Chapter Text
Bass stands, transfixed, as Charlotte stares down Strausser, gaze unflinching, so willing to put herself in harm’s way for her family. He respects that, admires it, identifies with it, even.
It’s also the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen (and he’s pretty experienced at appreciating hot things).
He has a plan, he reminds himself; maybe the plan lacks a great deal of foresight, but it makes up for that in obsessive thought. Thinking is all he’s been able to do since he got Tom’s message about bringing the boy, all he’s managed since he found out Miles was on his way. That thought just keeps echoing, day and night: Miles is on his way. You’d think he was fucking Santa Claus and Bass was still eight and terribly concerned about whether or not his and Miles’ ditching Ben in the forest way back in July (look, six months was a lifetime at eight) had landed him on the “Naughty” list. But, nevertheless, the refrain bounces off the walls and among the shards of shattered lives in his brain: Miles is on his way.
Except, really, today, it should shift to something more along the lines of Miles’s coming tonight, tonight (he’d prefer if it picked up the more classic So let’s give thanks to the Lord above / ‘Cause Miles is coming tonight, though that carries that frisson of dread even farther, because it must, of course, shift to the more ominous Jump in bed, cover up your head / ‘Cause Miles is coming tonight, and Bass has better things to do in bed than cover up his head should Miles show up; though, given that the last time the other man graced his bedroom in the middle of the night had been less than pleasant, hiding under the covers has a certain appeal)
(Observe again, exhibit A, Naughty List, above)
(But, no, he lets his thoughts get stuck in this ridiculous loop, whilst trying very hard not to grab one Charlotte Matheson, back her into that wall behind her and fuck her senseless, and ends up with the words zinging along to Spongebob Squarepants’ song and its annoying as fuck repetitive “Jingle Bells” tune over and over and over again…and in Angie’s voice, because, dear God, his youngest sister had loved that stupid song).
It seems highly likely that he’s missed part of the conversation, but mostly it appears Rachel’s just freaking out, and he will be so fucking glad when he can finally kill her.
His plan verges on the edge between fruition and collapse. Stay the course; Miles harps on that all the time, commitment to a goal, trying to keep Bass from losing focus (Bass! Focus, and Miles’ voice momentarily drowns out Angie’s, thank whoever listens to the prayers of the fallen). Before he lets himself ask “What would Lucifer do?” and return to contemplating just what Charlotte’s legs would feel like wrapped around him and the correlated inquiry as to whether she’s ever wrapped them around anyone before (which, let’s be honest, finding the answer to both of those is probably exactly what Lucifer would do) he tells the ghost of Miles’ admonition to fuck off. Not like Miles followed his own advice, did he?
Miles ran away; Bass can change his plans.
He keys back in as Rachel gives in. Charlotte shoots her a look as full of disgust as Bass often feels, though he suspects their reasons may be different, and the knot that had tightened at his core, worried he’d miscalculated with the elder Matheson woman and would have to follow through on his threat loosens. He needs to keep her compliant, though—Rachel, not Charlotte—and gleefully tosses out the instruction he’d planned to give.
He gestures for one of the guards to come forward, instructing him, “Bring the girl to my office,” then looks back at Rachel as he gives Strausser the order. “If Rachel even breathes wrong, kill the boy.”
Rachel’s eyes widen as the soldier grabs Charlotte’s arm and tugs her out of the line of Strausser’s gun, then fill with alarm, followed by understanding. “You son of a bitch…” Her launch toward him is abruptly stopped, though, as Strausser turns the gun on Danny. “Bass…please, don’t…”
Charlotte’s struggle aborts just as quickly when Strausser’s gun moves, terror flashing through her implacable resolve and Bass glances between the three of them. “I see we understand each other. Your children will be fine, Rachel, so long as you do what you’ve promised. I give you my word.”
He smirks slightly, letting her interpret “fine” as she wants, then turns on his heel and leaves, gesturing for the guard to bring Charlotte after him.
* * *
Charlie’s heart thunders loud enough that she worries the seemingly implacable President will be able to hear it and call her out on her bravado. Fury and fear both rage, though less for herself than for Danny, left behind with Strausser. Miles’ words about the man echo through her head and it’s all she can do not to attack the young guard tugging her along (she could take him, she knows she could) and run back to her brother. Something tells her, however, that would only endanger Danny more.
Still, she struggles against the hold on her arm, to show she isn’t cowed, though neither the guard nor the President give her struggles much mind.
The office she’s dragged into isn’t exactly what she expected, but they are at a power plant, after all. She supposes she can’t expect anything too formal. Then again, the President isn’t quite what she expected, either. Nora said he and Miles grew up together, but Monroe looks younger, less world-worn. His eyes are as clear and blue as her own, though cold, she tells herself, making it an assessment of an enemy, not an admiration of color and clarity.
Though her focus had been on Strausser, she hadn’t missed the way Monroe watched her any more than she’d missed the frisson of awareness the avidity of his gaze sent through her. When he’d given his order, she’d looked to him in surprise, and felt the shock of the fervid hunger in that gaze ricochet around her brain and body both. No one had ever looked at her that way. She’d never seen anyone look at someone that way, but it was raw and primal, and she’s been breathing funny ever since.
“Leave us.”
The guard lets her go, stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind him, and Charlie’s gaze darts around the office—anywhere but on the slim figure in front of her--looking for a weapon or an escape or just to avoid the intensity of the way he’s looking at her once more.
