Chapter 2: Reunion

- Author's Note: Some dialogue taken from 1.4, 1.10, and 1.17 – written by Anne Cofell Saunders, Monica Owusu-Breen, and Matt Pitts.

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.

Seven years after the Blackout

Rachel approached the barn stated in Miles' letter; she passed several militia privates and strolled into the open barn, a small pack on her back. A private approached her, but took his hand away from his sword at her calmly dismissive look.

"I came." Rachel said into a murky barn, a small secret smile on her face. "Like you asked."

The shadow, which had Miles' broad shoulders, twitched slightly at the sound of her voice and turned around. A stern-faced Miles slowly emerged from the shadows. He studied her face expressionlessly. Rachel began to feel some apprehension; this wasn't the Miles she knew. Perhaps her gambit wouldn't work as easily as she, and Ben, had hoped.

"Miles, you promise me. Just promise I see my kids again." Rachel requested.

Miles' eyes flickered a bit, and he wordlessly commanded a private to cuff her with a nod of his head.

Rachel took off her bag, held out her hands for the private, and scrutinized Miles. He sauntered back into the shadows, never saying a word, nothing at all like the man he once was. The man she once knew intimately.

Rachel stood beside the private - silent, cuffed, plotting - as Miles finished the strategy session or whatever the hell he was doing. When he was finished, he led her and the private over to the militia wagon.

"Bass and I looked for Ben for a very long time. Could have just taken him, but out of respect, I invited him to join me. Didn't ask for you," said Miles. Respect eh? thought Rachel.

"Disappointed?" quipped Rachel, knowing full well she was baiting him, but she couldn't resist.

Miles nodded at the private, dismissing him with a subtle gesture.

Rachel watched the private go out of the corner of her eye, wondering what that meant, but keeping her face impassive she turned to face Miles unswervingly.

Miles inquired, "Can Ben get the lights back on, or can't he?"

Rachel replied frankly, "We both can."

Miles gave her a puzzled look, tilting his head slightly, like a confused border collie.

This exasperated Rachel, so she retorted crisply, sharing more information than she had planned, "Miles, what did you think, that I was just sitting around making him martinis? I was project lead. I know as much about this as Ben does – more."

Rachel looked aside and attempted to quell a trace of remorse as she expanded, "Ben has no… interest in turning the lights back on. I do."

Miles licked his lips contemplatively, clearly wondering where exactly Rachel's interest lay. He asked, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, his eyes unable to maintain contact, "I thought you didn't want to see me again."

That's not exactly what I said, thought Rachel remembering back to the heated incident back when Charlie was a toddler and pushed it aside. Focus on the now. Rachel studied Miles' reaction closely and replied indefinitely, "I've been thinking about a lot of things."

Her eyes strove to meet Miles' searching ones serenely, and after a moment, Miles reached some sort of decision and declared, "Well… we're gonna go get Ben anyway."

Rachel suppressed her urge to make a protest, and clenched her teeth. This was not the Miles she knew, this was General Matheson, the unyielding soldier, the Butcher of Baltimore, and his was the hand that held the red pen, to use an old TA metaphor. If her gambit was going to work, she would have to appear docile, and wait for the right moment.

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Miles ran past secure workrooms and cells, ever wary for more militiamen or signs of Rachel. Miles ran into the next workroom and spotted a trim, blonde, woman kneeling over Strausser's dead body, his own sword stabbed through his heart. He paused a moment to take in the scene. His sister-in-law had killed the scariest psycho he ever met! She'd always been one tough cookie, but this took the cake.

"Rachel?" Miles inquired.

Rachel turned around, bewilderment clear on her face, and asked in return, "Miles?"

Miles looked into Rachel's face, a pleasure he thought he'd never have again, and then quickly scanned her body. He was looking for any signs of recent torture, and relief flooded him as he determined that she appeared unharmed. She looked beautiful; her fine nose was unbroken, her clear skin un-bruised, her trim yet shapely body sound. He rudely squashed the urge to run to her, to hold her, to run his hands along her body searching out scars and signs of mistreatment; he knew it would be unwanted and counter-productive.

Miles watched Rachel slowly stride towards him, stunned with relief. Miles scanned Rachel's powerful blue eyes – so like Charlie's, funny he once thought of Charlie's eyes as Rachel's, but now those pale blue eyes reminded him more of his niece – for signs of psychological torture, signs of accusation, signs of forgiveness.

Rachel slapped him, hard. He licked his lip – tasting for blood – and thought wryly, yep I deserved that. Several times over. He looked back into Rachel's face, about to say something, what, he wasn't sure, maybe a quip about her hitting like a girl, maybe a plea for forgiveness, maybe an inquiry about the past four years.

But then, a door opened, and Captain Baker entered the room with a trio of militiamen. Any thought of conversation was instantly erased from Miles' mind as he heard Jeremy jibe, "Miles, you're like a bad penny, man."

Miles placed his hand on Rachel's back and pushed her behind him, down the corridor, sounds of gunfire goading him onward.

Miles led Rachel through corridors heading for the east side of the plant. Surely Aaron had used his enormous squishy frontal lobes to deduce that all hell had broken loose, and blown the east gate sky-high.

His mind was firmly fixed on getting Rachel out of this obsolete power plant and back to her kids, he needed to fulfill the promise Rachel asked of him all those years ago. The promise he tried to tell himself a thousand times he hadn't actually agreed to.

He did not even dare to hope that Rachel would ever begin to forgive him for all the things that had happened to her when she was nominally in his custody – what he had done to her. He could not even imagine what had happened to her after he had left – four years alone with a deranged Bass, without him to ease Bass' actions. She would never forgive him. Period.

Miles' thoughts of forgiveness were rudely interrupted by the sudden, but inevitable, appearance of Bass with a trio of militiamen. Fuck. The shitstorm he was so hoping he'd been hoping to avoid.

Miles told Rachel to run and ignored her request for him to just come with her, communicated in the way she said his name.

Miles said, "I'll hold them off. Go get your kids."

Staring into Bass's eyes once more, the first thing Miles thought of was: they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. What is the road to redemption paved with? Certainly not empty bottles of whiskey. I'd tried that way for four years.

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)