Author's Note:

This ficlet was inspired by a post on Tumblr and it has been previously posted there, so you may have already seen it. This is a missing moment from Monroe's POV, just before and after he rescues Charlie from being gang-raped.

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to these characters. I don't even claim the situation they find themselves in, I just decided to elaborate on it somewhat. Please don't sue. I am broke.

The Second Time

Bass had been tracking Charlie for the better part of the afternoon and evening when he spotted the small village up ahead at a crossroads. He brought the horses to a halt and pulled out the binoculars he'd found with the bounty hunter's gear to get a better look before he approached. The village consisted of a handful of run-down houses and a couple of storefronts; the surrounding countryside was once farmland, dotted here and there with barns, silos, and farm houses that were rotting away from lack of upkeep, slowly being devoured by the overgrown vegetation.

Charlie had walked away from him with just the clothes on her back, no pack, and likely no weapon. She had to stop somewhere for food. There were lights on in the windows of one of the storefronts; a sign outside proclaimed it to be the "Hole in the Wall." She would probably take her chances there. Bass left the horses tethered outside of a nearby pole barn, most of which was still standing, and walked the rest of the way to the village.

He didn't like the looks of the place. It was quiet enough, but something about it made him uneasy. His fingers alternately clenched and unclenched the grip of his machete as he drew closer to the village. The sun had set an hour ago, and he thought he much preferred the noise and chaos of New Vegas to the oppressive darkness and silence of villages like this one.

He chided himself for being foolish. He was tired and hungry, and his patience had run out. He hoped Charlie was in there, and that she would listen to reason this time. However, if she wasn't going to cooperate, he was perfectly willing to knock her out, tie her up and drag her ass back to the cart. He could talk some sense into her on their way back to wherever Miles was.

While he was still some distance from the bar, the sound of glass shattering broke the stillness. Bass stopped in his tracks; even from his current distance he could detect the sounds of a scuffle inside. His unease bloomed into full on panic as he broke into a dead run.

"God damn you, Charlotte, what the hell have you got yourself into now?" he growled to himself. When he reached the front of the building he noticed that the scuffling sounds had ceased and felt a moment's relief, thinking perhaps the noise had simply been a brief disagreement between some of the patrons. He paused at the broken window to assess the situation. Charlie was inside, backed up against a wall, looking dazed as she swayed on her feet. She was surrounded by four men who were inching toward her warily, their intent clear.

General Sebastian Monroe saw red as he kicked in the front door.

"Charlotte? Wake up, Charlotte. You need to wake up!"

Bass kneeled down beside the girl and grasped her shoulders to shake her gently. Charlie's head lolled back, and she offered no resistance. She appeared to be unconscious. Bass released her shoulders and reached for her wrist, intending to check her pulse. Instead, he froze as his fingers traced across raised lines on the underside of her forearm. Slowly he turned her wrist so that the palm of her hand faced upward.

"Aw, fuck," he swore softly as he gazed at the shiny, pink scar that marred her skin, an M inscribed inside of three-quarters of a circle. Somehow, somewhere she'd been branded with the mark of his militia. As if she needed another reason to hate him. As if he needed another reason to hate himself.

He shook his head and shifted his fingers to the pulse point at her wrist instead. There would be time for self-recrimination later, after he'd finished rescuing her. Her pulse was slower than normal, but steady, and she seemed to be breathing okay. He couldn't see any signs of injury. The bastards must have drugged her.

"Come on, Charlotte, wake up. Wake up, Charlotte!" he demanded, slapping her face lightly.

Charlie moaned and opened her eyes briefly, but did not rouse any further. Bass didn't have time to wait her to regain consciousness. They needed to leave before someone else came along and noticed a half dozen dead bodies in the joint. To buy some time, he closed the front door and blocked it with a table. Next, he retrieved his machetes and wiped the blood away before he sheathed them. A cursory search of the bodies revealed an assortment of knives, a couple of flasks and a dozen or so small diamonds. Bass pocketed the stones and the flasks. Only one of the knives was worth keeping, which he tucked into his boot. Finally, he kicked open the rear exit before returning to Charlie. Crouching beside her, he lifted her into his arms and cradled her close to his chest as he stood to keep her head from flopping back like a ragdoll's. Her vulnerability left him unsettled; he'd never seen her so helpless. not even with a gun in her face, or when she was tied up in an empty swimming pool with her worst enemy. She should be awake and on her feet, her frosty blue eyes glaring defiantly at him.

Bass carried her to the door he had kicked open and peered outside. The quiet was absolute, and he suspected he may have just killed half of the population of this godforsaken little village. All the same, they needed to get away quickly and quietly, and he didn't want to be caught unable to draw his weapon. Bass released his hold on Charlie's legs and braced her up against the doorframe. Then he bent his shoulder to her waist and hoisted her into a fireman's carry that would leave one arm free for his sword, should he need it. Her weight threw him off balance enough that he stumbled momentarily. He shifted her into a better position and chuckled softly.

"You know Charlotte," he said, smiling faintly at the thought of the sharp retort she was currently unable to give, "you're heavier than you look." As he wrapped his left arm securely around the backs of her thighs, he knew why. They were corded with long, lean muscle that spoke of regular physical exertion.

Bass glanced one last time around the shabby bar to take stock. He'd killed six men for her, two of which she'd managed to incapacitate on her own before the drugs the cowards had given her overcame her. As he carried her away into the night, he realized he was strangely proud of her.

It was too bad he couldn't tell her that.