A/N: This is a follow up to my previous story, Frustration. After the events of 2x18 I could just imagine Charlie turning to Bass for relief from a whole different set of emotions. This one comes from Bass's POV.

I'm not the kind of person to say "I told you so", but… Ok. That's total horse shit. The minute Miles finishes his little debrief with the Texans and gets his stupid pussy-whipped hide out here to our cleverly predetermined rendezvous point (my idea), I'm gonna go all kinds of I told you so on his ass. Man, I wish I could have seen his face when he realized that the person we were here to take down was the brainwashed little shit he let Rachel convince him not to take out when he had the shot. I may even whip out the "I'm right and you're wrong" dance we had from fifth grade. Might be a bit undignified, but fuck it, it'll totally be worth it. Who's gonna say anything anyway? The kids?

I shake my head at the thought of the band of mini me's we've brought along with us. Monroe, Matheson, and Neville version 2.0. At least Connor seems to grasp the family feud between the Monroes and the Nevilles. Christ, it sounds so Hatfields and McCoys. Anyway, if the last two years have taught me anything, it's that you never EVER trust a Neville. Ever. Seriously, not fucking ever. Though apparently the distinction between Neville senior and junior has remained just as discreet in Charlie's mind as the line between me and my kid has been blurred. Wonder what Nipples, Miles always did have a way with the dickish nicknames, would think if he knew that the delicate princess he keeps making doe eyes at had begged me to pound her up against a tree a few days ago when she was all tuned up over knocking his lights out? Maybe I'll find some time when I can "accidentally" let that little fact slip in front of him when no one else is around. That little punk has caused me enough trouble over the past couple years, it'd feel damn good to put him in his place.

Speaking of the fruit of our collective loins, where the fuck are the kids? I saw Connor with Miles when the Rangers led them off to discuss things. There weren't any weapons drawn and Miles didn't fight back, so I'm pretty sure that they're off to give him a goddamn medal or something and not strap him into Old Sparky. Seems like that's the special kind of thank you Texas reserves just for me. He couldn't have just waited a few seconds more before shooting that kid? It's not like I blame Carver for my execution and I'm holding a grudge about it or anything, it's just that I blame him and I'm holding a pretty wicked grudge about it. Yeah, I'm a vindictive prick. This isn't really news to anyone.

So my interest in why the fuck Charlie isn't here may extend a little beyond worrying after her well-being at the moment. I've been aching to get her riled up and alone ever since we interrupted all fifty shades of fuckery Blanchard was partaking in last night. I'm alternating between becoming concerned that I may be at the wrong rendezvous sight and aimlessly imaging Charlie's ankles back behind my ears when I hear someone stumbling toward me.

I barely pull up on a swipe I was about to make with my sword in her direction and realize that Charlie's lucky I didn't slash first and try to identify the intruder from the corpse later. Why the hell was she stomping around toward our hiding spot and sounding so generally un-Charlie-like? Then I register her face. She's crying, and the waterworks have been going on for a while if the red rim to her eyes and the puffiness of her lids are any indication. Then I notice the blood drenching her shirt.

"What the fuck, Charlotte?" I start yanking at her shirt to get a better look at whatever wound lies beneath. I realize that something's gone horribly wrong when she doesn't fight me or come up with a quip about my eagerness to undress her. I also rather quickly realize that there's no wound. The blood's not hers. But who… Where's Nipples?

"Charlie, where's Jason?" I ask, my voice unable to hide the concern. The concern is more for her than it could ever be for Neville's boy. There's no real love-loss between the two of us, but I know that he and Charlie had a thing.

"He was… what did Miles call it? Activated? He wasn't himself… He just kept coming after me. He wouldn't stop. I stabbed him in the leg but it didn't even phase him. I got hold of his rifle that he was going to use on Carver. I told him to stop, tried to get him to remember who I was… who he was… But he had the knife and he kept coming." Her voice becomes more and more broken as she tries to get the story out.