“You wouldn’t get a hundred yards before someone grabbed you again.” His voice is calm, maybe even a little amused. “And if you attack me, your brother will be dead before you can get to him. So...” He turns away to move behind his desk, sorting through some papers. “As neither of us wants that, why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I need to take care of a couple of things, and then we’ll go…”
Who can deliver threats so politely? The short laugh that escapes her lips surprises her—seems to surprise him, too, given the way his head lifts back up to look at her. “If you don’t want to hurt him, you shouldn’t threaten him.”
The smile that flickers over Monroe’s lips is almost sad. “If everyone would just be reasonable and cooperate, I wouldn’t need to threaten him, but eight years of your mother’s refusal to do anything to help the world has led to the need for drastic measures. That doesn’t mean I want to take them; but I am willing to.”
Charlie bites back the questions about her mother in favor of the more pressing one. “Where are you taking me?”
Monroe settles behind his desk, flipping through some papers, then reaching for blank sheets and a pen, making notes across its surface she can’t quite see. “Hmmm?”
“You said you had to do something, then we’d go. Go where?”
“Back into Philly to start.”
“And then?” Because that certainly didn’t sound like a final destination.
“And then…we’ll see.” He glances up and gives her a smile that makes her want to snap at him to stop it, because the devil shouldn’t have an angel’s smile. It’s not right, and why the hell is she even noticing?
“Miles will be looking for me…”
“I’m counting on it.” The reply is absent, and she almost finds herself annoyed that after all his intensity, he’s suddenly paying minimal attention to her, back to scratching out his notes. His complete lack of concern with the possibility of any threat she poses is equally insulting.
“What are you going to do to me?” She thinks she knows, feels the fear of it twist inside her, along with something she refuses to acknowledge, and hates that this time she’s got no idea if anyone is coming, at least in time.
His lips curve in a bit of a smile, and he glances up at her again, and the heat in his gaze makes her wonder how she ever thought it was cold or him unattentive. “That depends utterly on you, Charlotte.”
It sounds like both a threat and a promise, and her throat goes dry. Given her quick glance around the room offered no easy weapon or escape route, she finally moves to sink into a chair, watching him carefully for any aggressive movement. He calls for a guard once, handing him a note without looking up, telling him to deliver it to Captain Baker, and Charlie glances out the open door only to see several guards in the hallway. No way out that way, then, not without a gun and eliminating the President who’d be behind her and if even one of them gets away, Danny’s as good as dead. She settles back moodily in the chair as the guard leaves.
Monroe continues to ignore her and time stretches out; maybe it’s only a few minutes, but to her mind, it feels like forever. When the door opens again, it’s the captain they held briefly captive with the rebels, and she shoots him a dark look of dislike that makes him smirk at her.
“Hello again, Miss Matheson.” She refuses to answer, which only seems to amuse him more. Monroe glances between them, then gestures at her. “Give it to her, and take her to the wagon. Then I have a list for you…”
The blond soldier moves across the room with purpose, and Charlie tenses. When she sees the syringe in his hand, however, she jumps to her feet, panic shouting warnings in her head. He catches her easily, and she looks to Monroe, only to find the damn man writing again. “Please…”
“If you struggle, it’s only going to hurt,” the captain tells her. “Just relax…”
She lashes out, but feels the needle sink into her neck. A sour taste hits the back of her throat, and she lets out a sob of frustration and fear, but whatever they’ve given her works fast, and before she can do more than that, the world goes black.
* * *
After Jeremy takes Charlotte out of the office and puts her in the wagon bound for Philly—one with seemingly nothing remotely interesting in it, should it happen to pass Miles on the way back—Bass finishes the instructions he’s been furiously scribbling out, everything he needs to put this new, mad (but epic) plan into place. He estimates the likelihood of it working as pretty damn low, but better it than some showdown here with Miles, or being here if and when Miles finds Rachel’s here: he really should have thought that one through a little better; he can admit that now.
Probably, he should think this one through a little more, too, but he’s always done his best (in his own mind) when improvising. Miles does careful strategy; Bass makes it up as he goes. If nothing else, he knows it challenges Miles to predict how and what he might do, and right now, he needs that on his side. Miles won’t see this coming, not at first. (Maybe not ever without help, he'll have to work that in to the plan, before he goes.) He’ll think the worst, fall for the play, and that will give Bass the time he needs.
Done writing out his instructions, he smiles to himself and slips out of the power plant a back way, making sure everyone thinks he’s still there: the more time he can buy while Miles hunts for him and Charlie out here, the better.
If this fails, it will do so spectacularly, and he’ll probably end up dead. (Not like he hasn't almost ended it himself a dozen times since Miles disappeared; Jeremy's taken to hiding the knives when he starts drinking.) If it succeeds, he’ll have everything he ever wanted: the power on, Miles home, and that amazing girl willingly in his bed. They’ll rule it all, just like he and Miles used to talk about, and he’ll be better with both of them by his side. (Miles always makes everything better; he has a feeling the girl might have that skill, too.) Miles will see how wrong he was, ever to leave; won’t ever do so again. (The "how could you do that to me, Miles?" echoes through his dreams every night, making his sleep restless and uneasy.) Even the smallest chance of having that is worth any risk of failure or death. He’s only been half-alive these last four years anyway.
No more half-assed gestures; if Miles is going to put him on his Naughty List, Bass might as well earn it.