Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution nor am I associated with any of the cast or crew.
Split Loyalties
Split lip, raw wrists, bruised cheek. Rachel silently cataloged her injuries as she woke, groggy, to find Miles dabbing at each wound with a rag saturated in alcohol. She flinched away from the touch, familiar and alien and morbidly welcome.
"This isn't going to work on me, you know. The good cop, bad cop thing."
Miles frowned, carefully wiping traces of blood from her jaw as though it hadn't been the back of his hand that had bruised her, cut her open. "It isn't good cop, bad cop if there's only one interrogator, Rachel."
"No, you're right, it sounds more like split personality. You should get that checked out." The ropes at her wrists chafed, wood chair spats keeping her shoulders firmly straight for the last five hours like she was a debutante or on a crucifix.
He rinsed the rag in a bowl of water, sighing through his nose. It was his newfound control she found most disorienting: control of his temper, control of his emotions, control of where to hit to cause the least damage and the most pain.
The cloth dripped across her legs as he lifted it, wiping days of sweat and dust from her skin. "Why did you leave Ben? Why not just run?"
A breeze lifted the tent flap, sunlight flickering in for a brief moment, and Rachel felt her eyes close involuntarily, grateful to be breathing in something other than Miles: leather and smoke and whiskey. The flap smacked shut again and her eyes snapped open, taking in his battered hands, the slick hair, the pressed uniform. The cold brutality in his face.
"I didn't leave him, not like that. I turned myself in. The torture was a bit of a surprise." Rachel wondered if her bloodshot eyes dulled the effect of sharp quips.
He stilled, hand clenching on the cloth with pale, washed-out blood visible on the once-white fabric. Rachel watched him rein himself in, his stare so much more astute than she remembered.
"You think this is torture? I had two toenails pulled out in Afghanistan." Miles cleared his throat, glancing away and dropping the rag back into the bowl of water with a splash. "I was harsh before, when I said I didn't care."
"You mean you were bullshitting me."
Miles slid the palm of his hand over her thigh and her eyes followed its path, dirt beneath his fingernails and callouses scraping across denim. "You've always been able to do that, see right through it all."
"Don't you wish you could do the same to me?"
"I do."
Miles lingered there in front of her for longer than was comfortable before standing, fingers brushing her hair back and drawing a shudder from her, revulsion welling up in her throat. "We'll return to Philadelphia soon. Bass ought to be surprised to see you."
Rachel was bundled into a cart, wrists bound and a ratty blanket tucked haphazard over her legs. Miles led the troop on horseback, sword jangling at his hip, the medieval general with a scowl and a god complex.
Days passed in much the same way, the bouncing of the cart blurring as he wove between trees, out ahead of the men. The further he got from them, the more his shoulders relaxed and the more he looked like Miles. He had never been carefree, or happy per se, but there had been a time he made her laugh and she couldn't reconcile that with the man who would backhand her in frustration.
Her flirtation with Miles had always been something of a harmless joke between soon-to-be family, Miles constantly telling his brother if he wasn't careful, he just might steal away his pretty blond bride. But the closer they got to the wedding, the more she found herself wondering about the tattoo she'd caught glimpses of on his upper arm and if his tongue was as sharp in bed as in banter. Something made her zip up that white dress, lilies in her hand and a smile on her lips, (maybe it had been the imagined hurt on Ben's face), but she had Miles' face on her guilty conscience nonetheless.
Lights sparkled overhead and the room smelled of lilies and lilacs and the champagne flowed. She danced to It Had to Be You, Ben's arm around her waist, and then her father's, but she found with little regret that her eyes followed Miles around the rented ballroom. He nursed a pilsner, tugging repeatedly on his collar though she imagined his daily uniform was no less restrictive than a rented tuxedo.
Rachel must have looked away for just a moment to thank one of many Matheson cousins, because when she turned back, Miles was at her side, hand burning through the satin and lace layered over her skin. "Might I steal her away for a dance, Alice?" he asked, all put-on formality, drawing a giggle and a grin from the elderly cousin before he swept her back onto the dance floor into a crush of distant relatives.
