Author's Note: This story is a response to a prompt for AvaRosier's "Revolution Redux" fest on Livejournal. The prompt: Bass and Charlie are the last ones standing. Bass finds out Charlie is pregnant with Connor's child. Just think it'd be interesting to see how he'd act in that situation.

All I'm going to say here is that this wound up being much, much longer than I envisioned when I signed up for this prompt. I have more written, I just didn't want to post the whole thing all at once. More tomorrow.

All dead. They're all dead.

Aaron. Gene. Rachel. Miles. Connor.

One by one he'd seen them fall, and now his dreams lay in the ashes of a city laid waste to by the Patriots.

Bass couldn't move; he could only kneel next to the body of his son and watch as the city burned around him. He should have known better; everything he touched went to hell, eventually. He contemplated his pistol and wondered what was keeping him from placing it in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

The girl. Have to save the girl. Promised him I'd save the girl.

Bass kissed his son's forehead before closing his eyes with his palm. The boy deserved a decent burial, but he didn't have time. He couldn't carry them both, and the fires that were decimating Austin would likely envelop his son's corpse long before it could be desecrated by animals or the remaining enemy. He unclasped Charlie's fingers from Connor's, gathered her unconscious form and hefted her in his arms. He couldn't help feeling a certain sense of deja vu. They'd come full circle now, he and she. He stumbled over something in the darkness, nearly pitching forward onto the crumbling asphalt, barely recoiling when he realized the obstacle was another of the Patriot's child soldiers, eyes wide and staring, torn chest a grisly mess of ground up flesh and bone.

Idiot. Should have known the "gift" was really a Trojan Horse. You've lost your touch.

His fingers clenched in anger as he recalled the massacre he'd led his friends into. Charlie whimpered, her face twisting into an unconscious grimace of pain. The back of her head bore a knot the size of a ping pong ball; her face was nearly unrecognizable beneath the layer of blood and soot, not to mention the gash that split open one of her cheeks. The worst, however, was the gunshot wound in her shoulder. He would have to stop somewhere soon, dig out the bullet and bind the wound before she lost too much blood. But not until they'd left Austin behind them.

When he discovered a horse that had obviously lost its rider wandering the streets by itself , he nearly wept in relief, amazed that it hadn't panicked and bolted. He grabbed the reins and hoisted Charlie over the front of the saddle before climbing up behind her, then he chirruped to the horse and guided it south. There was nothing left for them here, now.

Charlie was roused to consciousness by the sound of screaming and the sensation of searing pain in her shoulder and a crushing weight on her chest. It took her a moment to realize the screaming sounds were her own.

"Dammit, Charlie, hold still, I've almost got this," said a man in a gruff voice. The pain in her shoulder grew worse, and Charlie realized the weight on her chest was a person.

Monroe. Monroe is on top of me. What the fuck?

Charlie thrashed beneath him, too weak to do more than buck once or twice. He was straddling her, restraining both her arms with his knees. When she twisted her head down to peer at her shoulder, she realized the source of the unbearable pain was the knife with which he was digging into her flesh. She'd always known he would kill her someday, but she'd always thought she would have a chance of taking him down with her.

"I'm not trying to kill you, Charlotte. You were shot."

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud. She peered up at him in confusion, trying to sort her muddled thoughts. The last thing she remembered was leaving Willoughby, marching with Connor and Miles.

"Austin?" she rasped. "What happened?"

Bass stopped digging into her shoulder long enough to focus on her face instead.

"It was a trap. They were waiting for us. But Truman is dead; I took care of that bastard myself. So is the traitor that led us there, along with most of the Patriot troops."

Charlie digested this information, distracted by the throbbing in her shoulder. Her head ached as well, and a swath across her cheek itched like mad. Unfortunately she couldn't bring her hand up to scratch at it, as Monroe's knees were pinning her arms to the table.

"Monroe, get off of me," she demanded. "I can't breathe."

He huffed in exasperation but did as she asked. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and attempted to rub some feeling back into her arms, which had gone numb beneath his weight. She reached up to scratch her cheek but Monroe batted her hand away.

"Don't scratch. You'll get it infected." He rifled through her pack for a moment before reaching for Charlie's leather jacket. "Here," he said, offering her the sleeve. "You're going to need this."

