A/N Hello my dearest darlings. What can I say, apparently I'm entering the writing business again. Oh dear. This time around it's for the wonderful programme that is NBC's Revolution. I blame tumblr and the Rev fandom there for this, I really do. Also Milroe, damn them to Hades.

Just a heads up for a few things: this is an AU fic which is probably obvious. However, I have gone back to my preferred option of interlinking actual script into my writing. Memories are in italics, with anything that is actually canon beginning with a '/'. Anything else is done by me, myself and I only.

Second point; this is the big one - this is also a sort of mash up/crossover with Supernatural (oh Kripke) but the reason I haven't posted this into the crossover section is because quite frankly this is only very loosely related to Supernatural. There is no Sam, no Dean, no magic or angels. I have only borrowed demons and even then that's where it stops. If people think it would be better for me to move this to another forum, then just drop me a line via a message or a review and I'll see if I can move it. Personally I really would rather not, but if it makes life easier for the readers then I'm for it.

I swear I suffer from Milroe feelings to a terrible extent.

Warnings: Swearing. Oh yes, there will be swearing. And sass, because hey - there be Miles Matheson about. Also violence, blood, EMOTIONAL TRAUMA because I am a horrible person and death. I'm the Angst Queen for a reason. Deal.

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own Revolution, Supernatural, the characters of either show and nor do I own Billy Burke and David Lyons; the wonderful talented actors that they are. Lyrics belong to A Perfect Circle's 'Counting Bodies Like Sheep (to the rhythm of the war drum)'.

And with that, let's rock and roll. Lights, camera - and scene.

How soon is now?

Don't fret precious, I'm here.
Step away from the window, go back to sleep.
Safe from pain and truth and choice
And other poison devils
See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do…

He somehow manages to walk inside intact, albeit with a burning pain at the side of his head and a beautiful collection of bruised ribs. He shakes his head once or twice in an attempt to fix his shaky vision. It feels like he is trying to clear his head. That attempt, however, fails.

In this tent, everything seems so… so similar. So achingly familiar. The desks piled high with hastily scribbled notes and maps. The ever present bottles. One is half empty – or is it half full, he asks himself with a snort – and the other is nearly finished. Nearly drained completely, much like the pacing figure in front of him.

Miles tries to very hard not to keep staring at the two glasses perched on the main desk. For some reason he cares not to dwell on, it causes his heart to sink just that little bit further. He did not think it to be possible, not after what has happened and what he has had to come to terms with, but it is.

He is here now, everything was going according to plan. And the onus was on him to fully carry out his task. He had sworn he would do it; that he could do it. So many are depending on him. Miles knew he could not allow his own delirious thoughts and emotions to get in the way. Not this time. Too much was at stake now, of that he was certain.

"…It has to be done. It has to be done now."

Nods of agreement. No one pauses to think on what exactly it is they are agreeing with.

(He has seen this before, many years ago. When people are afraid and find someone that tells them what to do, they simply seem to fall to their knees and thank God for it.)

No one pauses to think about the death they are plotting.

He doesn't like to think like this. He used to be able to deal; used to be able to shut down his emotions and cut himself off. It was useful – no, it was essential in his old job.

But now? Not so much.

Maybe it was because he was now a sort of honorary father as well as the recently discovered uncle to Charlie. Maybe because he had spent so much time with her now, watching her laugh and smile and cry. He was fiercely protective of her, deeply caring and he knew that he changed with her. And with Nora too, to a certain extent.

But this? This was different.

Yet he seems to be the only one in this dingy little backroom full of lost and desperate souls that thinks so.

"They are growing in numbers every day now. We take out the leader, we disrupt everything. All their plans, all their schemes."

No one seems to want to query this. It does make sense, he thinks, but dig a little deeper and you want to ask a single, solemn question – are 'they' the Militia of humans, or the Militia of demons?

Perhaps one or the other. Perhaps both. Perhaps he means everything and everyone that targets the rebels, the hunters; those that wreck chaos and destruction on humanity.

He knows all too well what destruction occurs on a daily basis outside. Just like he is aware of snide comments and barbed looks issued from narrowed eyes. Those are from the people that blame him. Say that he was a turncoat once, could be one again if given the chance. That he is doing this all for himself. Doesn't care about saving lives, it is all about making himself sleep better at night.