"Hey, sis," Miles said with a twitch of his lips.
Rachel groaned, smothering her smile in the crook of his neck as one hand wound up around his shoulder. "Don't call me that."
His shoulders shook with quiet laughter, lighter on his feet than she'd have expected, and he twirled her onto a dimly lit balcony, like some ridiculous fairytale. "This place is absurd. Mom picked it. I feel like a goddamn Cinderella."
"Isn't that what every little girl wants?"
Rachel shook her head, blond curls escaping around her temple as she rested her hands on the stone railing, Miles pressed against her back with her skirts twisted between his legs. "Nope. I always wanted to be Marie Curie."
He brushed a knuckle against her cheek, almost smiling. "Of course you did."
Leaning her head back against his shoulder, she twisted to see his face, eyes as dark and unreadable as ever. "Now, I've had a little champagne. But you smell awfully nice, Marine." Her voice was soft and breathy, even to her ears, but she couldn't quite seem to care, not with the hard lines of him at her back and the heady vertigo of a third story balcony.
Miles tensed against her, hands dropping away only to close around hers, tugging her back from the edge. "Come on, let's find Ben. I think it's about time he took his lovely new wife upstairs."
Bumping her shoulder against his, Rachel made a face not all that becoming. "Think he'll be able to get it up? Maybe an open bar wasn't a great idea."
"Jesus, Rachel, leave my brother's sex life behind closed doors, would you?"
She giggled and their moment was broken, intruded upon by the din of wedding guests and reality. He deposited her in Ben's arms. Bass caught the garter and left with a bridesmaid, stranding Miles to hail a taxi. They spent a week in Miami and came home tan, settling into their new life together in a quaint little one-bedroom in Chicago.
Everything was just rosy.
Rachel kicked at the oven, hurling a wet dishtowel into the sink, oblivious to the creak of the back door opening behind her. It wasn't until Miles called out her name, low and cautious, that she spun around, already reaching for an ice pick abandoned on the counter. "Jesus Christ."
"Sorry?" He stepped into the kitchen, hands up, green pack slung over his shoulder.
Kicking at the oven again, she dropped her head into her hands with a groan, stress and holidays weighing on her. "Shit. This is going to be the worst Thanksgiving ever."
Miles dropped his bag on the floor, walking towards her with his hands out like she was a spooked horse. She wondered idly if he actually had experience with spooked horses or if he just watched a lot of Bonanza. "Why's that?" he asked, pulling her hands gently away from her face and squeezing them in his.
"Ben told me your mom always used to make enchiladas the night before Thanksgiving and I was trying to do something nice for him, but the goddamn oven's broken and he went to the airport to pick up your dad but there was an accident or something and they're stuck in traffic and now he won't be home for hours anyway and-" Rachel heaved a sigh, lifting her eyes to his, dark bags hanging beneath them. "Worst Thanksgiving ever."
"Mom's enchiladas always made me sick. I used to hide them in my napkin." She gave him a purely poisonous look and he stumbled over himself to fix it. "But I'm sure yours would have been much better! I'd have eaten a whole pan by myself."
Rachel's lips twitched and her glare faded into a begrudging smile. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Welcome home, Miles."
He crushed her to his chest, half-grinning into her shoulder and reminding her how far she always underestimated his enticing pull. "Come on. We'll order takeout and pour a couple of whiskeys."
"You're a Thanksgiving miracle," Rachel teased dryly, plucking the Eddy's Chinese menu from the fridge.
By the time the takeout arrived, they were on their second glass of whiskey each and Miles was trying to remember how to make whiskey sours.
"I bet you eat Chinese food with a fork, don't you?" Snapping open a pair of chopsticks, she waved them at him with a sniff and sank onto the couch.
"The whole point of takeout is to not have to work for your food." Miles dropped down beside her and snatched a box off the table strewn with Ben's project files. Folding it open, he drove his fork into chicken chow mein, perhaps the least adventurous of the Chinese food staples.
"You are so predictable."
