"Wise men at their end know dark is right."—Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"
A/N: Well, I had some inspiration, since it's Miles Matheson Appreciation Week. Oh, and in my canon Miles will always have tattoos, so suck on it Rev writers! ;) I feel very passionately about this topic.
This chapter is dedicated to Valantha, wandertogondor, and simbagirl for being exceptionally lovely readers! Your reviews have filled me with a love normally reserved for Miles and Bass. xo
The Past
Ben is driving his girlfriend, Rachel, through his hometown toward the house where he grew up that will soon belong to a stranger. It somehow feels shabby, provincial. Rachel is a city girl: born, raised, and schooled in Chicago. Ben pulls up to the familiar driveway and can just make out the top of Miles's Marine haircut (which Ben always thinks makes him look like a hopeless meathead) above the railing of the front porch. Ben grabs Rachel's hand as they approach. He's feeling surprisingly emotional about the prospect of seeing Miles again (wounded Miles) and of parting with the home where his mother died. He vaguely wonders if Miles will be like Pop now that he's been to war - callous, pissy, and disturbingly invested in a religion he doesn't understand. Miles has always been somehow both simple and hard to predict. It's a disconcerting combination for Ben.
Now Ben can tell what Miles is doing on the porch – scraping paint. His knee is in an air cast and splayed out to the side, while he perches precariously on the other knee. Miles is wearing a white t-shirt with short enough sleeves that his tattoos are just peeping out. Ben notices that Rachel's eyes drift straight to the black ink on the lean, chiseled arms. Ben squeezes Rachel's hand a bit tighter.
Rachel jokes, "Ben. You didn't tell me that your little brother is hot."
Ben smiles, but he feels instantly jealous. It's nonsensical, he knows. Miles isn't Rachel's type. She likes brainy, nerdy guys, not tattooed Marines who had trouble passing algebra. She also doesn't care for people who kill for a living. Ben wonders how many people Miles has killed so far.
Rachel observes Ben for a moment and senses his insecurity. "Don't worry, Ben. He's a jarhead. Soldiers, even if they were smart to begin with, get reprogrammed to be mindless drones. I'm not interested."
It's a little cruel to hear her say aloud what Ben has thought many times to himself, so he dives in to defend his little brother. "Miles is smart. I mean not book smart, and he certainly doesn't think he's intelligent, but he is. He one of the more creative problem solvers I've met. You'd be surprised."
"Well maybe you should have told him that before he went and wasted himself on the Marines," Rachel suggests rather harshly.
Ben tries not to take it personally and smiles blandly. "Nobody could have changed his mind. He didn't even tell anyone until it was done...except Bass."
"His best friend, right?"
"You might say that. Or his real brother," Ben sighs. He waves off Rachel's glance of concern, as they approach Miles, still hard at work.
Miles has sensed them, but he doesn't know how he's going to cope with this particular reunion. His stomach feels sour.
"Miles! Should you really be doing that?" Ben exclaims as he approaches. They can tell now that Miles is attempting to spruce up the rickety porch for sale.
Miles finally looks up at the intruders and uses the railing to heft his body to standing. He limps over.
"Hey," Miles half smiles, holding out his hand, but Ben pulls him into a hug. Ben hates that their father always taught them that real men don't hug. Brothers should hug. Miles allows himself to be pulled in, but he's not squeezing as enthusiastically as Ben.
Miles takes a step back and squints at Rachel in the sun.
Ben says proudly, "And this is Rachel."
Miles puts out his hand again, but Rachel also pulls him in for an embrace, saying, "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."
Rachel's breasts squish against Miles's chest - the first contact he's had with a woman since Emma. Rachel doesn't wear a scent, doesn't smell like soap. She smells like woman. Miles can't explain it, but everything in his world suddenly smalls to one goal: trying to discern what it is she smells like. He's disappointed when she pulls back, and he hasn't identified the scent.
Rachel glances down at Miles's lower half presumably to catch a glimpse of the wounds, but Miles can't help but wonder if she's glancing to the pants. He sure as hell is checking her out. She's gorgeous – long legs, blond wavy hair. Not at all what Miles expected to see on his brother's girlfriend. He was expecting mousy brown locks and big, ugly glasses.
Miles tries to snap himself out of ogling her. It takes him a moment to mentally refocus his blood from pooling in his nethers. A raging boner is never a good first impression.
"Well. You hungry?" Rachel asks Miles. She has a vague smirk on her face, and Miles hopes his dick hasn't betrayed him.
