Chapter 10: Solo

- Author's Note: Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up, RL has been hectic. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and favoriting. Each notice makes me happy!

Thank you also to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

Some dialogue taken from 1.15, written by David Rambo.

Trigger warnings: Allusions to Non-con, Aftermath of Torture

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

Seven-and-a-half years after The Blackout

When Miles learnt what had happened to Rachel during his 3-week absence from Philly, he was pissed. He felt a touch of remorse having nearly killed a corporal to find out her location. But when he opened the broom-closet door and saw an emaciated, withered Rachel and smelled the miasma of a sweet-sour chemically stench on top of the stink of unwashed flesh, everything but an implacable wrath disappeared.

Rachel just stared owlishly at Miles' oil lamp, her lips soundlessly muttering something; she didn't do anything, didn't tense, didn't recognize him. Miles was freaked out by this lethargic and uncharacteristic behavior. How could Bass, no not Bass, how could President Monroe do this to Rachel, to Ben's wife, to his family?

Miles knelt down and put one arm underneath Rachel's bent knees. This triggered some feeble thrashing, which heightened Miles concern. He murmured sweet nothings until her flailing stopped and wrapped his other arm around her back and lifted her out of the closet.

Miles could feel her ribs through their clothes and knew she felt lighter than his 90-pound kit. He didn't even want to guess how much she weighted before – women have this sixth sense and know if you're judging their weight – but it certainly was more than this.

As Miles carried Rachel to his room he flagged down two privates. He told one to fetch some chicken stock – not broth – stock, from the kitchen. He told the other to get President Monroe's fucking ass to his room ASAP.

Miles kicked the door to his room open and settled Rachel on top of the quilt on his large bed. She began squirming again and curled her knees up tight to her chin in a protective ball. Miles knew he and Bass would need to have a little talk…

Miles impatiently waited for the chicken stock and paced between the open door and the bed. He switched between needing to watch Rachel and being furious by seeing such a normally proud, smart, tenacious woman being reduced to that.

The private returned with a large bowl of stock. Miles snatched it out of the woman's hands and placed it on his bedside table. He ordered the private to fetch a cloth he had on his wash station, while he dragged his chair over to the bed. Miles sat down and scooped up a spoonful of stock. He went to put it in Rachel's mouth but her head was tucked into her knees.

"Open up," he ordered, attempting to sound unthreatening but failing. Licking his lips in frustration, he put the spoon and bowl down and went to manhandle her into a suitable position.

The private placed the cloth beside the bowl and said, "Let me."

She stroked Rachel's hair, drawing out her face, and then timidly asked Miles, "Please sir, if you will sir, lightly moisten her lips, sir?"

Miles dribbled a bit of stock onto Rachel's lips. Instinctively, she licked her lips. Success! Rachel opened her mouth like a baby bird, and he began carefully spooning the stock in to it.

The private began to back away and stood by the door waiting to be dismissed. Miles didn't have time for such niceties. His only focus was feeding Rachel.

A bit later, Miles heard the private snap to attention and acknowledge Bass's arrival; Bass dismissed her. Miles studiously continued feeding Rachel.

"You rang?" quipped Bass. Miles spooned a few more spoonfuls of stock into Rachel's waiting mouth, just to piss off Bass, before placing the bowl on his bedside table, and slowly turning around in his chair.

"Bass, how could you do this to Rachel? She's Ben's wife. She's part of my family. We agreed that there would be limits. Especially after…"

Bass pacing, interrupted, "Do you think I wanted this? I thought she'd crack in three days tops. And I never touched her."

Miles snorted at his emphasis, "No, you might not have touched her but you certainly hurt her."

Bass threw his hands into the air and continued, "Anyways, you turned her over to me. Said you didn't want to deal with her anymore, but didn't trust anyone else to do it right."

Miles retorted, "I don't know if she knows anything, but the one thing I do know is, she is willing to die. She isn't afraid of dying. This isn't going to work – you can't torture someone who isn't afraid of death. Just give it up."

Miles paused, then continued softer, "Bass, you can't turn the lights back on, and you can't get Rachel to talk. Just let her go man. Let her go." The last statement came out more pleadingly than Miles had intended.

Bass walked over to Miles and said wonderingly, "You care about her. No. You love her. Man. I know about how you were her rebound from Ben – odd that one – and about the night after you found me in the graveyard, about to do something stupid. But you love her."

Miles shook his head, categorically denying Bass' statement. He said, "No, I don't, she's Ben's wife!"

Bass chuckled and patted Miles on the shoulder, "You can't change what the heart feels. You just can't. When she's recovered, you'll ask her once more about why the power went out?"

