Hey, it's up! In which there are two drunks and a lot of musings.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Fashion of His Love

Chapter one: Whispering Secrets in Your Ear

Major Tom Neville was a man with no regrets. He'd married a woman who, despite everything he'd done after the blackout, still loved him as unconditionally as the day they'd said "I do". He'd raised a fine son to be a fine young man (although he did have to wonder, sometimes, if Jason knew just how proud his father was of him). He'd done well by his family. Fifteen years ago, his two biggest worries had been making ends meet, and Rob and his friends throwing a party that would end in tragedy—probably of the gang-related variety. Now, he was part of the force that protected people like his beloved wife and son from bastards like Rob. He helped protect people who just wanted some peace and security after so long in the darkness and chaos of a world without power.

So why, of all people, did he still have nightmares about the one person he had failed to protect?

The man sat at the kitchen island, feet propped up on the lower rung of the stool he was sitting on. His housekeeper would be horrified to see him in the kitchen after dark, but Neville didn't care. He rested his elbows on the marble-topped island. He'd been meaning to remove the damn thing for years, but had never gotten around to it. The major had eventually gotten used to its' presence in his wife's kitchen, and it had become a decent place to think once in a while.

The bottle of whiskey he'd hidden in what had once been a light fixture and was now being used as his wife's planter for a few scraggly coffee trees didn't hurt either. He was just grateful Rose—the housekeeper and cook, when Julia was too stressed to focus on the task—hadn't discovered the alcohol. The girl would have told Julia, who would have glowered at him until he'd gotten rid of it just to appease her.

Neville sighed heavily and stared down at the glass in his hand, frowning as he swirled the amber colored liquid around. It'd been almost six weeks since he'd been promoted and given command of Intelligence and Interrogation. Six weeks since he'd handed Danny Matheson over to General Monroe, only to be ordered to break the boy so Rachel—the boy's mother—would start talking. It had been several long, draining weeks. The only people who'd broken in that time were the rebels who had been captured a week ago as they'd attempted to plant a bomb in General Monroe's home. (The Militia's spies were no indistinguishable from the rest of the rebels, and all of them sported identical flag tattoos somewhere easily accessible on their bodies. The rebellion would collapse in a heartbeat now, an idea that made Neville smile as he thought about it.)

The major sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand, feeling the need for sleep and the sheer mental exhaustion of the past few weeks begin to overwhelm him. Unfortunately, sleep had been hard to come by of late. Danny Matheson kept invading his dreams, cornflower blue eyes wide and innocent and pleading. Neville hadn't been able to protect the boy for a week—almost two, now that he thought about it. The damage was getting worse, and Neville was afraid he wasn't going to be able to reverse it. The boy was already breaking, and Neville didn't know if he'd be able to fix it…even if he knew how.

Earlier that day, he'd stood and watched, face as cold and hard as he could make it, as Danny had crawled across the floor of his mother's room, begging for something to wear. Rachel Matheson was a cold bitch who didn't deserve to have her son. Neville had, in that moment, begun plotting ways to torture her as she sat, unfettered, on the plush sofa. The look on her face as she'd stared at her son, was familiar—she was a stupid ice queen bitch with that mask in place.

In that instant, Neville had hated her, with every fiber of his being. Her ice queen mask had stayed in place, even as Danny began sobbing in humiliation as his captors laughed. The boy had begged his mother for something, anything he could use. Major Neville had hated her, because she couldn't break and give her son—her youngest child, her innocent child—even a shred of his dignity. The tears of humiliation that had coursed down the boy's cheeks as his guards instructed him on how to beg properly—like a good little dog—had only served to further the man's hatred of Danny's mother.

And… Okay, he was drunk. He was always maudlin and depressed when he was drunk. Tom sighed deeply into his whiskey, and downed what was left in the glass in one gulp. It burned on the way down. The man's hand shook as he reached for the bottle so he could refill his glass.

"Tom. What are you doing?"

Tom looked up, propping his chin on his free hand so he could focus on the speaker. He smiled drunkenly as he recognized her. "Hey Julia. I am getting completely drunk. Care to join me?" He saluted her with his glass, mentally congratulating himself on being able to speak without slurring. Concentrating on talking that much hurt, though, and it made him tired. He was exhausted…

"Tom," Julia said softly, "come to bed, baby." She extricated the glass from her husband's hand, sighing as his head dropped to the countertop with a dull thunk. "Baby, your back is going to kill you if you sleep down here. Tom…" The woman sighed again and pulled her husband upright, slinging one of his arms around her shoulders. And proceeded to drag him out of the kitchen. She had no idea what was bothering her husband right at that moment, but damned if she was going to let him drink himself to death on her watch. Not in this lifetime.

