*Be warned: I might still edit this some more. I just really feel like there's a lot I need to fix, but then, I always feel that way. Enjoy!*

~Chapter Ten: A Most Unpleasant Exchange~

BASS

Four days. Four whole days of silence. Sebastian Monroe is familiar with the fear people display while in his presence; he even tolerated the timidity of the high-ranking people back in the Republic who knew and respected him, and rightfully so. Everyone was frightened of him, terrified, even. But he always had someone to talk to when necessary. He was never really alone, and that proved to be a major comfort. This, however – having to sit, isolated, on the outskirts of the Matheson camp, with not a soul to talk to – is a different story. In fact, it's pure torture. He's purposefully being excluded, shunned, ignored. No one will speak to him or even acknowledge that he's there. He's a ghost, an unwelcome outsider who will not be permitted to enter…apparently ever.

Miles is the only one who ventures within ten feet of him, but that's usually only to check up on how he's faring; does he have enough food? Does he look suspicious or does he have some mischief in mind that might potentially harm the group? The questions probably go on and on. Miles is nothing if not thorough.

Then there's Rachel. Bass wrongly assumed she would break within a few hours. Sure, she's had her badass moments in the past (impressive moments, but not very frequent). However, in his opinion, this woman will always be more weak than not. At first, he was almost totally positive that she would allow him back into their good graces. But yet again, Monroe guessed wrong. Not to mention that Aaron Pittman, the fat lump, hasn't even glanced his way the entire time he's been here, so there's clearly no hope on that front.

And, to top it all off, they've been keeping Charlie permanently out of his sight.

Six hours after leaving the secluded first aid station, the small group finally reached the camp. Miles immediately tugged him away, past a gaping Aaron, the three pitched tents, the campfire, a mini-armory, and to the very corner of their impressive set-up. His dearest friend tied him against the trunk of a thick oak tree, tested the ropes, and then left him there without a single word, or even that promised "discussion" the two of them were so looking forward to. Tight-lipped, Miles turned his back on the tree and its prisoner, and returned to the wagon to help unload all their newfound supplies.

Rachel escorted Charlie into the tent on the complete opposite end of the camp, presumably to tend to her injuries, and since then Monroe hasn't seen even a quick glimpse of her. They must be questioning her relentlessly, he thinks tiredly. Little do they know, all they have to do is come to him, and he will give them anything their little hearts' desire. Just leave Charlie alone.

Much to his embarrassment, Bass is starved for attention (if only someone would just look at him instead of through him), and also for the freedom to move, for food that isn't just lukewarm, for a nice, soft bed, and most importantly of all, for Charlie Matheson. When he dozes (which takes up about fifty percent of his day, considering there's obviously not much else going on) his mind latches onto Charlie. Her golden hair, the way her blue eyes tend to fixate on something that she either finds interesting or threatening, her quick, spontaneous laugh, her sarcastic manner, the taste of her skin, the perfect fit of her body tucked into his … Monroe could go on and on, and some days (though not often) he allows it. The image – no, the mere thought – of his Charlie pushes him forward, into the next unending day, and the next, and the next.

I need to touch her, he thinks ravenously, scanning the widespread camp with near frantic eyes. Just one touch, and my desire for her will be satiated. Temporarily, of course. With a groan meant to express his suffering, Monroe lets his head thunk back against the trunk of the oak tree. He stares blankly up at the sky, daring to hope for a miracle. Or even just a sharp stick to break through these fucking, impossible-to-break ropes. Seriously, where did Miles find these things, "Inescapable Tools R Us?"

"Sucks, doesn't it?" The voice comes from behind him, and the general sighs, trying to seem annoyed by this unwanted interruption, although he's actually more than happy to play along with whatever Miles has in store for him. As long as he's finally let go after all is said and done.

"Oh, you have no idea," Bass replies airily, turning his head slowly to the side. He smirks. "Ah. There you are, Miles. I thought you and the rest of the martyrs had disappeared. Sure looked like it for a while there."

"Careful, Bass. Wouldn't want to hurt your chances of escaping this prison, now would you?"

"You know you like having me around, Miles, don't deny it. I am great company," he adds, flashing a wicked grin.

"Yes, I'm sure many can attest to that," Miles retorts, leaning casually against another tree. He stares down at Monroe with a question in his eyes.