The main topic of the whispers however is this – if had hadn't have failed twice, maybe they would not be stuck in this situation now.

The pacing stops suddenly at the bottles and glasses and Miles blinks, the silence pulling him back from the jumbled mess of thoughts in his head. The clink of glass on glass seems louder than what it should be. He swallows, trying to ignore the pain that is caused by a bruised neck. He doesn't know what to do with his hands – if he just lets his arms hang at his sides he will appear ill at ease and feel relaxed. Miles cannot allow himself to relax. Not here. And it is not even because of the danger and risk of serious violence.

It's because… (No, not thinking about that. Not now. Focus, Miles. Focus. Stop being weak and think about those who are relying on you. Think of Charlie. How her eyes flashed and her arms folded as she argued about coming with him. How she stuck her bottom lip out in a determined (petulant?) stance that reminded him of how young she really was.)

It's too easy to want to feel relaxed. Memories cloud his alert military train of thought. He breathes slowly. Tries to calm down his racing heart and mind. He idly wonders how long it will take for him to clean all the fresh blood off his sword. Shifts his weight from one foot the another as he wonders about how all this will play out.

Miles can feel the pair of eyes burning into him. His skin feels as though it is on fire, but he puts it down to the dull throbbing courtesy of a few clenched fists. How long will it take for someone to find the bodies, he ponders. He has about fifteen minutes, tops, before he will be discovered.

The silence is eating him alive and what is more, the figure before him knows it. Miles swallows again, feeling as though he is literally swallowing his pride and grits his teeth against the pain.

"Great hospitality here," he remarks, tilting his head to the side. Seeks out those eyes. Wants to be the one that connects first. "I mean, I get a welcome party for starters. Now here you are, pouring me a drink. You're really too kind." He can almost taste the sarcasm dripping from his lips. Almost. He can certainly taste the rough and tangy flavour of blood.

The sharp, cold blue eyes of the other man fall on him as the bottle (now empty) is idly tossed to the floor, the loud crash ringing in Miles' ears. He forces himself to look on the face of the one he loved and cared for as a brother. There is an initial flash of rage on that face before a careless long smirk draws itself across lips.

"Ah, Matheson. Still the same sarcastic bastard as always," the words are said in a drawl, the voice continuing a subtle blend of harshness and hoarseness that sends a lone shiver down Miles' spine. It's a voice he knows well – all too well – but it has been twisted into a ghostly parody of itself.

(He misses hearing that voice. And he hates himself for doing so.)

He gives a loose shrug of the shoulders, ignoring the twinge of pain the movement causes.

"You know me, I'd hate to disappoint."

His reply manages to prise out a hoarse chuckle. He watches as a glass is drained, duly replenished and drained dry once more.

/

A simultaneous feeling of relief and fear – he has found him but in what state?

"Been looking for you. What are you doing?" His words tumble out as his sharp eyes sweep the scene before him. It doesn't look good. At all.

Miles takes a few slow steps forward, and forces himself to remain calm and for his face to stay clear.

Those familiar blue eyes are red and swollen. "Uh... I... I was just having a little family dinner." Slurred and broken. A wild sweeping gesture.

And then Miles sees it -

"Okay... Come on Bass. Let's go." He says it calmly enough; it sounds almost rushed and insincere, but inside his heart is thumping. He starts to turn away in an effort to encourage the younger man to follow – or does he turn because he cannot bear to look at the shattered wreck of man that is his best friend and brother, knowing that there is nothing he can do for him?

The sound of ragged breathing punctured by a lone sob is simply agonising to hear. Miles cannot block the sound, especially when he remembers what he saw so vividly.

/

The man before him sets the now empty glass down and stares at him with a complete look of bare curiosity. The smirk grows just that tad more pronounced and – if at all possible – colder. Miles has the uncomfortable feeling that even his very thoughts are being closely scrutinised, like the inside of him was being stripped and paraded. There is another chuckle.

"I have to admit, I didn't think you were stupid enough to show your face here again," he drawls almost lazily as he walks slowly over towards Miles. Hands neatly clasped behind his back as always. "But having said that, it is you. You always did let your heart rule your head in the end."