She nodded in understanding, but stopped him with a hand against his chest when he leaned over her shoulder with the knife. Wordlessly, he looked over at her. Judging by the hard, dead look in his eyes, she could guess the answer to her next question, but she had to ask anyway.

"Miles. Mom. And Grandpa. Are they…." She trailed off, unable to voice the words.

"Gone. Connor, too. We're all that's left." His tone of voice matched his eyes, devoid of expression on the surface, but simmering with rage deep where no one could reach.

Charlie nodded again, tears slowly leaking from the corners of her eyes. She stuffed the cuff of her jacket into her mouth and bit down to stifle her screams as Monroe began to dig into her shoulder once more. Fortunately, she passed out again a few moments later.

When she woke the second time, her shoulder was bound with what appeared to be strips of cloth from an old, faded sheet. Monroe had obviously applied some salve to her cheek as well; it no longer itched. But he was nowhere to be found. She suspected he had abandoned her. The house was dark and quiet; she had no idea where she was. She'd lost everything, except Monroe, and now it appeared she had lost him, too. The walls began to close in on her, darkness weighing heavily on her eyelids. Her vision began to blur until the room was a swirl of different shades of gray. Panting and whimpering, she rolled off of the table and knelt on the floor in hopes of counteracting the spinning sensation that was making her head swim.

"Hey. Hey. Charlie!"

Monroe was shaking her shoulder, the one that wasn't bound, but she couldn't think straight. She just knew she had to get out. She would die if she didn't, crushed between the walls. She started crawling for the door, but Monroe scooped her up and carried her out to the front porch, where he set her gently on her feet. She clung to one of the support posts, gulping in deep breaths of air until the spinning sensation gradually stopped and her heart no longer felt it would explode from her chest. She ducked her head, unwilling to face the mockery she knew must be all over Monroe's face. She was shocked when he spoke in a gentle voice.

"You okay?" he asked, taking a step forward to place a hand on her shoulder.

She reached up and clasped his hand in hers, grateful for the moment that she wasn't alone in the world, and allowed him to guide her over to the porch steps, where they sat. The warmth of his side pressed against hers was comforting, and even though on some level she knew it was strange to be holding his hand, she couldn't bring herself to let go. Off in the distance to the north she could see an orange glow on the horizon.

"What is that?" she croaked, pointing. "It looks like something's on fire."

"That's Austin," he replied grimly. "And it is on fire." He looked over at her then, wincing as he took in her appearance. "You should get some rest. We need to put some more distance between us and the city tomorrow. We'll leave at first light."

When she nodded, he pulled her to her feet and ushered her back inside. The front room was still furnished with a sofa and a loveseat, both upholstered in a scratchy plaid. The upholstery was dusty and had been chewed on by mice or rats in places, but otherwise the sofas were in good condition. The house must not have been abandoned for very long. Charlie collapsed heavily onto the loveseat, tipping her body sideways until her head hit the armrest. She tucked her feet up, pulling her knees inward until she was almost in a fetal position. She expected Monroe to tug his hand out of hers and find somewhere else to sleep, but instead he sat on the floor in front of her and leaned his head back against the cushion, her arm slung over his shoulder.

"Why didn't you just leave me there?" she asked sometime later.

She'd been quiet for so long he'd thought she'd fallen asleep. He didn't answer her at first. What was he supposed to tell her? That he thought about eating his gun, but he couldn't bring himself to do it as long as she was still breathing? That for a nanosecond he had considered leaving her, but as usual he was incapable of actually doing it? At last he settled for part of the truth.

"He asked me to take care of you. Maybe you didn't feel much for him, Charlotte, but I think he loved you." And he told me I loved you, too, he thought, remembering his son's last words. When she sniffled quietly, he thought perhaps he was wrong. Maybe she had felt something for Connor, after all. The thought that the boy hadn't loved her in vain gave him some comfort, but not much.

He sat with her until he thought his arm would fall off from holding it bent at the elbow with her hand in his. When she finally began snoring lightly, he eased his hand out of hers and got up to retrieve the sheets he'd found earlier, still stashed in the linen closet. He covered Charlie with one and kept the other for himself, stretching out on the sofa so he'd be close at hand in case she had another panic attack.