When she collapses against me, my arms reflexively reach out and encircle her, and this seems to be what she's looking for. She's holding onto me for dear life and sobbing her poor little heart out.

"I shot him. I had to." She sniffles out between body wracking sobs. "He was my… I cared about him… and now I killed him."

My grip around her tightens and I bury my face in the hair at the top of her head. I don't know if I can do this. I know all too well what it feels like to have your first real love bleed to death in your arms because of a bullet that's all your fault. I didn't exactly handle that well. Emma's death basically destroyed me. I didn't think that anything could hurt worse than that. How is it actually more painful to watch someone else go through the exact same trauma?

"It's not your fault. You didn't have a choice." I mumble it into her hair, knowing that it's not going to ease her pain even the slightest bit. I feel wholly inadequate and I'm sure that in this moment she would rather have anyone else besides me here to comfort her.

"Why does everyone around me die?" She simpers against my chest. The words cut like a knife straight through to my heart, because those words are mine. We've lived too much of the same tragedy. Parents and younger siblings ripped away unexpectedly, watched our friends die in front of us, held our first childhood loves as they died because we got them killed. We've lived the same death and pain riddled life. It's no wonder she's turned out so much like me in these past few months. It would probably bring us together if so many of her losses weren't my goddamn fault. Instead we've ended up randomly fucking and now grieving together or whatever kind of messed up Shakespearean tragedy type shit this is turning out to be.

I want to stop her pain, to tell her something that will make her feel better, but I know from experience that no such words exist. So I settle for the one thing no one ever told me. The truth. "Everyone knows that this wasn't what you wanted, but that's not going to make you feel better. Nothing is. You're never gonna not feel guilty and it's always gonna hurt. Anyone tries telling you that it will get better with time or that the pain will go away, they're full of shit."

Maybe it actually was the right thing to say, to acknowledge the pain instead of trying to give her false hope, because she seems to quiet and still in my arms. I'm expecting her to pull away from me at any moment, and I'm a little disturbed to find that I'm dreading the separation. The idea of her looking to me for something besides physical or sexual brutality has stirred some emotions that I don't want to classify but know have been otherwise dormant for longer than I can remember.

Instead of her recoiling, I feel her sinking into me and my arms more and more. Sensing the physical collapse that's about to accompany the emotional one, I guide us both down until we're sitting on the grass and clover studded ground. It's a testament to her level of mental trauma that she has positioned herself mostly in my lap to stay firmly rooted in my arms as we sit together. I'm honestly scared that this may be the thing that breaks her, and I don't want to have to see that. I guess I've realized for a while now that we've kind of become the same person. Following Miles Matheson down the rabbit hole seems to have a rather repeatable outcome on one's psyche, if the two of us are any indication. But somehow she's managed to stay… I don't even know how to describe it. She fixes people, gives you a reason to be better. It's like you just kind of have to when she's around. It's not something a lot of people have left in them these days. Watching that spark in her snuff out feels like watching a poacher take out the last of an endangered species. She doesn't make it out of this ok, and the world is going to be a slightly darker place for it.

Her breathing is becoming more metered and she seems to be gaining some kind of control of herself. "How am I supposed to keep going?" Her voice is so small and unlike anything I'm used to hearing from her.

I trace a hand through her hair as I give her the best answer I can, though I leave out the parts about pillaging neighboring camps, attempting to burn everyone in your home town alive, shooting your only friend, and all the other things I know from experience don't actually help the situation. "When the time comes, you shove it down into that place where you hide all the other horrible shit you've done to survive that will cripple you if you think about it. You never forget, but you push it out of your mind just long enough to do whatever you gotta do."

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, and her tear rimmed eyes look impossibly blue and equally lost.

"But now's not that time." I whisper reassuringly and pull her cheek back against my chest. "Now you need to grieve. So you go ahead and cry or be mad or whatever you feel like. I'm here and I've got your back." And because the world I thought I knew has gone all upside down and backwards in the last year, my reassurance and promise of support actually seems to bring Charlotte Matheson some kind of comfort.