"Actually, I prefer to be labelled as spontaneous; sounds less clichéd ." Miles retorts quickly, for he does not wish to dwell too deeply on that last comment. He doesn't want to see where his thoughts will take him.

A snatch of laugher, but it rings hollow. Miles notices – not for the first time, but he chooses not to remember that fact – the dark smudges under those (dead?) blue eyes. The face looks thinner, gaunter maybe.

He refuses to allow his gaze to linger on the mess of dark blonde curls. He tilts his chin up as he can feel the stifling tension in the tent increase.

"You're a fucking bundle of clichés, you know that?" General Monroe finally pauses before Miles, wearing a lurid look of nostalgia. His eyes narrow and his lips purse together. "The classic flawed hero. The brother. The lover. The fallen man seeking redemption." The frown deepens and a tone of quiet rage creeps out. "Is that why you decided to pop by for a visit?"

The atmosphere is cold and dark and Miles fights back a shiver. Maybe twelve minutes left, now. He doesn't want to talk anymore. Doesn't want to hear anymore. Hates having to look at what Monroe has become.

"You're talking such bullshit, you know that?" Miles says, allowing for a frozen smirk of his own. He rolls his eyes, sending out a hidden invitation of a call to arms to the other.

Bass had always been the better of the two of them when it came to reading people and sussing out their thoughts. It had helped them for years and was clearly still useful now. Those damn dead eyes are drilling holes into him but the other man just stands so still and totally at ease. Miles has a horrible sinking feeling that his every word and action has simply been predicted already.

(Why must his chest constrain just that little bit more when -)

(Just keep talking. Buy yourself more time. This has to work. It must work.)

"I didn't know you analysed novels in your spare time. No wonder you're losing this war. You're more interested in Literature."

The fist was expected and it does hit him hard but the pain hits him harder. He staggers and before he can retaliate another punch is thrown. And another and another and another –

"Did you really think your little plan was going to work? Did you think you could just walk in here and sass and bitch?" Monroe shouts, breathing heavily. He withdraws his fists and runs a hand through his hair. The hand appears to shake for the briefest of seconds before it resumes its iron like fervour. Something flickers across Monroe's eyes and his lips tighten his anger.

Miles coughs several times, idly dragging a few fingers across his face to wipe away the fresh blood. Picking himself up warily, he clenches his own fists and thrusts his face forward. His eyes boldly glare at the younger man.

"Well, seems to have worked so far," he shrugs, allowing his mouth to take charge as he mentally runs through what he has at his disposal. And of course, the grand master plan. The small bag at his side still seems to be in one piece, thankfully.

Ten minutes.

The silence grows again, expanding and consuming, Miles almost wishes that he was punched again, because then he could have an excuse to break this uneasy stalemate and give into mindless rage and violence and not be stuck with thoughts, memories and a broken heart.

He swallows and he feels the seconds slip away from his grasp. He can feel the coldness of his sword at his side and wonders why he hasn't armed himself with it yet.

Monroe smirks; that fucking long drawn out smirk that crawls across his lips and Miles doesn't know whether to reach out and throttle the man because it's Monroe or… Or to rolls his eyes in exasperation because it's Bass.

That is the problem now, though. He no longer knows the identity of the man before him and it tears him apart.

"I'll do it," even as the words leave his mouth he feels a mixture of regret and determination and he isn't quite sure which feeling will triumph. All eyes are drawn to him and Miles can feel Nora tense beside him. He doesn't look at her. Nor does he look at Charlie, but he knows she will be staring at him open mouthed.

The leader looks at him long and hard before slowly nodding. "You sure?" He knows Miles is probably the one person here that could take on the General from a mixture of talent, experience and knowledge of how the other fights. "You know it's not just him you're taking on, right?"

Miles fights the urge to roll his eyes. He can feel Nora place a hand against his sleeve, probably gently warning him not to lose his temper here, not when everyone is suffering from tattered and frayed nerves already.