And yet, somehow, she knew that wasn't true. Miles might not be terribly cultured, or make exciting takeout choices, but she could see the haunted glare behind his eyes. Where Ben was safe and warm and, yes, liked enchiladas at Thanksgiving, Miles was- dangerous.
Rachel cleared her throat, snatching up an eggroll and sinking her teeth into it. They made small talk, scooted together on the couch with his shoulder brushing hers and the line of her thigh pressed along his. No, Bass wouldn't be joining them for dinner the next day after all; his mother had pitched a fit when she found out he wasn't coming home. Yes, her new job was exciting, if stressful. They exhausted the expected topics before Rachel got to the bottom of her second glass and she stood to pour another, her skin prickling as he watched her with that intense, unnerving stare of his.
Turning on her heel, she leaned back against the makeshift bar shelf, voice cracking as she sipped at the whiskey. "So! You have a girlfriend yet, Miles?"
Miles squinted into his chow mein, shrugging a shoulder. "I've never had much luck in that department."
"I can't imagine why not," she blurted, a flush spreading over her cheeks.
He laughed, a low and unfamiliar sound, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an almost-smile. "I think the words they usually use are…" Miles trailed off, pretending to think hard, "jaded, emotionally unavailable and… codependent."
Rachel lifted her glass over a snicker. "Well, you got to give them the last one at least. I don't know what you two would do without each other."
"Doesn't seem to bother Bass' endless string of 20-year-olds."
Setting her glass down carefully on the shelf, coaster be damned, she moved across the room, eyes soft with whiskey, and lifted her hand to his temple. "You'll find somebody," Rachel murmured, brushing her fingertips along dark hair. "Some girl's going to see through your bullshit and your tough guy face."
"Too bad I didn't find you first. Seems like you see through me."
Her hand trembled as she drew her fingers down his cheek, carefully trimmed nails scratching at stubble. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."
Lifting his eyes to hers, Miles looked about as ragged and torn as she felt. A shaky breath escaped his lips as he curled his fingers in her t-shirt, tugging her closer. Resting a knee on the couch beside him, Rachel moved her hands down onto his shoulders as her tongue darted out over suddenly dry lips.
He groaned, quiet, unassuming, and the chow mein tumbled from his hand to the floor. It'd be a bitch to clean up later but she found she didn't really care, not with Miles looking at her like- that, face twisted with lust and shame.
"We can't." She shook her head even as he dragged a shiver from her with a calculated jerk of his hips. How he could be calculated when the rush of blood was like tinnitus in her ears, she couldn't begin to guess. "We're drunk, we can't do this. It's-"
"Wanted you since the day he brought you home."
The confession was quiet, mumbled almost against her mouth. He looked up at her from beneath long eyelashes and Rachel closed the last breath between them, sealing her parted lips over his and collapsing into his lap without a thought.
She'd never really thought about doing this with Miles, actually, about assuaging the flush of need that settled over her whenever he was home; rather, she'd imagined and fantasized and brought herself off in the bath while Ben was on business trips. Miles was perhaps the one thing she didn't think about.
His tongue darted out over hers, yanking her out of her errant thoughts, and she let her fingers catch on the thin silver chain at his throat so it dug into his skin. Miles slid his hand down her thigh, mouth hot and more talented in this than in words. He tasted like alcohol and sweet-and-sour and just a little bit like sand, as though he hadn't quite shaken it all off on the flight home.
Rachel dragged her tongue over his, over his teeth, breasts pressed against his chest as she leaned all her weight into him. His fingers hooked behind her knee and she gasped into his mouth, spreading her thighs farther over him, slick and all but begging for friction though her pride would never allow her to voice it. "Miles-"
Her heartbeat ricocheted and he seemed to agree with her incoherent need, twisting her in his lap so somehow he had her flat on the couch with the arm digging into the back of her head. Miles' thigh was jammed between hers, a tease of pressure that wasn't nearly enough, the other foot fallen to the floor.
His hand knotted in her shirt, dog tags jangling, and he ducked his head against her breast, unruly hair brushing her cheek and his teeth worrying delicate skin. Rachel's fingers twisted in his hair as she strained to catch her breath, barely catching the cracked plea he mumbled into her: "Don't say no."