He woke her shortly after dawn and helped her to her feet, careful not to jostle her left shoulder.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Mexico."

They traded the horse for a small sack of diamonds outside of San Antonio. Bass probably could have haggled for a better price, but he spotted several people in khaki uniforms and didn't want to hang around any longer than necessary. He hated to let the horse go, but they couldn't afford to feed it, and he and Charlie were perfectly capable of walking. Also, he suspected they would need the diamonds once they reached the border. They traveled under the names of Charlie Bennett and Jimmy King, picking up odd jobs whenever and wherever they could in exchange for food or a place to sleep, sometimes even a diamond or two. It amused him that she refused to call him Jimmy.

"Jimmy King is a dumb name," she groused. "I'm not calling you that."

"It was my grandfather's name," he replied, shooting her an irritated glance. "My middle name is James."

"Oh." She thought about it for a moment. "I can call you James. Not Jimmy."

"For Christ's sake, what difference does it make?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know. You just don't look like a Jimmy." She poked at their campfire with a stick, shifting the logs so that the embers fell into the coals and flames licked at the newly exposed wood.

It took them a week and a half to reach the border. He hoped they wouldn't have any problems getting into Mexico. There were always farmers looking for help picking crops, but Charlie's arm wasn't completely healed yet. He was afraid she wouldn't be chosen; he didn't know what he would do if that happened. When they arrived at the checkpoint just after sunrise, several wagons were there, along with a crowd of people. Charlie glanced at him, her brows furrowed with worry.

"Come on," he urged, and pulled her along behind him until they were close to the front of the group. He whistled at one of the foremen who was standing in the front of a wagon, calling for day laborers.

"Hey, man, I could really use a job," he said, schooling his features into a friendly smile. "I'm no stranger to hard work. You won't be sorry."

The foreman looked up him and down. "You'll do. But just you. I don't have any use for her," he said, gesturing at Charlie.

Charlie started to pull away but Bass grasped her hand firmly. He'd promised Connor; he wasn't about to go back on his word now that they were so close to safety. He tugged her closer to him and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Come on, man, give me a break. She's my wife, and she's pregnant. I can't just leave her here by herself," he pleaded.

Charlie stiffened in his embrace but he tightened his hold on her and hugged her to him, hoping she had the sense to play along. After a moment she relaxed slightly and flashed a shy smile at the foreman. "We could really use the money, mister," she said, covering her stomach protectively with one hand as she slipped the other around Bass's waist. Then she tipped her face up to him to smile lovingly at him, as if they were the newlyweds Bass claimed they were, before turning back to the foreman. "I'm only a couple of months along; I can work just as hard as any of these guys, honest."

Behind the foreman, an older woman cleared her throat. "Javi, bring the girl, too," she said, smiling kindly at Charlie as she held out a hand to help her into the wagon. The foreman grumbled under his breath, but he shrugged at Bass and pointed his thumb toward the back of the wagon. He quickly selected several more men and ten minutes later, they were underway. Bass breathed a sigh of relief. With enough diamonds placed in the hands of the right people, he didn't think it would be hard to get the necessary papers to stay.

He glanced at Charlie, prepared to give her a smirk and say "I told you so." But her face was pale, and she glanced back at him nervously. "What's gotten into you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing," she said and looked away, her gaze flitting away from him to the wall behind them growing gradually smaller as they rolled along.

In the front seat, the woman who had spoken up for them turned and reached her hand out to Charlie. "I'm Linda," she said. "Welcome to Mexico."

The wagon trundled along for an hour before they came to a driveway that led to a cluster of silos, barns and sheds. Bass could see there was a small settlement off in the distance between which there was nothing but open fields.

"Today we're picking strawberries. Everybody off."

Charlie's village had been fortunate enough to raise small patches of strawberries in the springtime. She cringed at the thought of spending the day bent over plucking berries, but she knew they were lucky to find the work.

"This way," Linda said, gesturing for them to follow. She led them to one of the barns, where each laborer was issued a small rolling cart and pointed in the direction of the field they were to work.