"I know that," he forces himself to rein in on the sharpness of his words, but the leader still raises an eyebrow. "I'm doing it. No offense, but none of you lot," here he breaks off to gesture at the group of rebels closest to him, "can do it. You'll be killed before you could even blink." (Besides, I have history on my side. I know what to do. I know how this works.)

Some of the rebels stir, not liking his tone or his implications whilst others look relieved at the idea that they don't have to go and that it's Miles Matheson that is volunteering to go on this suicide run.

"Very well, you want the job, you have it." The leader says calmly, and there is a sudden outbreak of whispering. The hisses echo in Miles' ears. Nora's hand tightens on his arm. She knows him all too well. He still refuses to look at Charlie.

He nods and turns to leave the room – he isn't totally sure why, but he needs to get out and be alone, he's being smothered in here – but the leader isn't finished with him yet, and raises a hand to stop him.

"One thing, Matheson," eyes narrow, "you take this up, you carry it through. Understand? Too much is at stake here."

Again, Miles fights an overwhelming urge to grab the man's shoulders.

"I said I'm doing it. Or didn't you hear me the first time?" No longer bothers to tone down the bite. He can almost imagine Nora closing her eyes.

Damn he needs to get out of here now.

He turns and looks at the crowd around him, daring them to meet his gaze and challenge his words. There are a few looks, but no one speaks. Charlie just stares, her green eyes pained and yet strangely hopeful. She has such faith and trust in him. She believes him to be the good guy, the one who will do the right thing.

(I know how this works. I know how this ends.)

But in this apocalyptic fucked up world, everything is blurred and vague. What is the right thing to do these days? What is the definition of the good guy? Well, whatever it is, Miles knows it cannot be him. He will let Charlie continue to believe in her dream however. She needs hope during these dark days. They all do.

The thing is, he hopes for something a lot different compared to the others.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance, you know."

"I know."

"Oh wait, when you had the chances. Heck of a lot of opportunities to get me off the scene, none of which were taken," Monroe stares at him, hands back to being clasped behind his back. He tilts his hand to one side, considering. "How do you screw that?" A chuckle as the words leave his lips. Little shake of the head.

"I know." Miles all but growls, gritting his teeth together in anger. Or is it pain? A sharp recognition of the truth through the excuses and lies? A hand drops towards the sheath of his sword. His fingers fumble with the clasp of the bag.

It's time. They both know it. This has to be; it has to happen.

(Damn bastard knows what to say to hurt me. Why would you say that? Why would you make me remember? Why can I not just think of you as a thing to be disposed of and left to rot and to be forgotten? Why do I have to remember you as you were?)

"Seems to me like you don't have the heart for this," Monroe continues, giving a shrug. Light glints off the buttons on his blazer. His tone is patronising and sarcastic and Miles is torn between lunging forwards right there or waiting to see what other words will be used at weapons and throw at him with reckless abandon. Monroe is enjoying this, Miles realises. Enjoying this confrontation far too much. It's another painful reminder of why he is here and what he must do.

"Yeah well, you're wrong about that," Miles snaps back, but even to his own ears his voice sounds weak. Monroe laughs, a mocking echo that bounces off the fabric walls.

"Come on Miles! Stop lying to yourself. You and I both know the truth." Monroe spins around , turning his back on the hunter. Prey should never expose themselves to such vulnerability, but Monroe is confident enough to know that Miles is still debating with himself. Knows that he has all the time in the world right now at his disposal. And he plans on using every second that he has to simply torture the man.

(Damn it; look at him. Focus on that. Shove every other thought out of your mind. He's making this too easy for you. Think of him as a poisoned thing, nothing more.)

Miles wonders why Monroe is playing this game. Such behaviour only emphasises what he now is and should – Miles grits his teeth again here – should only serve to harden Miles' resolve to kill him.

So why is it not working? Monroe's words and actions are so carefully co-ordinated that Miles cannot think straight. Mocking and sarcastic words accompanied by violent actions are sprinkled with truth and memories that keep clouding his judgement. Miles knew that he would be up against it when he came here, but perhaps he wasn't as fully prepared and ready as he had previously thought.

He had sworn blind to the rag tag bunch of rebels that he could do this. Pushed away Nora when she had searched him out to talk to him. Promised Charlie that he would sort this mess out once and for all. He had to deliver.