Miles snorted, brushing Bass's hand away, "You cannot possibly believe that I'll play good cop to your bad cop? The damage has already been done. Get out of here before I toss you out head first."

Bass just chuckled in an infuriating manner, and left Miles to return to feeding Rachel.

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Rachel was trying to pacify Aaron. He had thought he had seen his wife. The wife he had talked about incessantly with Ben whenever they were in their cups. The wife he had walked out on, 'for her own good.' Ugh! That sentiment had annoyed her a decade ago when she first found out, and it infuriated her now.

Aaron stopped paying attention to her and was staring into a tavern. He sleepwalked to the entrance and said, "Priscilla."

The Asian woman turned around and after a few moments of stunned silence she said, "Oh… Aaron. Hi."

Rachel could tell this wasn't exactly the response he'd been imagining these past few hours, while frantically searching for her. Aaron replied, "Hi. So… just hi."

Rachel turned away, a small smile on her face at the awkwardness of this reunion. Still, it could be worse.

Rachel studied the smoke-stains on the tavern wall intently, trying to and failing at not hearing Aaron and Priscilla's conversation.

"What are you doing here?" Asked Aaron.

Priscilla replied, "I could ask you the same." There was an overly loud thud and Rachel turned her head. The man sitting close beside Priscilla had set his glass down with a touch too much force. Odd.

Priscilla continued, "We, ah, we wanted a change of scenery, so we came out here."

This blatant lie caught Rachel's interest, especially coupled with the man's behavior.

"We?" obliviously asked Aaron.

Priscilla turned slightly and said, "Steve, this is Aaron. Aaron's ah, an old friend."

Rachel glanced at Aaron. He seemed hurt by the introduction.

Priscilla continued, "Steve's my husband."

Rachel could tell Aaron would need a minute to collect himself, and she was intrigued by the by-play between Priscilla and Steve. If she had to bet, she'd bet that Steve was a jealous man, and probably a wife-beater too.

"Hi, uh, I'm Rachel. Priscilla. A friend of Aaron's, he's told me a lot about you." She tried to watch Steve, but he didn't really react to her getting close to Priscilla or talking about her past acquaintance with another man. Maybe he wasn't a wife-beater.

Priscilla forced a smile and then said, "Aaron, it was good seeing you."

Rachel could see desperation in her eyes.

Aaron stuttered out, "Could, could, could we, we just go talk somewhere?"

Priscilla ignored the request and verbally stabbed Aaron in the gut. She only had to say, "Take care of yourself."

Rachel stepped in again. Priscilla dreadfully desired Aaron out of here. Rachel said, "We should go." She led a stunned Aaron away by the arm.

After several steps he shook her off and said, "Will you stop?"

Rachel looked up into his eyes, trying to convey the necessity of leaving non-verbally. It didn't work. She said slowly and firmly, like talking to a toddler, a slow toddler at that, "She's asking you to go. Let's go."

She felt pity for Aaron. He clearly still loved this woman and he felt like she was brushing him off. She felt more pity for Priscilla. She was trapped in a marriage with a man she was afraid of, and she was desperate to get Aaron out of the way. Rachel knew she wouldn't share these thoughts with Aaron, for one she wasn't sure, two Aaron would probably mount up and get injured or killed – and Jane's notebook contained hints that Aaron would be needed once she reached The Tower – and three they really didn't need an extra mouth to feed as they approached the arid center of the Plains Nations.

Later that night, Aaron was still moping about Priscilla, and Rachel needed to turn his one-track mind away from envisioning a 'happily ever after'. Rachel walked up to Aaron, sitting by the fire, she said, "Look. We should leave. Where we're going, she's better off without you."

Aaron took a swig from his hip flask and tartly retorted, "You're right, she's better off with that dick."

Rachel sighed and, using her own experience, said, "I get it. You think that you'll apologize and everything will be okay. It doesn't work like that." Once you've been hurt so profoundly by someone you care for, it takes a lot of work to start to rebuild that trust. Rachel fingered her wedding ring. She thought back to her and Ben, and then later Miles and her. Yep, it takes a lot of work to rebuild that kind of trust.

Aaron turned to her and said; "You don't know her like I do. Something wasn't right. And I'm just… I'm not leaving her again."

Rachel watched Aaron walk away, full of determination. He was right about something probably being wrong, but it wasn't likely to be something he could fix. Battered women have all of these unhealthy mental constructs, not unlike Stockholm syndrome. Rachel considered herself a bit of an expert on Stockholm syndrome after spending years trying to avoid it.

Rachel shook her head and used her mantra to focus her mind on her goal – seeing Bass dead.

…In the morning glad I see / My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

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