They were in the shit, and the plan had gone to hell. Bass's mother had always said cursing was a sign of ignorance, but he was having a hard time finding any other words that were appropriate and would highlight his stunningly impressive high school education (followed by years of self-teaching from books on myriad subjects when he'd been a paranoid reclusive locked in his study).

The scheme to save the son-of-a-bitch president who had presided over the circus of his "execution" was necessary. He'd concede they needed Texas on their side, since they were an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in a Stetson, as Miles so eloquently put it. Added with the remaining war clans that were coming together, and the Patriots would find their asses in their hands, instead of their heads in their asses, within a year.

As usual, it hadn't worked out as they had planned. At least no one had been taken prisoner yet. That was starting to get old really fast.

Charlie had tried to offer an alternative option, and while Bass had been ready to consider it, Rachel and Miles had already gone off to plot their latest daring escapade (and probably screw, which made him nauseated to contemplate), impervious to their daughter's input as ever. Uh, niece, wink, wink. He rolled his eyes, wondering if they were ever going to acknowledge that eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.

"Shit," he cursed as a sword came too close for comfort, and he thrust behind him with his blade, rewarded with a grunt of pain audible even over the fracas of the clash. The fallen Ranger—and why the hell were they fighting the Texans when they were here to save the asswipe president?—had been in his blind spot. Only the sound of the approaching sword had saved him, reminding him there were more important things to consider than Charlie's paternity.

Thinking of her made his eyes seek her out. God, he missed having her at his back. Ever since the raid on the camp, when he'd shown a bit too much of the harsh realities of war to her and Connor, she'd been avoiding him. It left an ache inside that he didn't want to think about. Still, he couldn't keep his gaze from following her. She fought near Neville's kid, whose paternity made him untrustworthy by association. (He was aware of the irony of judging the kid based on the father. If everyone did that, they'd have written Connor off as a power-mad ex-dictator who had only recently dialed down the crazy.)

Nipples (how he loved that nickname for Jason) was competent, but he smirked when Charlie had to save his ass at least twice in the span of ten seconds. That was his girl.

Hell and no. She wasn't his girl. Charlie was…Charlie. If she wasn't busy hating him, or shedding blood with him, she was fucking his son. What kind of feelings could you have for a person in those circumstances? As usual, he shied away from that thought, not needing to probe his emotions to know just how masochistic he could be.

Using a recovered pistol from a fallen Patriot, Bass shot another one coming up on him before taking out a threat to his left. As soon as the danger had passed, his gaze sought Charlie again. He didn't bother to justify to himself why he couldn't stop watching her or worrying about her. It was an autonomic need, much like oxygen.

The look on her face made his blood run cold. The abject terror had him scanning her vicinity for the threat, but he quickly realized her gaze was fixed on a point behind him. Bass spun around, sword in one hand and stolen pistol in the other. With ease born from practice, he analyzed the scene and immediately determined the cause of Charlie's fear.

Rachel stood with her back to him, fighting with a sword. Considering he'd once seen her plunge a screwdriver into her friend's chest, she was pretty inept with the longer weapon. He wondered why Miles hadn't bothered to teach her anything, but then decided he didn't care.

Her foe with the sword wasn't her immediate threat. No, it was from another Patriot, who had her in the sights of a wicked-looking rifle. The bitch who had caused the death of billions, along with his own personal suffering on more than one occasion—though he had to admit the times he'd given her to Strauser probably made them even—was about a millisecond from dying, and she didn't even know it.

He didn't care. Bass genuinely didn't give a flying fuck if Rachel drew her last breath then or thirty years from now. But Charlie would care. He'd seen the tentative attempts at reconciliation unfolding between them, though Rachel riding the Miles Express seemed to have put more distance between them again. Still, except for her uncle/father, Rachel was about the only family Charlie had left in the world, partly thanks to Bass himself.

"Hell." He searched for an alternative, but didn't find one. He was a great shot, but there wasn't time to line up an accurate trajectory. He couldn't exactly toss his sword the distance and hope it would hit the mark. Too bad Stay-Puft and his little nanites weren't here to fry the fucker.

With a sense of surrealism, Bass hurled himself at Rachel, knowing he'd never get her down in time. The best he could do was block the projectile with his own body, and fuck if he'd ever imagined he'd be taking a bullet for her. Time seemed to move in slow motion, and he found himself wondering if she'd felt the same way when she'd stood over his grave to dig up his "corpse" after engineering his "death."

The bullet hit hard, knocking him to the ground. He landed heavily on Rachel, who made a weird sound at the impact. Bass figured he should probably move, but his body wouldn't cooperate with the idea. Darkness crept around the corners of his vision, but he focused clearly on Charlie when her face appeared over his.

"What did you do?"She sounded angry that he had saved her mother, but the moisture in her eyes hinted that maybe there was more to it than one straightforward emotion. He wanted to believe that anyway.

His tongue refused to obey his need to answer, so he shot her a look that questioned her intelligence. It was pretty damned obvious what he'd done. He'd gotten himself shot for Rachel. But not really for Rachel. "For you," he rasped, blood spraying from his mouth and hitting her jacket.

Charlie frowned. "But why, Bass? You aren't the noble, self-sacrificing type."

No energy to tell her about how he'd put his life on the line for his son, or remind her that he had planned to let Connor kill him in the cage match. He did manage to lift a hand to cup her cheek. To his surprise, she didn't shove him away. "For you." Clever, Monroe. Going to start sounding like a broken record. Not that she'd know what that was anyway. Hell, she probably wouldn't have even if there had been no Blackout, being two decades younger than he was.

Life was a bitch, and he was pinned under her heel. Bass had lost every single person he'd ever loved. He'd kind of gotten Miles back, but it wasn't the same and never would be again. Finally, he'd had another glimpse of happiness, maybe a chance of finding love and a family again, and he'd tossed it away.

For her.

He couldn't make himself regret the action, though he did wish he'd ended up sacrificing himself for just about anyone besides Rachel. Even Nipples would have been better, though he couldn't imagine a scenario where he'd ever put himself between Neville's kid and a bullet. Even for Charlie.

Ah, who was he kidding? He'd have done anything for Charlie, if he'd had the chance. The sight of her face, unfortunately not contorted with love or agony of loss, but still warmed with compassion and something that looked like regret, was the last thing he saw as his eyes closed and darkness swept over him.

A/N:

Of course they aren't going to kill off Bass, but how crazy would it be for him to take a bullet for Rachel? That's even more unbelievable than her rigging his execution and digging him up. ;-)

(And, you know, he might not actually be dead, if I have the time/inclination to continue this. *wink, wink*)