/

Another shaking sob racks the distressed man's frame. Miles longs to reach over and wrap him in his arms, but he is too hesitant about his friend's state of mind. His actions –if he moves too quickly- might be misinterpreted and hell knows what could happen. He knows he has to take this one slowly.

"You know, I always thought I'd be dead by now." Bass mutters with thick slurs, gesturing again with the barely half filled bottle. He shakes his head, light catching the remnants of tears on his face. "I mean, that's logical right? High risk gig, two tours in Iraq. My folks... My little sisters..." here his voice catches and breaks. Miles feels his heart sink and break as he slowly begins to walk over. Another muffled sob.

"On the way to a freakin' Harry Potter movie, one drunk driver later they're scraping them off the ground. How do you screw that?" Bass asks desperately, swollen blue eyes searching and finding Miles. He sounds so lost and broken as he takes carelessly takes another drink.

Miles sits next to his brother. He's close enough to smell the alcohol and close enough that if he wanted to, he could drape an arm around the man. He swallows, thinking carefully about what to say. Bass is clearly wanting an answer – he needs to hear something. Needs something to cling to.

"You don't... I mean... I don't know." Miles utters, and the truth is he really does have no idea why such horrible, heart-breaking events happen from out of the blue. He can still see the giggling golden duo of Bass' baby sisters. They worshipped the ground he walked on and he adored them. Miles had always joked that Bass would make the better father out of the two of them, but only once he had stopped believing that he was the Casanova of this century.

They had been so damn excited about seeing the midnight showing of that film.

Miles can all too clearly still remember hearing the howl that was torn from his best friend after Bass answered his phone and heard the voice of a sympathetic doctor.

"Should have been me."

"Hey come on, man." Miles is startled by the words and his heart begins to pound. He's surprised it hasn't successfully smashed through his ribs already. Miles reaches out and firmly grabs the bottle from Bass' shaking hand. "That's enough." Whether he means the drinking or the train of thought, he isn't too sure.

Bass slowly,wordlessly, shakes his head from side to side. He points at the sad and sorry sight before them both. Every breath is ragged and he seems so dazed and lost. He doesn't look at Miles, who feels a horrible sensation in the pit of his stomach.

(This can't be happening. What the hell do I do?)

Miles is startled for a second time as Bass suddenly gasps, his body wrenching with a single cry. He watches as the other man rubs his hand across his face and his hair.

"I got nothing left," Bass chokes out hoarsely, and then perhaps it is then that the full realisation of what has happened violently hits him. For he shakes and mutters "I got... I got nothing.. . left." Then he fully gives into his grief and cries, burying his head into his arm. Miles has to look away, an unbearable and painful lump forming in his throat.

But then he forces himself to turn and face his brother. Miles may not be the most socially adept man around and the very idea of offering comfort and being reassuring makes him feel uneasy. But this is a whole different ball game. This is Bass. The man that many of their teachers in high school and friends joked about being his twin. And this is a broken, crippled best friend who Miles cannot bear to lose.

So he clears his throat and suddenly discovers what he needs – and wants – to say.

"Well, you got me." He says it calmly, gently, and with total conviction. Because it is nothing but the truth.

Bass lifts his head and blearily looks at his best friend. There is a moment where their eyes connect and the smell of alcohol and despair and the sight of freshly buried graves just seem to fade away. Because they both realise that they have each other's backs. They do have each other.

Bass laughs in anguish, but there is a hint of actual, normal Bass exasperation too. As if to say 'oh damn it, he says I've got him. We're going to be that old married couple. We'll bicker over wallpaper and the news and we'll put up with each other's drunken habits.' (Miles sings like a rocker whereas Bass becomes unbearably clingy; Miles says he wraps his arms around (him) like a python. Bass will always retort back by saying Miles sings like Chad Kroeger and hey, hey, hey, does he want to be a rockstar? Needless to say, that does not go done well. Needless to say, they are both a sad and sorry sight in the morning.)

So Bass chuckles and drags a hand across his face again. His hand no longer shakes. Miles watches.

