So, I decided to write a sequel to Chrome and Steel...
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Open Road Song
One
Bass expects Miles to come back to base with the shiny red Challenger he'd been ogling for weeks in the ad he got. He's even been looking forward (secretly) to the exact second when Miles comes to him with a pathetic look and begs him to install the sound system, because it might blow up or burn to cinders otherwise. (Miles and technology don't really get along. That's what Bass is for.)
Instead of the shiny almost-new Challenger Bass had been expecting (and making plans to borrow on the sly if he had a pass and Miles didn't), Miles rode up in the passenger seat of a truck towing a trailer with two beaten-up motorcycles in the back.
Bass looks at Miles and blinks.
"What the hell happened to the Challenger, man?"
Miles grins at him.
Two
With a bit of work, the motorcycle begins to clean up and Bass thinks it's worth losing out on the Challenger he'd totally been praying Miles would buy. (He doesn't have enough credit history or money to get his own car, whereas Miles is a saint who could get the keys to a vault if he batted his eyes at the right banker.) He's enjoying everything. At least until one of the MPs pulls him over and tells him he can't ride on base anymore until he gets a better helmet and a reflective vest.
While Bass understands the safety regulations and why he needs to follow them (buying his own insurance would be a pain in the ass and TriCare—while not the best—was still better than nothing), it doesn't mean he has to like them. He gets off the bike, shoots a glare at the smiling private who pulled him over (the kid's not being malicious, but she's new and green and doesn't want to run the risk of being sent away from Parris Island), and walks it all the way back to barracks.
Miles throws a new helmet—matte black and dull, just waiting for a coat of gloss—and a reflective vest onto his bed the next day. He says nothing and leaves to go re-tune the engine, because one of the bolts is loose.
Bass grins and goes for a ride on his motorcycle (still perfectly in tune).
Three
No matter how safe the world is, it isn't safe enough. Bass knows that.
His uniform doesn't feel like it fits right. The hat's too heavy for him. The wool's hot and itchy, and there's a droplet of sweat sliding down his neck that he can't go after because the uniform collar's too tight around his neck. It feels like a noose, ready to strangle him. Bass knows that, if he moves even an inch, his stoic mask is going to fall and he's going to end up sobbing all over his best friend's uniform, soaking the dark blue wool. The medals would dig into his cheek and leave an imprint. That's what people would remember.
Bass knows he should be giving his little sister's illicit rides on the bike. He knows his parents would glower at him and threaten to make him sleep on the porch for taking them out on it, instead of taking their nice, sensible Volvo out on his trip with his baby sisters. Angie and Cynthia should be giggling and shrieking in his ear for him to go faster, even though he's almost about to break the speed limit, and he knows he would because he'd do anything for those baby girls.
Except he can't. Ever. Not anymore.
His parents' graves are in the middle of the five Monroe family plots they purchased during an exceptionally morbid Christmas the year Bass enlisted. (They weren't happy, to put it mildly.) Bass chokes back a whimper as the two smaller coffins are lowered into the ground.
Miles takes his keys after the ceremony ends, and drives him to the Matheson family home. Ben and Rachel—Ben's wife—and their two kids are there. Bass falls asleep on the sofa.
His nightmares are filled with a screech of twisted, burning metal and childish shrieks in his ear to make him go faster, faster, faster.
Four
Bass starts getting headaches after an IED explodes under the caravan. The corpsman says that if he'd been a few inches to the right, they wouldn't be having their conversation. Miles smothers Bass with mother-hennish concern after that, all the way back to base. They've only got one motorcycle between them, a shitty deal they bought off a man who was taking his family to the United States (one of the base rats who'd gotten the lucky ticket home was sponsoring him), and Miles is the one who uses it the most, making a bit of extra money by ferrying packages between units. Bass uses it too, on occasion, when he needs to clear his head.
He wipes out into a wall a few days after the accident.
Three days after that, he and Miles are on the first flight to Germany and a military hospital.
Bass is sent home three weeks after the IED for restricted duty at Norfolk.
Miles goes with him.