After Miles registers her words, he cocks his head at her like she's from outer space. "Um."
"Ben and I can make you some dinner."
"Not Ben, I hope."
"Hey, little brother. I've been learning a thing or two about cooking. You wait and see," Ben says cheerfully.
"Just as long as it doesn't involve lettuce," Miles replies.
"Why not lettuce?" Rachel asks curiously.
"I'll explain inside," Ben returns, allowing contentment to settle into his limbs. This is going better than predicted. Maybe he and Miles can finally have a relationship.
Ben's hopes for a real brotherhood are nearly dashed by the end of dinner. Miles has said virtually nothing and stared down at his plate for the better part of thirty minutes, mumbling only "S'good. Thanks." Of course, then he insists on eating like a Marine: at top speed, as if competing with a squirrel for table scraps.
"I'll clear up," Miles quickly offers and leaps to his feet, gathering dishes.
Ben excuses himself to take a shower, and Rachel wanders in search of Miles - a rare and studiable creature. If she's honest, she's fascinated by him. She drifts into the kitchen, where Miles is standing at the sink, a cloth tucked into his back pocket.
She extracts the dishrag in a risky maneuver, and Miles tenses but then goes back to washing. She removes the plate from his hand to dry it.
"You don't speak unless you're spoken to, huh?"
Miles shrugs. "Don't see the point in talking if I don't have something to say."
"So...how are you doing with the idea of selling the house? Your dad did kind of dump this on you boys."
Miles shrugs again, and she's afraid that's all she'll get out of him until he says something worse: "It's fine. He sacrificed a lot to raise us. We can do this for him."
"You know, you don't have to make excuses for him." She's irritated now on behalf of Ben.
"Make excuses for who?"
"Your dad. He did kind of abandon you after making you join the army."
"The Marines. And Pop didn't make me; I wanted to enlist."
"See, you think that, but Service families - they get brainwashed. Ben was lucky to escape it."
Miles stops washing and looks at Rachel incredulously. "Really? I just met you, and you're making judgments about my family?"
"I didn't just meet Ben, Miles. We're serious. I consider you part of my family."
"Well I don't consider you part of mine, Rachel." He snarls her name. His temper has been flipped on, and he has a brief fantasy about grabbing Rachel by the shoulders and shaking her. (And then violently thrusting her up against the counter and fucking her.) He's really disturbed by his attraction to this woman, who isn't even nice to him. He's also a little concerned that he's evolved into a mental rapist.
Rachel puts up her hands as if to say, Fine. I pushed too hard. But you're not off the hook.
Ben comes back in and glances from face to face. The tension hangs thick, and he is a peacemaker by nature, at least when his father's not around.
"Everything ok?" Ben prompts.
Rachel says, "Everything's fine. Just finishing up the dishes."
Miles tosses his sponge and stalks away. The phone rings. It's Bass.
"Hey, man. I saw Ben drive through town. What's his girlfriend like?"
"She's kind of a bitch, really. But...hot."
"Uh oh. That sounds like a dangerous combination." Bass pauses to process Miles's tone. Miles sounds unsettlingly pensive, and Bass suspects there is a lot more wrapped up in the girlfriend then 'hot' and 'bitch' have managed to convey. "Well, buddy, bring 'em both by tomorrow evening - 6 o'clock - for prime rib. Mom wants to see them, too."
Miles sighs.
"Don't be a wiener, Miles."
"Ok."
"Mom's making your favorite pie."
"I love Gail's pie."
"I know you do, precious nuts. I know. You sound like you've just been handed a 500-question algebra final, so I'm trying to cheer you up. Your brother get to you, again?"
Miles thinks for a long moment.
"Miles is thinking. Miles is feeling," Bass narrates in a monotone. He does this when he talks to Miles on the phone, because Miles is so laconic that invisible conversations are a labor of love on par with giving a woman a hand job.
Miles has trained himself to ignore Bass's badgering. "Um...just feels weird, being here. Seeing him. Ben seems...happy."
"You jealous?" Bass almost laughs at the last comment.
"No, butt munch. Just..."
"Just: you're not happy. You don't know how to be. I love you, man, I really do, but you're a melancholic motherfucker. We'll fix you up tomorrow with some beef and some pies, ok? I'm going to go now before talking on the phone with you saps my will to live. Go upstairs, have yourself a glorious wank, and I'll be over in the morning to help you with the porch."
"One armed?"
"Yes! That's how much I love you."