Julia managed to get her husband upstairs to their bedroom. As he sat on the bed so Julia could pull his boots off, he rambled about a prisoner he was interrogating. She nodded and made little noises of agreement as she put his boots outside their bedroom door so Rose knew they needed to be polished before Tom left for work in the morning. Tom was interrogating some boy named Danny, and he was wishing the boy's bitch of a mother would just break already so he didn't have to keep hurting so many people and why couldn't everyone just do what the president wanted?

Julia honestly had no idea what her husband was actually talking about, but the rambling seemed to be calming him down and he was getting tired enough to sleep. She didn't mind too much. There had been far, far too many sleepless nights in the past two or three weeks for it to be a bad thing. (And besides, she was collecting blackmail material for later. There was a reason no one in Philadelphia wanted to cross her.)

As she lay next to him, Julia listened for any sign that her husband was about to have another nightmare. He'd been waiting and working for his promotion and the command of Intelligence and Interrogation for so long…. It broke her heart that he was getting so run down by the job he'd wanted for so long. Maybe, just maybe, he should have stuck with the infantry and months-long patrols…

Julia resolved to discuss the issue with Bass in the morning.

- o – o -

Across the city, another woman was already having a conversation with the president of the Monroe Republic—or was trying to, at any rate.

Rachel Matheson stood next to a giant window, bathed in the soft golden glow of the candles and lanterns illuminating the room. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her face was arranged in her usual stony mask of carefully crafted indifference. A bruise marred her cheekbone. It was the only blemish on her otherwise perfect, undamaged skin.

"I don't have to give you anything," Monroe informed her coolly. Rachel made a humming noise in the back of her throat as the man spoke. She could see his reflection in the window, and wondered what he was thinking. The woman sighed and rested her forearm on the windowpanes, staring out the window again. Was it really too much to ask that her jailor let her keep her little boy? She could look after him here, make him remember that she was his mother. Not that Maggie creature, whoever she was.

"What more do you want, Bass?" Rachel asked quietly, looking up at the darkened sky outside her window. "I have nothing more to give you. I've told you what the pendants look like, I've told you where to find the others…" She rested her palms on the windowsill. "That should be enough." Of course, if Bass broke her little Danny enough before he gave the boy back, Rachel decided, she could plant herself as his mommy again, like it should be. Maybe she could get rid of his memories of that bitch, Maggie, the whore who'd slept with her husband…

Her nose wrinkled as the smell of alcohol, strong and potent, hit her nose. Rachel closed her eyes and didn't turn around. Bass had switched to something a lot stronger than wine—which Rachel knew he drank to annoy her—or whiskey—which Rachel knew he preferred to drink, because it reminded him of Miles. He drank the stronger stuff when he was angry and about to start throwing things. Once, he'd gotten so drunk that he'd thought she'd been serious when she'd said she would prefer having Strausser touch her. (Rachel had been careful to watch her words when Bass drank like that afterwards.)

"Find something, dear," Bass purred darkly, slinking up behind her. Rachel shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She was wearing a jacket, but something in her captor's tone made her cold. Two and a half months ago, she'd been the one in control. Bass would never have dared touch her, not if he'd wanted her cooperation, at any rate. If her baby girl, her Charlie, had been tortured in Danny's stead, though, Rachel knew she already would have broken. (Not that she was going to tell Bass that, though.)

Danny's reserves of calm and patience and his tolerance of pain would have to be enough to carry him through. He'd always been a weak, sickly child. His first asthma attack without the luxury of medications had happened a year before she'd left for…somewhere more comfortable and secure. Danny had survived to become a sweet, sensible young man. He would simply have to endure.

Bass touched her shoulder, encouraging her to turn around. "Look at him," the man whispered gently, as though he were talking about a baby. When Rachel refused to look in the direction he was indicating, he grew impatient and wrapped his arms around her, forcing Rachel to turn and look at Danny. The boy—a teenager, but it was so hard to tell when he looked so young and vulnerable—was tied to a chair, head lolling against his chest. His wrists were lashed to the arms of the chair he was sitting in, and they'd begun to bleed from where he'd struggled against the ropes. A fresh, boot-shaped bruise was blossoming in the center of his chest.