"You have something you want to ask me?" Monroe asks cockily, knowing that he has more than enough answers to satisfy his dear old friend.

"I don't appreciate the taunting tone, though I do have some things I need to figure out."

Monroe raises an eyebrow, as if to say, Go on then.

"Well, for starters, you can't stay here if we set you loose."

There's a beat of silence, and then, "That wasn't a question, Miles."

"No, you're right, it wasn't. I'm wondering where you'll go."

"Not very far, I'm sure."

"Oh, really?" Miles nods, pretending to think this over, and then he crouches down in front of the general, grabbing a handful of blonde hair and yanking his head up none too gently. Monroe's teeth snap together to keep the startled yell in his throat. He hates to admit it, but Miles has taken him completely by surprise. Resorting to scare tactics? That's more his thing. "And why is that?"

"Whatever you believe, Miles, just know this: I won't be leaving Charlie again."

"What makes you think we'll allow you near her?"

"It doesn't matter what you do or don't allow," Bass hisses, the venom inevitably showing in his eyes and voice. He strains against the thick ropes binding him, willing Miles to see just how serious he is; no more fun and games. "Wherever you go, whatever shithole you try to hide away in, I will find a way to see Charlie. You won't keep me from her. I have connections everywhere. You forget, Miles, I once ran seventy-five percent of this country. There is not a place in this world she can go where I will not find her."

Miles's face has turned an ugly shade of red. So he does understand, he thinks smugly. But then he asks the one question Bass isn't prepared for: "And what makes you think she wants to see you, Sebastian?"

The anger instantly ebbs from his eyes, draining away with alarming speed. His face actually pales for a moment or two. The expression he wears turns to one of quiet contemplation. Miles recognizes the look – oh, does he recognize it – and releases his hold on his former friend's hair. After a moment, Bass says simply, "I just know."

And just like that, the fury that infused the conversation mere seconds ago vanishes, evaporating into thin air as if a cosmic vacuum decided to suddenly suck all the bad emotions straight out of the atmosphere. Miles rocks backs on his haunches, exhausted, and examines Monroe with tired eyes. There are shadows rimming them that he's never noticed before.

"How could you do it?" Miles croaks, briefly putting his head in his hands. "How could you pick her?"

Bass tilts his head to the side, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Charlie. Out of all the women in this country, in the whole goddamned world, why did you have to choose Charlie?" Miles's eyes are red-rimmed now, like he's trying to suppress tears. Monroe blinks at him, shocked. "She's my niece, Bass. My niece."

General Sebastian Monroe looks away, understanding completely but really not wanting to. He truly wasn't aware that Miles feels this way; in fact, he hasn't even considered how anyone else will feel if they find out about the two of them. He has desired Charlie from the second he laid eyes on her, consequences be damned.

"For God's sake, Bass!" Miles cries, shooting to his feet. "You're twice her age! How could you possibly think this is a good idea? You're old enough to be her father!"

"Don't you think I know that, Miles?" he shouts, trying to keep the building panic at bay. "Don't you think I've already considered a dozen times over how...inappropriate these feelings are? Jesus Christ, I was fucking girls and doing coke before she was even born." His normally husky voice is growing even more hoarse from all the shouting, and he knows it won't be long until Rachel or – God forbid – Charlie herself wanders over to find out what the hell is going on. "I know I'm not good for her, Miles," he says in a more subdued tone. "Trust me, I know."

"Then why won't you just leave things be?"

There's only one reason for that, and he knows it won't be enough to satisfy Miles: "Because I just can't."

"Great," Miles says with a bitter laugh. "That's a great answer, Monroe. You won't leave her alone because you just can't. Please, spare me."

"It's the truth." At least, the only truth he's willing to share. He can't even try to express the other thing he's feeling; after all, he can't just come out and say he's in – No, no, better not go there, not yet, anyway. It's too soon for that. Let Miles think what he wants, and I'll think what I want, Bass tells himself with finality.

"Sure. Just keep telling yourself that."

"Have I answered all your questions?"

Miles snorts. "For today."

"Well, then, answer one of mine."

"By all means, go ahead," Miles says, waving a careless hand. He looks so distraught that for a split-second Bass hesitates, truly unwilling to add to his troubles. But his desire to see and speak with and touch Charlie again overpowers his already weakened resolve.

"Will you let me go?"