"I mean, what the hell would I be without you? " he says, his own voice breaking slightly because hell it's the truth. They've been together for so long – Miles cannot remember a time when Bass wasn't there in his life. The other man looks at him, a few lone tears running down his face. Miles focuses on those swollen blue eyes and speaks gently, "We've been brothers our whole lives. Since we were kids." He pauses, as Bass swallows. Miles feels his heart beat faster as he says the next few words- he can't believe he has to say them; who would ever believe that they would have to say them-

He looks away. Looks ahead. Says those words firmly to disguise his own pain.

"Bass, give me the gun before you do something stupid."

The brothers look at each other, Bass biting down hard on his lip and blinking away tears rapidly. He initially looks amazed, as if he cannot believe that Miles would know about the gun. That passes as he realises that Miles knows him, every inch and every thought. Of course he would know.

Miles watches, fighting the urge to grab the gun, throw it away and wrap his arms around his best friend and hold him close. Tell him he'll always be there for him. That he will never let him go. That although he feels like his entire world has been taken from him and that he was nothing, he will make it through if Miles Matheson has anything to say about it. That Miles will be there to help him pick up all the pieces, even those tiny ones that are normally lost to the winds, and put them all together again.

(But you have to be there, too. You are not leaving me, Sebastian Monroe. Not like this. Not if I can help it, brother.)

Bass chokes back a sob as his gaze drops down. Miles watches unblinkingly as the other man raises his arm and his gun – there is a brief, horrible heart stopping moment for Miles when Bass holds on to the gun for a second longer – and he hands it over to the older man. Miles takes it without looking and sets it on the grass, refusing to allow his gaze to wander there. Bass drops his head into his hands with a moan.

This time Miles refuses to fight that previous urge. He reaches out with one arm and wraps it around his brother's shoulder and sure enough, Bass leans into him as if he is the only thing in the world he can depend on.

I'll never let you go, Miles thinks as he tightens his grip. He doesn't know that Bass is thinking that if Miles should ever leave, he doesn't think he could live without him.

/

"You're just going to be the sentimental coward everyone knows you to be and run out of here to save your own ass," the hard mocking tones wash over him as his grip tightens over the small bottle in the bag. "You're weak, you know that, right? You act like some fucking antihero for those rebels. For your lovers," here the lips purse together, "for your little niece. She thinks the absolute world of you, doesn't she?"

"Don't you dare even say her name," Miles snaps back furiously. He can feel his whole body tighten like a spring, ready for the attack. He can ignore all the attacks on himself – hell, he knows he deserves most of it – but he will not allow even Charlie's very name to be used as a weapon against him. "She's not a part of this. Leave her out of it. Whatever hatred you have, whatever bitterness you feel, take it out on me, you son of a bitch." He almost snarls as he speaks and takes a step forward. His own anger and hurt and hatred and bitterness are starting to rise. He doesn't know for how long he can contain it.

Monroe chuckles, his eyes flashing with barely suppressed rage. Probably does not like how Miles fights back and yet doesn't go for the kill. Miles realises that he has allowed himself to be tricked and trapped by reacting so strongly to the taunts. Oh well. Too late now to do anything about it.

"That's it Matheson, let it out. Let it all out," Monroe drawls, amused. He too takes a step forward, his face close to Miles' own. The older man can see too clearly, now that the Monroe is so close, the darkness of the bruises under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. His face is somewhat gaunter, Miles thinks. If he stares closely enough, he can just make out the faintest remains of burn marks dotted in a hazy manner across his neck.

(What has happened to us, Bass? How have we ended up here? I would have put my life on the line for you, over and over again, just to keep you safe.)

(I hate that I failed. I'm sorry. So sorry.)

"Fuck you," he hisses as all other remarks die on his bloody lips. He is at once both furiously pumped on adrenaline and emotionally exhausted. He wants to speak again, to say something more meaningful, but the words just die in his throat.

"Ahh, so you actually care about dear little Charlotte. Have you promised her that you would protect her? Did you promise to always be there for her, that she would always have you for support?" an odd expression flickers. A hand dragged firmly through those messy curls. Cold eyes narrow.

Miles bites his lip furiously, steps forward and raises his sword – when had he pulled it out from its sheath? He cannot recall this happening – the tip of the blade lightly brushing the air in front of Monroe's uniform.