A strangled gasp escaped her and she squeezed her eyes shut, tugging him up by his collar. "Going to hell," she whimpered as he sucked her bottom lip in between his teeth, hand grazing her breast, skin suddenly aching beneath two layers of fabric.
Her hands skimmed his sides, blindly fumbling to unzip his pants. It was abrupt, maybe, but a sudden sense of urgency rippled through her and she found herself glancing at the dark front door. He didn't seem to object, though, reaching down to help her, his fingers popping the button on her slacks and shoving them down. Rachel shivered, lifting her hips so he could slide the black fabric down with her cotton panties and kicked them off the couch, face flushing pink with embarrassment.
Miles didn't appear to notice her self-conscious blush, lips skimming her jaw so heat rushed everywhere he touched. Wrapping her legs around his waist, Rachel pushed her hand into his pants, fingers still chilled from the discarded glass, and he choked on his breath.
"Rachel-"
She heard his teeth grind and he covered her mouth with his, kissing far easier than talking. Her eyes drifted again to the door, adrenaline pulsing through her. "Haven't got all night, Miles."
He hesitated, reaching belatedly for his pants pocket, panic crossing his face before she grabbed his hand. Rachel shook her head once, twice, eyes cloudy with vacant need. "On the pill."
Miles breathed a visible sigh of relief, already hitching her thigh over his hip, her back arching beneath him as he drove inside her, blue eyes slamming shut. "Mi-iles-" Biting her lip, she felt the sting of hot tears and the dull ache of guilt. Above the rest, though, was piercing, agonizing pleasure at the welcome stretch of him inside her, at the strain of muscles and frayed nerves. "So good-"
Resting his head against her clavicle, Miles groaned something that might have been agreement or commiseration, hand tight on her thigh, though hopefully not tight enough to leave bruises. He thrust up into her, bare heels digging into the backs of his thighs as he shoved her against the couch arm in an unsteady rhythm.
Rachel tipped her head back, teeth tearing into her bottom lip as she slid her hands down beneath his shirt. Her fingers tripped over small scars on his back and shoulder blades, the imagined dangers he'd thrown himself into sending a shock of hot liquid arousal through her. She clenched on him, features tightening even as his breath hitched against the hollow of her throat, oblivious to her fascination.
His hand floundered between them for a moment, knuckles scrabbling against her as though he'd nearly forgotten to pay her any focused attention. It might have been insulting if he weren't so lost in her, and she arched her back into him, leg stretching along his, toes curled as she kicked a pillow off the couch without noticing.
Her nails pressed into the tattoo on his upper arm, a black 'M' in a circle, scratching the skin though not hard enough to break it. A string of mindless, stifled moans fell off her lips and he shuddered over her, hands gripping her hips; she felt him come inside her, felt the tense jerk of his body against hers and the relief that flooded him after.
With a few quick, familiar swipes of her fingertips between her legs, Rachel was coming after him, slick and unrestrained, her back arched into the hard lines of him. The air between them turned sticky and humid as they lay there on the couch, legs entangled, fingers in unkempt hair. The house was filled with a dim sort of quiet, broken as they both struggled to catch their breath.
Miles slid his palm up her arm, fingers clasping through hers against the scratchy fabric of the couch as he lifted his head to look at her. "Damn."
The corners of her lips twitched and after a beat she found herself laughing, eyes sparkling with a sated, hysterical kind of anxiety. "Oh god, Miles, what are we doing?" It was ludicrous that she could yearn to be closer to him, even with him still inside her.
"Don't care," he admitted, leaning into her touch.
They should have cared, and years later, she would regret every moment they spent wrapped up in each other. But of everything they did, of all the people they hurt, Rachel found in her darkest, most silent moments that she regretted the way it ended worst of all, in a dingy motel room in early February. They'd had a few short hours before he needed to be back on a bus to the airport, his visits too short but more and more frequent. She only remembered the month because the front desk had been strewn with bent and faded paper hearts that had turned her stomach when she saw them, Ben's plans for Valentine's Day as sweet and secretive as always.
