self-loathing out of his voice. “It was a scare tactic, to get them to surrender. I didn’t intend to use it.” 

Bass expected the other man to mock him about excuses and hypocrisy, already arming himself with insults to launch back, but Stay Puft said nothing. At length, he asked, “Would you have wanted to live under your own government? Assuming you weren’t General Monroe, obviously.” 

Bass choked back a bitter laugh. This guy knew how to ask the hard questions. “No,” he admitted. “But better that than whatever these so-called Patriots have up their sleeves.” 

“So that’s it? This is just about Philadelphia?” 

There was a long silence. 

“It’s about Miles, isn’t it?” 

Bass refused to answer that. 

“Look, I guess it’s none of my business, whatever this love/hate thing you have going on is. From what I’ve heard, you two were like family—” 

“Brothers,” Bass corrected hoarsely. Always were, always would be. 

“And it seems to me, you’ve got nothing else to live for but revenge and Miles. The thing I can’t figure out is what you’re planning on doing once you get there. You’ve tried to kill each other. A lot. You think you’re just going to…hug it out?” 

Bass scowled, staring up at the deepening blue of the sky. Stay Puft was voicing all of his own doubts, and they were so much worse spoken out loud. “Why do you care?” he asked dully. 

Stay Puft sounded taken aback. “Uh, maybe because I would like everyone to be alive after that happy reunion?” 

Bass finally dropped his arm and twisted his head to look at the other man. “Oh, really? Everyone?” he asked sardonically. 

Stay Puft studied him for a second. Bass wanted nothing more than to roll over and go to sleep, but he knew the guy would just keep on going until he’d said his piece. “You’re protecting Charlie,” he said softly. 

Bass settled his head back on his makeshift pillow. “I’ve saved her life a few times, yeah.” 

“You’re relying on that to get you back in Miles’ good graces.” 

He didn’t respond. Not like I’ve been keeping a secret of that. 

Stay Puft’s voice sounded different now, more hesitant. “I think it’s more than that. She’s more than just a bargaining chip.” 

“Oh yeah?” Bass made sure his voice was dripping with disdain for all of Stay Puft’s opinions. 

“I think you care.” It sounded like an accusation. When had he fallen that far, Bass wondered, that the simple act of him saving someone’s life for more than personal gain was so shocking? He scowled at the sky again, draping his arm back over his forehead. 

But Stay Puft just wouldn’t let it go. “I don’t expect you to admit it. I can’t even believe I’m saying this to you. But the fact is,” he sighed heavily, “I hope you do care. You’ve got a long way to go still and you’re the only one she has to watch her back. Don’t get me wrong, I wish it was basically anybody else in the world, but Charlie decided to team up with you and that’s her call. Just…keep her safe, okay?” 

Bass snorted. “Charlotte doesn’t need me for that. Trust me.” 

Stay Puft sounded skeptical. “That’s not what you were saying earlier. Or what I saw today.” 

Bass didn’t know what the four-eyed wonder thought he’d seen, but he was eager to put an end to this conversation. He rolled to the side to look at the man again. “Pittman,” he growled, stopping him mid-sentence. “I will deliver Charlotte home, safe and sound, and you will promise not to sic the nanites on me. Deal?” 

Stay Puft’s eyebrows drew together, but he nodded his head. 

“Good,” Bass grunted, resuming his sleeping position. “Now shut up.” 

Charlotte returned an hour or two after dark, conspicuously empty-handed. She dropped her crossbow by the fire and stood in front of Google, crossing her arms over her chest. “You take off in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye, or without taking some of our supplies, and I will kick your ass. Got it?” 

Google nodded quickly and Bass had to suppress a smirk. 

Some of her iciness melted after that and the two of them sat by the fire for hours, speaking in low tones and smiling and once, shedding tears quietly together. Bass kept his distance, feeling like an intruder. He dozed off again, and woke up to see Charlotte had fallen asleep as well, slumped up against Stay Puft’s shoulder. He rearranged her on a bedroll, covering her with a blanket, then put together his own makeshift bed. Bass sat up, leaning against the side of the trailer again, watching. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Just in case.