A/N: I have been annoyed at the way the writers have turned Monroe back into the Monroe of season 1. He was so much more fun and interesting when he was allowed to be more human, rather than just a psycho. So here is my attempt to humanize him after episode 2 x 17. And I added a smattering of Charloe at the end because although my hope for it on the show has died, I still love me some Charloe! Maybe now that I've gotten this out of my head, I'll be able to pick up the other story I've been working on. Not marking this complete as of yet because I may add to it to make further episodes fit into my lala land later.
He holds the pistol in both hands, pointed towards the ground, yet still at ready. Carefully he stalks through the camp, checking each body. His movements are almost catlike as he steps over one corpse, moving on to the next. This one is still alive, but won't be for long. A jagged slash extends from one side of his abdomen to the other; if he doesn't bleed out, his death will be slow and painful as his organs shut down. The gun goes off and the Patriot is no more. Both mercy and vengeance in the same bullet.
He swallows deeply to force back the bile that rises with every shot he takes. He grits his teeth in determination. He will not show emotion here. Not in front of the men. They would see it as a sign of weakness, and he needs them to continue to see him as ruthless. That is what they respect; what they will follow. If they see the humanity poking through, he may lose them and with that, any chance of winning.
He hovers over the last fallen Patriot. The man's wounds are not fatal and he begs for his life. Briefly, he considers sparing this man. But the last time a Patriot was shown mercy, it was used against them. If this man lives, he will tell Truman all he has seen: their numbers, who leads them. He may even follow them back to their camp. That is too great a risk. He fights the urge to gag as he pulls the trigger one last time.
Looking up, he sees his son staring at him. He can't quite identify the expression he sees. Horror? Revulsion? Between the Patriot's pleas and the look on his kids face, it's all he can do not to vomit where he stands. Instead he turns away and walks towards the clansmen gathering on the other side of the training camp.
Later, back at their current safe house, the clansmen celebrate their victory loudly. Morale is high, which is vital to them after the defeat the clan experienced outside of New Vegas and the loss of their previous leader. He sits apart from his new followers. He holds a bottle of some unidentified liquor. He prefers whiskey, but he'll take what he can get. The bottle of whatever the hell he's drinking was full not long ago. He's been determined that it would not stay that way.
To the outside observer he is the dignified leader, celebrating quietly to distinguish himself from the fighting masses he leads. Joining in their mirth would not help to keep his authority over them. But, internally, he's just trying to come to terms with everything he has done. The raid on the camp was a necessary evil. The longer it stayed open the more children they would have to kill later. Despite what Rachel and Gene think, he is not immune to the fact that most of the cadets they've slaughtered wouldn't even be able to vote if the power was still on. Some wouldn't even have been able to drive.
So, he drinks to dull his mind; to try to block out the wounded Patriots he'd killed after the battle had ended. He knows the Mathesons and his son judge him. He doesn't understand how they can demand mercy for those that have shown none. Did the Patriots show mercy when they hired the Andover Clan to shoot up Willoughby or when they infected the town with typhus? Where was their mercy when they attached Duncan's clan unprovoked, blowing Duncan's face off?
Sure, she'd have let him rot in the dirt after dying in that dogfight in New Vegas, but he understood. She was a warlord. Her position was based on the loyalty of her men and her willingness to put the clan first. Despite that, he'd still cared. She'd been the closest thing to a "girlfriend" he'd had since Shelly had died all those years ago. He hadn't been in love by any means. He hadn't even been faithful (and he was sure the same could have been said on both counts for Duncan). But, she was the closest he'd let someone for a very long time. So tonight he'd killed them for her; killed them for the dozens of clansmen that had died along with her. Their only crime had been to build something out of the nothingness the U.S. Government had left behind.
He locks eyes on his son. He hands the bottle to him as the younger Monroe approaches. He has to admit that he's proud. The kid fought well and had his back. He pats Connor's cheek in fatherly affection, showing his approval. He has to stuff his own self-loathing deep inside. He can't bear to let Connor see what these battles do to him. All of this he is doing for his son. If it's a republic the boy wants, then it's a republic he shall have. Connor doesn't need to see the real cost.
Much later he sits on the catwalk that haphazardly still stands above their camp. The chain link fencing that once kept workers from falling off has been torn away in several sections. He sits with his legs dangling over, his arms resting on one of the bars that once held the chain link. He should be taking advantage of having more men to take watch and try to sleep. It seems the others are. As much as the Mathesons have condemned him for his new little army, they sure seem to be enjoying the much needed rest. His bottle has been long abandoned for empty. Not that he needed another drink. The glow of the booze still buzzes around him. But despite the fact that he is thoroughly drunk, he still can't block out any of it.
His eyes brim, his stomach churns. But, the tears won't fall and his stomach has refused to empty. He doesn't even hear Charlie approach until she's almost upon him. Maybe she's sneaking up on him, or maybe he's just that drunk. He doesn't care enough to analyze it further.
"Look at you, all proud of your little army." Her voice is cold, full of hatred. She leans up against the railing behind him. If she really wants to, she could just push him off his perch and put him out of his misery. The bar he's rested his arms on is rickety at best and would do little to prevent him from going over. It occurs to him that as drunk as he is, she wouldn't even have to take the heat for it. Everyone had seen him polish off his bottle and stumble his way up here before they turned in for the night. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to think he'd just slipped off. He thinks for a split second about moving before she takes the opportunity, but in the end he doesn't care enough to do so.
"Did you want something?" He slurs wearily. He's not in the mood for her condemnation right now.
"How could you celebrate after killing those men in cold blood?" She asks. "I would have thought that even you weren't that sick."
He rests his head on his arms. Hidden under his elbows, his hands grip the bar, as if for dear life. If he could see them, he could be sure his knuckles were white. "It's war, Charlie. It's not cold blooded to shoot someone that's trying to kill you. You knew we had to hit that training camp as well as I did."