Five
Bass goes to the reserves before he hits twenty-six. He can't stand being on restricted duty anymore. It's driving him crazy. Not to mention that, since he's been back in the states, his nightmares about his sisters and parents dieing in that crash keep getting worse. The blackouts aren't helping. No one's sure how to repair all of the damage, so the doctors recommend Bass keep it under control with a drug regimen and frequent visits to a therapist.
The problems start when he goes home. The pharmacy doesn't stock his medications. Neither does the one in Indianapolis. Neither does anyone in the state. (Not anyone who will deliver it as far as Jasper, anyways.) Bass heads to Chicago at Ben's insistence, because it's better than nothing. His problems act up and his head aches in the cold. He starts wearing a balaclava everywhere, and doesn't take the bike out except for slow rides around the block, with a bundled-up and helmeted Charlie clinging to his back. (Rachel watches them like a hawk until they disappear around the corner, and she's still there when they come back.)
Miles comes for a leave, and takes Bass on a longer ride. There's a new pharmacy.
Bass' insurance isn't accepted. The clerk gives him a smile that's supposed to be comforting, but comes out as condescending. No one will tell him where another pharmacy that would accept his insurance is. Bass is about to pull his wallet out so he can just pay for the damn medications, except Miles grabs his arm and drags him away.
The older man disappears after dinner that day, and Bass crawls under the covers on the fold-out bed in the den, not wanting to be disappointed when Miles comes back, hair windblown and looking like he's had a good time.
He's shaken awake around midnight, and Miles presses something into his hands. His medications. Miles' hands have a few nicks on the fingers.
"So I just committed a felony," Miles whispers, pulling Bass close and smiling into the blonde's curls as Bass sobs quietly into his shoulder, from relief or stress, neither of them know.
It won't stop at Bass' medications, but it's enough. For now.
Six
The first major hiccup comes when Miles and Bass run afoul of two of Hell's Angels beating another man. Bass wants to leave well enough alone, since he's still supposed to be the level-headed member of their two-man crime ring. (The cops are still looking for half a dozen men, instead of just two, which is the only reason why they're not cooling their heels in prison yet.)
Miles puts the kickstand on his motorcycle down, pulls the skull-printed bandana back up over his nose and mouth, and struts over. Bass groans in frustration (he's still got a backpack full of what their client wanted them to boost with him, which is part of it) and gets off to go back Miles up. He loves Miles—sometimes as more than a brother—but this is not one of those times. He's going to have to…
Help Miles hide the bodies. Of course he is.
The kid they've rescued isn't a kid, but Bass knows him on sight. He's done work for Drexel (a client who's got access to drug warehouses and is willing to get the duo whatever they want, no questions asked—although he does occasionally ask just how migraine medication and anti-psychotics are supposed to get them high—whenever they want) before. Bass thinks he might be a drug mule, or one of the few boys that Drexel keeps for the more…affluent clients. (Most of the clients prefer girls, but Bass knows enough to not even look at them. One of them has a gun the size of a hand cannon strapped to her thigh.)
Still, they've rescued the kid—John or Jay or something like that—and there's no going back.
They owe Drexel a favor now. Or he owe them one.
Either way, murder is now on the list of crimes Bass has committed with Miles since his discharge.
And they said retirement was supposed to be quiet.
Seven
Miles is not impressed with the monogrammed jackets. Bass is wearing the jacket and nothing else, though, so he doesn't hear any complaints. (Despite the one that was on Miles' face, which called him stupid and reckless in ever language in Miles' repertoire, which was considerable.)
The black leather looks good against Bass' tan, and the white, encircled M on the back—the symbol he and Miles had made back when they were still stupid kids growing up—is striking. Well, if they're going to commit crimes with a gang, they might as well look the part.
Bass grins when Miles huffs in annoyance and begins stripping.
The jacket stays.
Eight
Miles comes home—they've got an actual house now, although it's an apartment over an old steel mill (the realtor called it trendy, and Miles called him an idiot under his breath)—shit-faced drunk. His nephew's back in the hospital. Ben's fighting with Rachel. Charlie's hiding in a hall closet to escape the fighting, and he's on permanent ban from ever going back for a visit. And it's not even because of the motorcycle.
