"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"
A/N: This is a dual time-line story. The present explores Monroe Republic co-leaders Bass and Miles as they attempt to navigate a sticky diplomatic situation with Georgia Federation and Texas. Miles also tries his hand at faux fatherhood. The past explores Bass's and Miles's first tour as Marines in Iraq. Miles deals with the aftermath of his broken engagement to Emma and his problematic relationship with his own father. The story employs multiple perspectives, and spoilers are for all episodes up through "Home." Rated T for language and some sexuality, and there is some chance that a chapter or two might cross over into light M territory, but I will warn if/when that happens. Main characters include Miles, Bass, Ben, Pop Matheson, Alec, Kelly Foster, and Nora.
Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from these characters; I'm just here to play! To NBC goeth the spoils.
"How do you know you aren't going to fuck up Alec like your old man did to you?" Bass asks Miles, a puckish grin flitting across lips framed by three-day old stubble.
Bass may be smiling, but the words are harsher than he's planned. The subject of Alec inexplicably irks him. He won't tell Miles this though, because what would that prove? That Bass is jealous of his best friend's protégé? It's absurd, but part of Bass likes being the only real family Miles has, even if Bass knows it's not the technical truth. When it comes to Bass, anyway you cut it, he's alone in the world except his best friend. All those who share Monroe blood are in the ground.
The two friends are sitting in Shaker rocking chairs on the back porch of Jim Hudson's house watching the desultory sun meander toward the blackening skyline, ice tinkling in their scotches. Jim has had to go back to Independence Hall to ready provisions for Miles's upcoming mission, but he has given Miles and Bass permission to drain this bottle and pass out in his living room if it comes to that.
"Pop didn't screw me up so badly…" Miles mumbles into his glass, the rising pitch of the last syllable tacking on an unspoken, 'did he?' Yes, Miles wants reassurance, because Bass has perceptively uncovered Miles's deepest fear: that even if he successfully teaches Alec all his best traits as a soldier and as a man that it will still be a mistake, because nothing about Miles is actually worth passing on.
Bass runs a hand through his curls, startling them into opposing directions, and takes a sip. He senses Miles's insecurity and backs off. "I'm messin' with you, man. Alec could do worse. Speaking of, will you be taking him with you to Georgia Federation?"
"I think so, yeah. Alec, a small guard, and Nora, too."
"Ah, the girlfriend," Bass smirks.
The comment rubs Miles the wrong way, and he frowns, taking an overly ambitious gulp of scotch and spilling some squarely onto his crotch. "Need her bombing skills," Miles explains grumpily.
Bass's eyebrows have met in a knot, and instead of making his usual snide comment about Nora's other desirable skills, he says seriously, "I know President Foster asked specifically for you, but I wish you'd just send someone else."
"Jealous?"
Bass shakes his head. "What if Kelly locks you up, throws away the key, and I have to spring your ass out? I hate Georgia this time of year – the fucking humidity. Reminds me of Parris Island, and all those summers we spent training recruits. We'd sweat actual puddles into our boots, remember? Goddamn. It's been years, and I've smelled enough decaying and charred flesh to know what I'm talking about when I say there is nothing ranker on God's green earth than your boots in a Deep Southern summer."
Miles cackles drily. "Don't worry about Georgia. I'll take care of it and Kelly."
Bass continues, "But we've killed, what now, ten of Foster's soldiers crossing our border in the last two weeks? Pissing off Kelly is like tickling the hindquarters of a donkey. You're gonna get kicked."
"You have a lot of experience with a donkey's ass, Bass?" Miles is trying to wipe off his sodden lap with a napkin. "The soldiers were trespassing. What does she expect I'd do with them?"
Bass watches Miles digging at his balls with the napkin for a while before sighing, "When you're done playing with yourself, are you going to tell me how Nora Clayton fits into all this? You gonna blow up Kelly now? I mean, I wouldn't mind, but I'd be kind of sorry to miss the look on her face."
Miles cocks his head, imagining that for a moment in vague amusement. "We need intel badly. I don't know what Foster's playing at, letting her troops cross over our border at night. Does she need something we have? Is she trying to provoke a war? Is it just reconnaissance? Beats the hell out of me. While I'm down there for this little diplomatic mission, I'll take the opportunity to have a look at her orders and see what she's got up her sleeve. The plan is to have Nora plant a bomb in my room in the capital building – make it look like an assassination attempt on me. Kelly won't be able to fault us if it's her security problem. Maybe she'll even owe us for exposing me to such terrible danger. In any case, it'll clear the capital building for a few hours. As long as she doesn't find out that I'm still in the building, rifling through her papers, it'll be fine."