Charlie crosses over to his side of the catwalk, standing above him. She leans up against the fencing that ends a few feet to his right. "You know what I'm talking about. The wounded. You just killed them like they were nothing."
He looks up at her now, his eyes boring into hers. "You- You think I enjoyed it? That I liked having to kill them?" She only nods in response. He visibly flinches at her silent affirmative. "Then you still don't know me at all." He looks back down on the camp, but does not turn his head fast enough to conceal the lone tear that run downs his face. Her accusation has stung, for reasons he can't begin to explain. He quickly wipes it away, hoping she hasn't noticed in the darkness.
But, the light from the campfire below reflects off of it, making it and the wetness still in his eyes more obvious. "More crocodile tears, Monroe?"
Despite his inebriated state, he jumps up to confront her. The speed of his movements has startled her. "I did what had to be done. Most of them were dying anyway."
Charlie backs away from him. She can tell he's plowed and in her experience, drunken men are unpredictable. Being a little on the crazy side, he is more so. "What about that last one? I'd already seen him. He would have lived."
A few more tears find their way out of his eyes as he steps towards her, stalking her. "I didn't want to kill him. I didn't have a choice. If I'd have let him live we wouldn't even last the night. He'd have followed us and led every Patriot in Texas straight for us."
Charlie has her back pressed up against the railing now, with no place left to go. He is standing so close she has to crane her neck up to maintain eye contact. "There's always a choice. And you always make the one that leaves the most bodies behind. You're a killer, Monroe. And that's all you'll ever be."
This is not the first time she's said this to him. And it won't certainly be the last. Normally, his reaction would be to laugh her off, throw an insult or two back and do his best to intimidate the hell out of her. But this is not a normal night. He's raw and drunk and he's been living off of too little sleep and too much adrenaline since he'd been pulled out of New Vegas by those bounty hunters a few months ago. "You're right," He says sadly. "I am a killer, and I can't change. Doesn't mean that I have to like it. It wasn't supposed to be like this."
He watches Charlie closely as she considers his words. He can tell she doesn't believe him, or at least she's put a concentrated effort into not believing. "Sorry, but I'm not buying it."
"I don't expect you to. One of us has to be the bad guy here Charlie," He takes one last step, and they are now toe to toe.
"If that's what helps you sleep at night, Monroe." She says, refusing to back down.
A chuckle escapes him at that. "Would we be standing here right now if I could? If we're going to survive this, someone has to be able to kill without thinking about it. Better me than you or Miles."
"If you seriously think any of us are going to live through this, it proves how deluded you really are." Her chosen words are cruel, but the venom in her tone has slowly ebbed to nothing.
Unable to help himself, he brushes a knuckle gently down her cheek. "Your family will survive, if I have to kill every Patriot to ensure it."
She stills at his touch, but she surprises him by not shoving him away. "I thought the whole reason you were here was to get your republic back."
Emboldened by her acquiescence and the alcohol, he lowers his head until their foreheads touch. He rests his hands on either side of her on the railing. "Can't I have more than one reason to fight?" The tears in his eyes have dried, but the evidence is still there, no matter how much she chooses to ignore it.
"No, not you. All you want is to rule the world again." She is trying so hard, but even he can see her resolve is weakening.
"Not me. It was never for me. Before it was for Miles, now it's for Connor. I'll bring it back, but I won't rule it. I don't want it," he whispers. He's starting to feel dizzy. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's her. He can't quite decide. Her hands are balled up between them, resting on his chest, but she still hasn't pushed at him. The closeness sends a shudder through him.
Charlie hesitates before she responds. "If you don't want to rule again, then what do you want?"
He sighs. "For having two geniuses as parents, you can be awfully dense at times, Charlie." The words come out right before he lowers his lips to hers. He kisses her slowly, giving her a chance to refuse him. In the back of his mind he knows this is all a bad idea. But he also knows this will be his only chance to touch her, so he'd decided to make it count. When Charlie opens her fists and lays her hands flat on his chest, he takes the cue. Wrapping his arms around her, he plunges in. He tastes her and explores her mouth thoroughly. Her hands slide up and she throws them around his neck, one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He loses track of time as they cling to one another. She arches her back to offer herself to his hand as it seeks her breast beneath her open jacket. The whimpering moan she offers is what slowly brings him back to reality. This stolen moment in time is passing, and he knows it's time to let her go. His hand leaves her breast as he wraps the arm around her again, holding her in one last embrace as he slowly retreats from her. He places one last gentle peck on her lips before he pulls back. The passion in her eyes is almost his undoing. He holds her tightly, kissing her temple for a moment before he untangles her hands from his neck and steps completely away.
As they stare at each other, her eyes clear. Passion is replaced with confusion. He wonders if she's confused at what has happened, or by why it has stopped. If he could read her mind, he would realize it is both. He slowly backs away from her until his back hits the railing. The confusion in her eyes is replaced with a look of utter terror, and she looks like she's about to call out, before she suddenly looks relieved. It takes him a few seconds to realize that if he'd stepped back just a foot to his left he'd have backed up into one of the few spots where the entire rails had collapsed, leaving not even the steel bars to keep him from stepping backwards.
Charlie lets out a light laugh, obviously coming to the conclusion that he's been affected by what they've shared as much as she has. He is suddenly grateful his back is to the campfire below, effectively concealing in the shadows the fact that he's blushing. He runs a hand through his hair, as he tries to clear his head. Without a word, he watches her make her way down the catwalk to the stairs that lead to the rest of camp. She turns one last time to look at him, and they share one last look of longing before she disappears below. He resumes his earlier position, and watches over her as he sleeps, only joining the others as the sun begins to rise.