Miles was warm and loose at her back, relaxed in a way he rarely was, an arm thrown over her waist beneath the thin sheet. She stretched against him, bare feet sliding over his legs as he breathed faint perfume off the curve of her neck. "Could stay here forever," he mumbled into her shoulder, blond hair muffling his voice.
"Don't talk like that." Rachel wrapped a curl tightly around her finger, staring off at the peeling wallpaper.
They lay there in the cold motel room another ten minutes, goosebumps rising on her bare arms and ice on the windows. "I should go." His arms tightened on her and Rachel sighed, rolling over to face him, her hands sliding over the tattoos on his arms and chest. "There's going to be traffic. I don't want him to get home before me."
Miles heaved a sigh through his nose, teeth grit. "It's always about Ben."
"Of course it's always about Ben," Rachel nails pressed white crescents into his skin, her eyes narrowing. "He's my husband. For god's sake, Miles, he's your brother."
"And, clearly, you're very devoted to him. The picture of the doting wife."
She ground her teeth together, shoving him off with both hands and throwing the covers back, but he caught her around the waist, pinning her back into the sagging mattress. Miles lifted himself over her, knee between hers, and she glared up at him as she struggled, useless. In spite of the knowledge he could probably kill a person six different ways, she was never afraid of him, but in that moment she did fear becoming one of the many demons beneath his skin.
"I'm sorry." Rachel must have looked as skeptical as she felt because he sighed, relaxing his grip on her. "I just- want to be with you," he said in a rush and she felt a stab of guilt for taking advantage of him, as ridiculous a thought as it was, like the blade of his Bowie knife slicing through her chest.
"Miles. Don't."
He didn't respond, just held her down, cheap motel sheet twisted around them. Rachel realized his eyes no longer looked haunted and dangerous, like she'd always thought, but simply rather lost. Lonely. It was too much and she swallowed hard, glancing away again to the ugly wallpaper, teeth in her lip. Miles let her up without another protest.
She climbed out of the bed, gathering her clothes from the questionable carpet. With anyone else it might have been uncomfortable, their eyes on her, exposed, but Miles was absorbed in his own guilty conscience, head propped up on a hand.
Rachel was half-dressed, reaching around to clip her bra with her back to him before she spoke. "Ben and I are never going to split up."
She glanced over her shoulder at him, his eyes glued to the ratty bedspread. "Maybe… maybe it's time this ended."
The words hung between them, giving Rachel a chill even in the cold room.
Sharp. Inevitable. Over.
The cart rolled to a stop in cold, autumn sunshine and Rachel peeked her eyes open to stare up at the gates of Philadelphia, unimpressed. They'd been on the road at least two weeks and her back was sore, her wrists chafed and she was tired of the alternately questioning, leering and terrified looks Miles' men kept giving her. She found herself impressed by little anymore.
The gates creaked open and a man with sandy hair stepped out to greet them, thumbs hooked in his belt. "General. Glad to see you survived the barbarians."
"Jeremy." Miles gave him a short nod and had she been so inclined, Rachel might have laughed at his poorly concealed annoyance.
The man, Jeremy, shot a glance over Miles' shoulder, eyebrows lifting. "That doesn't look like a long lost brother, sir."
Clearing his throat, Miles stripped off his gloves and gestured to some private or stable boy or what-have-you to take his horse. "Things didn't go as planned. Take Mrs.-" He paused, turning to meet her stare, holding it just long enough to make her flinch. His eyes flicked to her bonds and back up to her face, jaw set in that corrupted, too-powerful clench. "Take Ms. Matheson to the room you've prepared."
Jeremy tossed him a jaunty salute and then she was being bundled off to some secret, horrible hole where, no doubt, the interrogations would continue. "So you're his sister-in-law, huh? He never mentioned you."
"Figures."
"Tell me, Ms. Matheson. What was he like as a young, upstanding Marine?"
Rachel tripped over a loose stone, righting herself carefully before bothering to raise her eyes to his. When she did, her eyebrow was lifted in something that might have been contempt, though she was too tired to really put a name to it. "He was a fool. Guess not much has changed."