She snuggles more deeply against me and rests her cheek on my shoulder, warm wet breath grazing over the crook of my neck as I keep my arms tightly around her and subconsciously listen for any sounds of intruders approaching our hiding spot. We sit that way for a while before she shifts slightly and I register the feeling of her lips on my neck. It's not an unpleasant sensation in the slightest, but it is unexpected.

Before I can fully get out a sentence, "Charlotte, what are you…"she's moved to straddle my waist.

"I want to forget." She whimpers between trailing kisses along my neck towards my jaw. "All I can see when I close my eyes is his face when it happened. Even if it's just for a few minutes, I need to forget it." Her lips are now hovering a fraction of an inch from mine. She looks pleadingly into my eyes and begs, "Please Bass."

I lean forward just a bit and kiss her, because in this situation it's not like I can really deny her anything. As soon as our lips collide she's shoving her tongue into my mouth. She's desperate for a distraction and it shows. Her movements are frantic and she's trying to escalate everything with an unnatural immediacy. It's not really working for either of us. I put my hands on her hips and push back slightly.

I know what she wants, and while I don't want to deny her this, I don't really have much of a choice at the moment. There is nothing about this situation that's doing anything for me in the kind of way that needs to happen to be able to give her what she wants.

"Don't stop." She almost whines.

"Charlotte, you need to slow down."

"But I need this now." She's begging.

"I know, and I want to help you... it's just… sad and desperate aren't exactly doing it for me." I flash a glance southward and she seems to understand the problem.

She nods and leans back from me slightly. Then she takes my right hand from her hip and guides it inside her partially unzipped leather jacket, positioning it over her breast. She leans into my palm and rubs her hand over the back of mine, encouraging me to massage her there. As I do, the feeling of her nipple hardening at my touch is evident through her threadbare clothes. Once she seems convinced that I'll keep working her on my own, she removes her hand and slides it down between us along my stomach and then further down along the front of my jeans. She's holding eye contact with me and her tongue darts out to moisten her parched lips as she runs her hand firmly along my crotch. Thankfully, my dick begins to stir and I lean in to kiss her. This time I'm setting the pace, and she seems willing to accept that.

The kiss is calm, but not delicate. The last thing she needs right now is for me to be walking on eggshells around her. I work her mouth over thoroughly, giving my body the time it needs to catch up. I groan into her mouth as she unzips my pants and frees my semi-rigid cock. She rubs the heel of her palm roughly up along it, then grasps me in her fingers and begins stroking until I'm fully aroused.

Now that my dick's gotten on the same page as the rest of us, I push into her, leaning her back on the ground, and hover over her using my elbows for support. I give her breast a firm squeeze before removing my hand to work on dispatching her belt and unfastening her pants. We've both managed to get our pants down around our boots, and I nudge her thighs apart with my knee. I break our kiss and start trailing my lips along her jaw, across her neck, and then down her still shirt covered sternum. She's apparently figured out where my mouth's intended final destination is, and before I get any further south she grips my shoulder.

I look up to meet her eyes and she murmurs, "Can we just… I'm not ready for you to let go of me yet."

Can't say I've ever had a woman ask me not to go down on her before, but since this is about her, not my ego, I oblige. I'm back on top of her and wrap my arms around her again. She seems to settle and relax now that she's back in a protective embrace.

"Better?" I whisper into her ear as I kiss next to it.

"Yeah. Thanks." She sounds a bit embarrassed by the admission.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about. You need what you need right now."

"I need you in me."

Which isn't a bad idea, because all this sentimental shit is starting to deflate my erection a bit. With all my weight now pinning her beneath me, I trace one hand down along her side then take myself in hand. I give my dick a few quick strokes to remind it what we're here for. Then I slowly feed the tip between her folds. Despite all her assertions that this is what she wants, her body's not nearly as ready for this as last time. It's not exactly the Sahara down there, but it's not going to be comfortable for either of us if I try to force the issue right now. She gives a little whimper as I remove the head of my penis from her entrance.