Danny was wrapped in a thin silk bathrobe, belted loosely around his waist. It did nothing to preserve his modesty, but the boy had been pathetically grateful when his mother had broken and given it to him. She'd had a look of disgust on her face as the boy had pulled the bathrobe on and tied the belt with trembling fingers.

His guards had laughed at him for a few seconds, before forcing him back to his hands and knees. The guards had made him thank his mother, then them. They'd forced him to lick their boots clean, or tried to. The bruise on Danny's chest had come from his refusal to do what they'd ordered him to. An asthma attack and the promise of medicine had broken him of that particular stubborn streak.

Rachel frowned sadly and closed her eyes. What had happened to her baby boy? Where had he gone? Danny would never have left home, not where he was safe. He would have stayed close to his sister, or his father… He never would have left. Danny wasn't the baby she'd raised. He was a stranger… Why did she have to give up anything for a stranger?

"Don't ignore your son, Rachel," Bass whispered gently, running his fingers lightly along her jaw. Rachel gasped a little, lips parting as she panted, pupils blown with lust. Her eyes snapped open in shock and not a little bit of fear when Bass' touch ceased to be gentle and his fingers dug into her jaw, nails scraping harshly against soft white skin. "How long do you think it will take, Rachel," he hissed angrily in her ear, "before little Danny breaks? Hmmmm?"

Rachel stiffened and said nothing. She had to remember that the boy sleeping, slumped over in that chair, was not her Danny. He was just a stranger. She wanted her baby back… She didn't have to give anything, and had nothing, for this stranger's child. Bass sighed in disgust and let go of her. Rachel rubbed her jaw and gave the president a dark look as she folded herself gracefully onto the loveseat.

"Bass," Rachel said softly, giving the sleeping teen a small consideration for his exhaustion, "I don't have anything else to give you. Those necklaces and my cohorts were the only things I had left to give." She was lying, of course. She knew where at least five of them were. Hers was in a lockbox in the old Philadelphia bank, although she hadn't told anyone about that—not even the project team knew she had a personal one. Ben's was probably in Sylvania Estates, cooling in the ground with his corpse. Rachel wasn't going to give that information up, though. Some things, like keeping Bass from killing her after he got what he wanted, were more important. (If he ever found out that she'd been the one who'd suggested weaponizing the pendants all those long years ago, Bass would kill her.)

Danny snuffled in his sleep and coughed before settling back down. His breathing was odd, like his lungs had been scoured with sand or steel wool. Rachel knew it was the asthma, damaging his lungs little by little. She'd only been with her little boy and a world without asthma medication for a year before she'd left, but she remembered the sound. She remembered how to listen for an attack.

Bass shot her a dark look from the sideboard as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, apparently feeling maudlin an sentimental. "That's bullshit and you know it, Rachel!" he bellowed loudly, slamming the bottle of whiskey down on the end table just hard enough to make a loud cracking noise. The man smirked into his fresh glass of alcohol as Danny jerked awake with a start, panting in fright. The boy began wheezing as he woke up, making Bass laugh, a cruel, mocking sound.

"I think he's having an asthma attack," Bass said conversationally as he sat down in a leather armchair next to the fireplace. He watched with ill-disguised interest as Danny's hands clenched around the armrests, making a visible effort to calm down and breathe through his nose without gasping for air. The level of control the teen was displaying spoke of years of pain and experience and hard-earned skill. (Bass had almost no clue what set off one of the brat's asthma attacks, but it was going to be fun learning…) He had to wonder what other fun tricks he could teach the kid.

Danny's wheezing got worse, and it became apparent that his usual technique wasn't working.

"Bass!" Rachel shrieked indignantly as her son twisted in his bonds, chest heaving as he gasped for air. "Do something!"

The president smirked at her and sat there, sipping at his whiskey as he watched Danny regain control of himself. It took several long, agonizing minutes, but the boy's chest eventually stopped heaving and he was able to breathe normally again. The boy curled up as much as he could while tied to a chair, head bowed as he trembled in exhaustion. Rachel buried her face in her hands, whether to hide her tears or her abject terror at losing one of her precious babies, Bass didn't know.

"So like a child," Bass murmured, shooting Rachel a sick grin. He drained his whiskey as she closed her eyes, shoulders shaking.

Rachel didn't know if the bastard was referring to her or her son, and didn't want to know.

- o – o -

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