It's a new story. The worst feeling in the world is having someone home, but never actually having them.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Long Road Home
Bass was happy on the good days. The good days meant that winning had been worth it. The good days meant that he could pretend Miles was home. The good days made him forget, just for a little while, that the bad days were far, far in the past. He could read Milton, or Wodehouse, or anything else, and pretend that the vacant light in Miles' eyes was because he was lost in a daydream, and not just…not there.
Six months ago, Sebastian Monroe had done the impossible. Six months ago, the Monroe Republic had become the first nation in fifteen years to have electricity and real power. He'd wiped the Georgia Federation off the face of the earth, and taken what was left under his wing. The Rebels had become his next priority, after Georgia was no longer a problem. He'd taken them out quickly.
The fact that he'd been able to run roughshod over them so quickly should have tipped him off. If Miles had been in charge of them, like anyone with any sense would have done, Bass was sure he'd never have been able to steamroll them so quickly. Miles was intelligent, quick-witted, clever. Miles knew how he thought…
But…
But the Rebels had decided that torturing the former general of the Monroe Republic was better than putting him to valuable use as their commander. They'd tortured Miles for information. The boy—Danny, the youngest, weakest Matheson—had been found in an officer's tent, strung out on something that left him weak and compliant. His sister had been next to him, on the same drugs. Rachel had been in another gilded cage. Nora, the girl who'd stolen Miles from him, had been executed.
(Bass might have been just a bit gleeful when he'd learned that. He'd even given her a state funeral, as befitting an officer of the Militia. The fact that she'd never worked for him, or even been a spy for him, was just details. But the Rebels ate it up. They self-destructed in a matter of weeks, killing anyone who'd even been suspected of being a Militia spy.)
Danny and Charlie were in their own suite of rooms, hiding and flitting around like pale shadows. Neither of them could be separated from the other for long without having a panic attack. Bass let them be. Miles… Miles would have wanted it.
On the good days, Bass felt generous enough to let the Matheson siblings flit like pale ghosts into his private quarters to see their uncle. It felt right. Sometimes, when he didn't have to work on the good days, he sat in the same room, watching them. The siblings tried to coax a reaction out of their uncle.
Bass thought, once, that he'd seen them get a smile out of Miles. He'd broken quite a few things when it turned out he'd been imagining things.
Miles was…
Miles was gone. Bass had won, and he didn't have Miles. The victory didn't feel right without Miles there to share it with him. On the bad days…
On the bad days, Jeremy sat next to the former general, ready to restrain the man at a moment's notice, to force a soft roll of leather between the man's teeth so he didn't bite his own tongue off so he couldn't tell anyone anything. Bass had tried, for the first few weeks, to be there for Miles on the bad days. He'd held Miles and sobbed into the other man's shoulder, begging Miles to come back.
Bass could never erase the memory of how Miles had flinched and scrambled away from him, a wail of fear issuing from his throat. He couldn't forget how Miles had cowered, begging in Pashto and Kurdish and Russian. Bass couldn't drink away the memory of Miles crying as he begged the ghosts that existed only in his imagination to please stop hurting him because he'd never known the information they were searching for.
On the bad days, Bass wished he could find a good therapist. Because on the bad days, he had to revisit the last time Miles had been so brutally tortured, almost twenty-one years to the day now.
They'd been stupid kids, confident that—just because they were goddamn United States Marines—no one would dare touch them. Oh, how wrong they'd been. The IED had taken out the lead truck in their convoy. The second one had taken out two tanks. Bass had been knocked to the ground by Miles, who'd covered him from the blasts with his own body.
In the aftermath, when reinforcements arrived, Bass had only known one thing: The insurgents had taken Miles. Miles, who had been his best friend for years, his brother for so many years… Miles had been the center of his world, and he'd lost that. Bass had had one task, and he'd failed. Miles had been taken.
It had taken him eight months, but he'd found Miles. He'd killed every single damn insurgent who'd gotten between him and Miles' cell. None of his buddies had stopped him. Needless to say, after Bass had carried Miles' thin, wasted, beaten form out of that hole, there hadn't been much left of the insurgent base.
Miles had gotten better. It'd taken a year and a half of intensive therapy, and a lot of time and patience from his family—and from Bass and his family—but he'd gotten better. Then everything had gone to hell for Bass, and it had been Miles who returned the support. Miles, who'd hunted him down like it was the most important thing in the world. Miles, who'd sat next to him at the grave and talked him down. Miles, who'd taken him to a cheap motel and kissed and held him until Bass felt like his lungs would explode from the closeness of Miles. Miles, who'd taken care of him and let him into his home and family.
Bass figured it was about time things came full circle again. Miles needed him. On the bad days, Bass had tried to be strong. On the bad days, he'd told himself it was just like getting Miles back from that hellhole little prison cell. On the bad days, he told himself that Miles was going to be better later, that he just needed some time. Bass told himself that Miles just wanted some space from him.
The president of the Monroe Republic couldn't bring himself to admit that he didn't want to be around Miles. He was afraid to be near Miles, as though the not-sane was catching. He didn't want to admit that he couldn't go near Miles without breaking down, sobbing, crying and begging Miles to please just give him one sign that he was still there. That he just wanted to shake Miles until that vacant, stupid smile was wiped off his face.
He wanted his Miles back, not this…this lifeless puppet.
But he couldn't abandon Miles. Not when, on the bad days, Miles was there, swearing at him in all the languages Miles had spoken. Because Miles was the one who was staring out through fierce brown eyes, promising to hurt everyone who came near him. It was Miles on the bad days, fighting back and just being Miles.
Bass wondered if he could get his doctor to rename Miles' "good days" as the bad ones, and the "bad days" as the good ones. At least he could see the real Miles on the bad days.
He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, staring over at the bed. It was well past midnight, and six months to the day since Miles had been rescued. Miles was in the center of the bed, flat on his back and sleeping peacefully. Jeremy was curled up on one side, head pressed into the side of Miles' shoulder. His blonde hair was mussed up and spread over Miles' too-pale shoulder. Even the way Miles slept was wrong.
Miles sprawled. He never lay perfectly still in one place. He snored. He liked cuddling, like a kitten. Bass and Jeremy had, more often than not, woken up with Miles holding them like they were teddy bears, tangled up in his long limbs. Miles didn't sleep like he was on an uncomfortable rack, or like he was a cadaver.
Just one more thing to blame the rebels for.
Bass pulled his boots off and crawled into bed next to Miles, not bothering to pull his uniform off either. He pulled Miles' arm around his shoulders—just like the old days—and pressed his face into the brunette's cloth-covered shoulder.
"Come home, Miles," he whispered. "Please…"
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Does Bass need just one good day to actually be a good day? Drop a line and let me know.