My voice is firm but gentle as I tell her, "Charlotte, for this to work, you're gonna need to relax."

"I don't think I can."

"Can you try to trust me even a little?"

Hesitantly, she nods and buries her face against my neck. Shit. None of this can be easy on her.

I start sucking on her earlobe as I slide my middle finger up into her. There's a lot of friction, but she's making a decent effort at relaxing, so I doubt I'll hurt her. She thrusts slightly against my hand and I begin slowly withdrawing and replacing my finger inside her. After a few passes, I curl my knuckles and grind over a spot that elicits a groan from her and tightens her grip around my shoulders. She's become noticeably more pliant and wet for me, so I add another digit and continue working her. She's almost at the point where I'm comfortable taking her the way she wants, when she suddenly goes rigid underneath me.

"Hey Charlotte, stay with me." I'll never know what set her off, but I know she's picturing the Neville boy's eyes going dull and lifeless in front of her.

She opens her eyes and stares up at me, equal parts horrified from the memory and ashamed to have been caught thinking about someone else while I've got half my hand inside her. I'm not as insulted by it as she's afraid I will be. I still remember the first few girls Jeremy lined up for me after I recovered from the bullet wound. It had to be "girls", plural, because it was a while before I could go long enough without thinking about Emma to get through the act without spacing out, and let's just say that there were some occupational hazards involved in servicing the president of the Monroe Republic if you were the type of girl that felt the need to make unnecessary comments. Another thing on the list of unsuccessful coping mechanisms that I will not be recommending for Charlie. Though seeking me out like this isn't really any less self-destructive.

"Try keeping your eyes open." I prop back up on my elbow over her again and point toward my eyes. "Just look here."

She just nods, but does as I've suggested. I'm sure she was hoping to get through this encounter without having to truly acknowledge that it's me she's come running to for help, but there really isn't any other way this is gonna work.

It's basically now or never, so I pull my fingers out of her and use the hand to guide myself into her. I go slow, drawing out the initial penetration, because she's keening and arching against me in a way that I know means that the Neville boy's dead stare is not what's at the forefront of her mind. Now all I have to do is keep it that way. I wrap my arms around her, one hand resting between her shoulder blades and one tangling in the hair at the base of her neck as I start moving in and out of her. She needs a minute for her body to relax around me a bit before I can try anything athletic, so I kiss her hard to keep her mind occupied while my thrusting remains slow and measured.

I break the kiss to catch my breath and realize that her eyes are closed again and her breathing is becoming quicker and shallower. I know where her mind is going.

"Hey, Charlie. Tell me what you want." Yeah, I know this isn't the time for dirty talk, but it gets her to look at me and derails whatever train of thought she'd been on.

"What do you mean?" She looks confused.

"Sex, Charlie. How do you want it? Fast, slow, rough, different position?" Seriously? She's never had a guy ask her how she likes it before? Not to speak ill of the dead, but god damn. Amateur. Though that also means I'm gonna need to have a fatherly chat with Connor at some point. Guess some things aren't automatically inherited.

The question seems to have at least temporarily distracted her from thoughts of her dead ex. "I don't know." She stammers, her attention now focused on the action between her legs. "Just don't let go of me."

Fuck. I'm balls deep in this girl and she's breaking my heart. That's not supposed to happen. Needless to say, I wrap my arms around her again. I give it to her just about as rough as the last time, which seems a little out of place for our current predicament, but I'm afraid if there's not enough physicality in the act to jar her out of her head space, she's gonna lose it.

We go at it for a while, all biting kisses, scratching nails, and aggressive pelvic thrusting, and I can't help but compare the two experiences I've had with Charlotte. On paper they'd be nearly identical, banging one out hard and fast to make ourselves forget about some emotional shit we'd rather not deal with. But it's not the same. Not in the slightest.