(Don't you dare. Don't you dare even use my own words against me. I meant everything I ever said to you.)

"She's my family. I would die for her. No one will ever say that to you." It's meant to sound firm and cold and uncaring but his heart sinks. His breathing hitches just that little bit more.

"Miles! Miles, will you just stop!" Nora shouts angrily after him. He can hear her light footsteps break into a graceful run. At first he thinks of just walking on and ignoring her, but he knows her too well. She'll simply be damn persistent and will not back down. He'll have to face her at some stage. Unfortunately. He doesn't want to hear what she will say.

So he stops, turns around and waits for her to catch up with him. She looks both concerned and frustrated which seems to be the look that she reserves especially for him these days.

"Miles, are you serious about this-"

"Where's Charlie?" he interrupts. Perhaps he hopes to stem the oncoming tide for just that bit longer and well as being enquiring about his niece.

Nora totally does not buy it, however. She raises a perfect eyebrow.

"She's fine. She's with Gillian and the rest of that group. She wanted to come after you but I beat her to it. She isn't going to say what needs to be said to you."

"And that would be what, exactly? I don't have time for a girly heart to heart, Dr Phil." Now she looks confused and once again Miles is reminded about the age gap between them both. Well, that is for another day. Let's focus on the matter at hand.

"It's… I'm worried," she blurts out after a moment's hesitation. Her arms are quickly folded across her chest as she stares directly at him.

"Nora-" he starts, but she returns the earlier favour and cuts across him. He sighs.

"Have you thought this one through, Miles? I mean, more than usual?" her sarcasm stings, because as always with Nora she hits her target head on. "You want to be part of the group that storms the headquarters and then you want to split off and take on Monroe yourself?"

Miles pretends to think, before nodding sharply. "Oh, you have me there. Guilty as charged." He knows he shouldn't be acting like this with her – she really is only trying to look out for him in her unique way – but he wants to be alone. Has to be alone. He shifts his weight from one foot the other, wondering if he can just walk away from her now.

She must guess what he is thinking, for she narrows her eyes and takes a step forward. "Cut the crap, Miles. I know you. This brushing people off tactic of yours is getting old. I just want you, for once, to think about what you're doing."

That is when his mouth takes charge.

"I have thought about this, Nora. Oh believe me, I have. You know what I have to do? I have to walk to Philly and kill my best friend," he throws his hands into the air in frustration as Nora looks on. Seeing him lose his self-control like this is unusual. Miles forces himself to breathe deeply.

Nora's dark eyes soften and her whole stance relaxes slightly. "Miles," she says quietly, and he wishes he could shut his ears to the thick sympathy, "Miles, he isn't your best friend anymore. That isn't Bass. "

"I know," he sighs, and closes his eyes.

"It hasn't been Bass for a long time."

"I know, Nora!" but the bite is no longer there and he soon finds himself leaning against the damp wall.

"It looks like him, but it's not." Her whispers are meant to be soothing, but they seem to utterly destroy him. Yes, that's Nora. Truth in every bite.

"But he's in there, Nora. Somewhere," he whispers back, and he can feel her light touch against his arm. There is nothing sensual about it, just comforting. He can hear her sigh beside him, and he opens his eyes.

"You don't know that, Miles."

"Let's just add that to the list, why don't we," sarcasm bounces back into his voice and he's darn grateful for it, because he feared he would break down in front of her. And that is something he simply cannot do. "I just… I just want to believe it. The thought of him not being somewhere…" Miles trails off.

She nods, a sad smile on her beautiful face. She doesn't speak, just tightens her grip on his skin.

"Damn him to hell for letting this happen," he mutters as he rests his head against her shoulder. "And damn me to hell for not stopping it sooner."

FEELS FEST. I offer no apologies.

This was originally going to be a simply old fashioned oneshot but nope, that really has not happened at all. Never mind that I have uni exams in three weeks time. This badboy comes first. (It's sitting at twenty-one pages right now and I'm not done yet, holy shit.)

Like it or loath it, feel free to leave a review or drop me a line. I swear I don't bite. I'm too busy sobbing thanks to my Milroe feels.