Ben's too damn smart for his own good. He always was.
Bass pulls Miles down and distracts him with kittenish little kisses and plans for a new job. They're raking in cash now, and Jeremy's one hell of a help with that. (He's the brains behind Drexel's distribution, and he's a freelancer which sweetens that pot. He works almost exclusively for Bass and Miles and their little gang now.) Miles sighs unhappily and lets Bass take care of him.
Neither of them care that they're on the factory floor, up to their elbows in grease and motorcycle parts. They need this. Closeness.
Anything to get rid of the sting of losing family.
Nine
Rachel arrives during a thunderstorm. As omens go, it does not bode well. And it doesn't.
As it turns out, she's divorced Ben. Bass finds out when Rachel's settled in what passes for the public office for their motorcycle repair business (it's a good cover for why guys—and a few girls too—ride in on bikes at all hours of the night and day) with a cup of coffee. He grimaces into his own Styrofoam cup of weak, pale coffee as Miles storms into the office in a fine mood to bellow at Rachel for putting him in such an awkward position. Because Ben just called and spent a good twenty minutes yelling at him for having an affair with his wife.
Bass wants to know when Miles had time to do that, on top of Bass and business.
He grins as Miles chokes and splutters incoherently.
Still, they can't get rid of Rachel, so they put her up in one of the houses Jeremy ordered them to purchase, on the advice of an accountant he keeps on retainer. Apparently, it hides a lot of money that they can't explain otherwise.
Bass has the feeling things are going to go to hell now.
Ten
Bass starts escaping from the office any time he can, since Rachel became a feature. It's better than anything else he can do. Miles has gone through six cases of Johnny Walker in the past two months, seventeen phones (Charlie calls every day after school from a payphone), and twelve chains for his punching bag. They haven't bothered repairing the ceiling since the fifth time.
There's not much in the way of open road in Chicago, but Bass can pretend anyways. He spends a lot of time riding around the city, trying to get himself lost before he has to drag himself back to the stormlike tension in the warehouse.
Even Miles' devoted attention isn't making up for it.
Eleven
Miles' birthday is the one time a year where Bass can get a drop on him. This year, he's got the entire thing planned out, right down to the restaurant where he's going to drag Miles—kicking and screaming if necessary—for dinner. The best part is that Charlie's sixteen and has a brand new driver's license, and she's the one who arranged most of this. It's perfect. Jeremy and Neville—the accountat who's good at hiding money—are even willing to cover the shop for the day, so Miles can finally relax and stop being such a… Well, Miles.
Everything goes to hell when someone—probably someone that Miles has managed to piss off in a take-over, or someone that Bass offended on one of his infrequent forays to those meetings (no matter how charming he is, he's still on medications and those aren't a guarantee of keeping him sane and in the present if he's under enough stress)—sets a bomb off in the bar Miles wanted to go to for his usual birthday drink. (At least he was a cheap date, the other 364 days of the year.)
Miles' birthday is supposed to be the day that Bass gets a drop on Miles. Not someone else.
It was probably not a good idea to skip his afternoon round of medication and the weekly chat with his therapist to hunt the bomber down.
Miles' reaction a few days later proves that.
But Bass didn't care the entire time, because Miles could have died.
And that's just not done.
Twelve
It's been a damn long five years since Miles walked out, leaving Bass adrift in a sea of his own issues and deep-seated fear of abandonment. Only Jeremy holding a gun to his head gets him to take his medications willingly these days. Nora—one of the freelancers that Drexel's been trying to get his hooks into for years—was able to do it by withholding the keys to his bike, but she'd left shortly after Miles so that wasn't an option.
He's almost relieved when Neville comes back from the hunting party—Miles was always better with designations, Bass knew (especially after the IED)—with Danny Matheson in tow. It wasn't Ben. Ben should have been the one Neville towed in. Instead, it's the gaunt, pale teen that Bass vaguely remembers as a very sickly child who'd fallen asleep before lunch one day and hadn't woken up until dinner the next day. Bass forces a smile for the boy.
"You look like your mother."
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Like the set-up for the 'verse? Drop a line and let me know.