Last time was… But this time is… Fuck it. It's not worth trying to find the words to describe the difference. It's just different. For all the heroic attempts we're making to push away the unwanted emotions, a whole different set seem to have crept in. At least for me. I give a shit. Like, I legitimately care about what she's going through. If this is the only comfort I can provide her, then fuck it all, I'm giving it everything I got. I don't think I've ever put this much thought or effort into sex before. It's exhausting.

The pace I've set is not meant for endurance, the difference between the hundred meter dash and a half marathon. I'm running on fumes at this point and I don't think she's even close, but I'm determined.

"C'mon Charlotte. Give it to me." I growl in her ear as I thrust a bit more forcefully and purposefully a few times.

She grunts with each snap of my hips and blabbers out, "That. Just keep… Don't stop."

She's going to kill me at this rate, but of course I keep it up. I stop thinking and just keep hammering into her. The little groans she's making have just reached a crescendo when I realize that I've finally hit my stride and dissociated enough from this fucked up situation that I'm about to come.

"It's now or never Charlotte." I moan as I'm about to pull out of her.

"Just… a… little... more…" She pleads between thrusts.

"Your call." It comes out as a groan as I try to hold out as long as I can.

"Stay. I need…"

She can't even finish her sentence before my balls override my brain and I begin to spill into her. Though, by some kind of miracle, that happens to be enough to push her over the edge as well, and I forcibly occupy her mouth with my tongue as we climax together.

I collapse on top of her in a manner that is probably very pathetic and unbecoming, but fuck it. My work here is done and I need a goddamn nap.

The death grip her arms have had around my shoulders for the last twenty minutes finally relaxes and I hope that she's able to just pass out the way I want to. The only times I remember finding solace when I was in the place she's in now was after exerting myself to the point of exhaustion and letting sleep claim me. Though even that only lasts until the nightmares start.

I'm starting to think that she has actually succumbed to unconsciousness, when she quietly mumbles, "Thanks Bass."

And just like that, all the weird emotions and clawing at my own incompletely healed wounds this encounter has forced have suddenly become worth it. "Any time." I mutter stupidly and plant a soft kiss on her neck near where my face has unceremoniously landed. I meant what I'd said when I'd offered her free use of my body to work off her emotional turmoil a few days ago. I hadn't really expected this, but I am a man of my word.

Instead of the shove I'm expecting to indicate that she wants my dead weight off her petit frame, she actually snuggles against me as if she's making herself comfortable. That's it. I'm done. I don't care that we're still in a significant state of undress and that my mostly-limp dick is still just barely inside her. I'm passing out right here. If this is the position we're in when Miles and Connor show up, so fucking be it.

That's when I hear the only sound that has any chance of spurring me into motion. It's the creak of a loaded down wagon, a half dozen or so pairs of standard issue boots tromping along the ground, and a pair of draft horses' hooves. It's a Patriot recon party. They're about two hundred yards out, by the sound of it. A single glance tells me that she' heard it too.

No words are needed. We both instantly and silently redress and collect our weapons. She's crouched behind the bushes that will hide us from view until they're nearly on top of us, perfect location for an ambush. She pushes up the sleeves of her jacket, still stained with the blood of her dead former boyfriend, in anticipation of the fight that's about to happen. It doesn't need to. We're well enough hidden that we could let them just go past. Except, despite starting out so immeasurably differently, we've somehow ended up at the same place. And I know what I would do. What I did. The only emotion that wins out over grief is revenge.

I see her looking down at the marred skin on her right wrist. When she looks up our eyes meet and I may as well be looking into a mirror that goes back in time. I don't have to ask her what she wants to do or what her plan is. I know because it's mine.

"No survivors." She whispers just to prove my point.

I nod, though we both know that was the plan all along. As we brace to jump into the fight we're about to start, I steal another glance at the mark on her wrist. And to think that I was worried what her reaction would be to finding out that I was thinking of rebuilding the Republic. After what these Patriots have done to her now, she won't be fighting me over it. She'll god damn rule it with me.

With that thought, we dive into battle together.