"Stick as close as you can," Bass said. She nodded and started on the next row over. By noon her arms and shoulders were aching and her fingertips were sore from handling the plants and the straw that protected them. Somewhere nearby a horn sounded, and the workers began moving out of the field back to the barn they'd started at. Charlie turned her cart in and followed the rest of the group to an open area with rough, wooden picnic tables. Bass caught up to her and found a place for them to sit.

"Got any jerky left?" he asked. Charlie divvied up the rest of their supply between them and they ate in silence. When Bass was finished, he reached for her canteen and carried it to a nearby well pump to refill it. When she drained most of it he refilled it again.

"Thanks," she muttered when he returned.

"Sure." He sat and took a long swallow from his own canteen and then dumped the rest of it over his head. "Nothing like a little manual labor to make you long for the glory days of the Republic," he said.

"You, maybe, not me. Anyway, this beats starving," Charlie retorted.

They worked until almost sunset, and Charlie was about to drop from exhaustion when she turned her cart in for the last time.

"If you're going back, the wagon is leaving in ten minutes," Linda said.

"If?" Charlie asked.

"We need workers here for at least the rest of this week. You'll need to fill out worker permits in the office."

"We're staying," Bass said.

"Good," Linda said, smiling at Charlie. "Keep the cards with you. You'll need them if you go into town. You can sleep in one of the bunkhouses and an evening meal is provided, but they'll be taken out of your pay. Otherwise, you can set up a tent in the worker camp."

They stopped by the office to fill out the worker cards and collect their pay. Charlie was thrilled to see there was a truck set up nearby serving hot food. She and Bass were out of supplies, and they were both too tired to worry about finding any that night. They gorged themselves on tortillas stuffed with beef and peppers, and Charlie splurged on fresh strawberries. The last thing they did was purchase a tent at the general store located next to the office. They hadn't bothered with one while they were traveling because it was too much trouble to set up each night, but the bunk houses were designated for women or for men. As many issues as Charlie had with Bass, he had never tried to hurt her, in fact just the opposite. She had to admit she felt safer when he was around. They set up the tent together and then crawled in and unrolled their bedrolls. Charlie collapsed face-down onto hers with a groan and closed her eyes.

"I think I'm going to die now," she whimpered. Her arms and legs felt like jelly and the muscles in her back were screaming.

"You're going to regret that in the morning," Bass warned.

"Regret what?" she asked.

"Falling asleep without doing anything to loosen your muscles. By morning, you won't be able to move."

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Charlie demanded. "I already can't move."

Bass didn't say anything, but after a moment she felt his hands on her shoulders. When she flinched violently, he jerked them away again with a heavy sigh.

"Really?" he said in disbelief. "Charlotte, have I done anything to make you think I'm going to jump you as soon as I get the chance?"

"No," she said after a long moment. "It was just a reflex. I'm not used to being touched. Go ahead."

He placed his hands on her shoulders again and began to work the muscles there with his fingers, pressing firmly wherever he felt a knot. He froze when Charlie groaned obscenely.

"Oh, God, that feels so good."

He inhaled sharply, wondering if she had any idea that she sounded like a woman in the middle of the best fuck she'd ever had.

"Please don't stop."

He gritted his teeth and continued, working the muscles around her shoulder blades next. Then his hands travelled slowly down the sides of her spine to her lower back, easing knots along the way to the accompaniment of Charlie's moans, which finally dwindled to occasional mewls of contented pleasure. He stopped when he reached the waistband of her jeans and lifted his hands away.

"Thank you," Charlie mumbled. "I had no idea I was already that stiff. Do you want me to do you?"

Thanks to you, so am I, and yes, I do, he thought. If she were any other woman, he'd probably laugh, roll her over, and illustrate the double meaning of both her statement and her question. But he could think of a wealth of reasons why that was a bad idea, the chief one being she'd likely slit his throat with his own sword. Instead settled for a simple, "No," though perhaps said more sharply than he intended.

"But you said-"

"Working in a field is no worse than boxing or battle. I'll be fine. Go to sleep, Charlie," he grumbled.

He thanked whatever deity was still looking upon him favorably when she didn't argue, at least until she began snoring lightly a few minutes later.

It was going to be a long night.