"As long as you don't actually get assassinated, it'll be fine," Bass corrects with a touch of weariness. After all, it was only a few weeks ago that Miles, Bass, and Nora had sat on this very porch discussing the Rebel bomb Nora had managed to discover and disarm outside of Miles's tent on his most recent counterinsurgency campaign.
Nora had complained, "Miles, you're an idiot. Send someone else into the field for a while, or you'll get yourself blown up. I'm so sick of worrying about you, I'll kill you myself for some relief."
"I know it would put me out of my misery if you'd just kill him," Bass had agreed with an earnest look on his face. Miles had shoved him, eliciting a full smile from his best friend.
"Oh don't worry. Nora only says she wants to kill me," Miles says wryly to his hands, mulling over the same conversation as Bass. "I don't think she'd actually do it."
Bass watches Miles so intensely for a moment that Miles finally turns to look him in the eye.
What? Miles's arched eyebrow asks.
"You shouldn't go into Georgia with only a small guard. It puts too much power in Kelly's hands. I want to stage a simultaneous sea approach. Bottle up her ships in Savannah for leverage at the negotiating table. It'll send her a clear signal that we won't be pushed around. She may have more resources than we do, but we're cleverer at making war. We should remind her of that."
Miles scratches his beard and makes a note to shave before he sees Kelly...although part of him likes confirming Kelly's impression of him as a total boor. He responds to Bass after a thoughtful moment, "Yeah, ok. I've been thinking something similar."
"Ok?" Bass is surprised that Miles isn't objecting, especially to the idea of them both being outside the bounds of the Monroe Republic at the same time.
"I agree that it will send her a message. Also with the increased number of Rebel attempts on our lives lately, it might be good for us both to take a little vacation down South for a bit. We'll leave Jeremy to watch the children." Miles and Bass often refer to their subjects as children. They have the same love-hate relationship with them as any parents do with their toddlers. "Just wait to make a move on the port until you've heard from me. I want to get my hands on information before we try to intimidate Foster. Until then, keep the ships as close as you can without attracting attention. In fact, it might make sense to have Nora plant a diversion at Savannah as well – take the attention off the water for you."
Bass nods and swats at a mosquito. He squishes it against his neck and examines his finger: a crimson stain. It's always a shock to see your own blood even in such a minute quantity.
"I gave Alec my dad's knife," Miles says suddenly.
And they're back to Alec, Bass thinks. But he'll humor Miles. They're both starting to get drunk anyway. Bass's forehead feels numb, and Miles is swimming up and down in his vision. "Ah. The lucky knife." Bass pauses for effect. "You come back alive but irreparably mind-fucked by war: the Matheson family heirloom." He spreads his arms in dramatic fashion, partially to prove to himself that he is not disembodied and indeed does have control over his extremities.
"Is there any other way to come back from war?" Miles rocks violently in the chair like a hyperactive schoolboy, and Bass reaches out to still it with his index finger, because the sight is making him sick.
"Let's see," Bass ponders. "If Alec is as lucky as your grandfather, he'll come back a silent, bitter alcoholic. If he's as lucky as your dad, he'll come home with a hole in his side, the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the greater Chicago area. And if he comes home like you: decorated for your own two holes and a grim-ass stint as a prisoner of war, then he'll be as much of a drunk as your grandfather and as mean as your old man. Because that's Miles Matheson: the best of both worlds."
Miles notes that Bass's voice softens ever so briefly as he mentions Miles's internment in Afghanistan. Miles is semi-convinced those four months when he was held by the Taliban were as hard on Bass as they were on him. He's never asked, but he knows Bass and the Marines in their unit made seven failed attempts to rescue Miles before he was recovered. He doesn't know what he looked like when Bass scraped him off the dirt floor, but he knows what he smelled like (crusty feces) and how he felt (like human pulp).
"I'm not a drunk," Miles objects gruffly, but then he hiccups, and they both laugh. Miles is, in fact, wasted right now and would be very happy to drink himself into the ground. The only thing that keeps him from doing so is the responsibility he feels toward his men.
Bass pours Miles another drink before commenting, "I can't say it's a comfort to me to know you gave up that stupid knife right before this particular mission. Bad omen."
"I'll be fine, Bass. Don't be a superstitious fool. You're supposed to be my smarter half."
"Well…your handsomer half at least," Bass rejoins with an air of triumph.
Miles flicks the napkin at him, but it doesn't make it the entire distance between the two chairs, instead parachuting gently into a red puddle on the concrete. They both watch it, and then look abruptly away.
They rock in unison, killing the rest of the bottle in silence.