AN: Okay, the first half of this chapter includes the promised guitar-playing scene (yay!). The second half comes with a WARNING for Miles/Nora sexytimes. I managed to keep the actual descriptions pretty tame (I think I kept it out of "M" territory, but it's definitely "T+"), but those of you who are visual people or offended by that kind of scene might want to steer clear of everything after the break. ;-)
Also, I've written you this insanely fluffy, happy chapter BECAUSE (*dramatic, slightly sad pause*) I'm going to be taking a two-week hiatus from writing fanfic in order to finish some important RL writing! I thought you'd all appreciate being left on a good note for two weeks rather than the evil cliffhanger I was originally considering. ;-) Wish me luck, and expect the next chapter of "Repair" sometime around Tuesday the 19th (since I can't start writing it till the 15th).
Disclaimer: Still not mine; still writing for reviews in lieu of cash. :-)
Shift
Charlie cracks the door to her room in time to see Miles practically run down the hallway away from her mother's room. She can hardly blame him; she'd felt like bolting from the room the first time she'd seen Rachel again…really, the only reason she hadn't had been that they'd actually been locked in.
Now, she's had several long hours of riding to sort out her own feelings after Rachel had told the story behind the Blackout, and she's decided that it's hard to fault her mother for wanting to protect Danny. After all, Charlie's spent more than half of her own life doing just that.
She steps into the hallway to call to Miles, but before she can, Harold's voice travels up the stairs:
"Matheson? Get down here. I've got something you'll want to see."
Charlie pokes her head back into her room as Miles turns to head down the stairs. "Danny, come on."
Her brother raises his head from a book he'd found on the nightstand. "What?"
She sighs. Danny isn't exactly the most adventurous person in the world. "Just come on."
Reluctantly, he trails after her into the hallway and down the stairs, still holding the book in one hand. Miles', Nora's, and Harold's voices travel up the stairs from the living room.
"Militia executed the owner a week before you deserted. Got turned over to me as salvage, and I kept it for you. Thought it'd make a good present if I ever needed to curry favor with the General." Harold's voice.
Then Nora's, and Charlie can hear her smile: "I think it's working, Harry."
Charlie opts to abandon subtlety and simple runs down the stairs, jumping the last few in a single leap. She slips into the living room behind Nora, craning her neck to look around Nora's shoulder.
Miles is sitting on the edge of one of Harold's oversized sofas, one knee crossed over the other, cradling a dark mahogany guitar. There'd been one guitar in Charlie's village growing up - a old, cracked maple-wood Gibson for which there were never enough strings - and only two people who'd known how to play, one of whom was seventy-five and, in Maggie's words, "couldn't carry a tune in a bucket."
This guitar is a work of art. There's some kind of shiny inlay of twisting vines running up the neck and down over the pick guard below the strings, and the wood is polished to a dark, reflective glow. Miles runs a calloused hand over the smooth surface, closing the fingers of his left hand slowly in a rough "w" pattern on the neck.
"Played it a little to keep it in shape," Harold mumbles as Miles takes a breath, and strokes a thumb over the strings. And this is music as Charlie's never heard it before - an instrument that sings with its owner, rising and falling with the increasing tempo of Miles' fingers on the strings.
There are hitches in the first few chords as Miles retrains his hands like he's trying to get them to remember a foreign language. And then, suddenly, it clicks, and his fingers go flying through chord patterns faster than Charlie can follow, and a second later, he's tapping his foot and thumping out a rhythm on the side of the guitar in between strums. Then he opens his mouth, and here's a surprise: Miles can sing.
His voice comes out lower and much smoother than it is when he speaks, regaining its familiar rough edges a little on the high notes. She doesn't recognize the song, but Harold obviously does, because he joins in on the chorus, and pretty soon, all of them are singing, though Nora, Charlie, and Danny have only picked up half the words, so the next chorus ends up oddly punctuated by their interjections of the words they do know.
Miles flies into the bridge solo, and by that time, the commotion has attracted Aaron from upstairs. He appears and stands beside Charlie and Nora with his mouth hanging wide open as Miles' voice lingers long and clear on the last note of the bridge, then drops into a final, slower chorus. And then Charlie actually jumps as Aaron begins to sing, too - in a rich baritone she can hardly believe is coming from the normally quiet science nerd. Even Miles snaps his head up for a second and grins in appreciation, and Harold nods, picking up the harmony with Aaron for a few notes as the song draws to a close.
Miles' voice falls silent; his fingers pluck out a few final notes that resonate throughout the silence like fireworks, and with one last, cascading strum, Miles rests his hand on the side of the guitar, head bowed over the strings.
Charlie and Aaron wait about half a second and then break out into thunderous applause, in which the others quickly join. Miles raises his head, drawing an arm quickly across his eyes, and rolls his eyes at his assembled audience. "I can't be that good. I haven't played in fifteen years." He rises, keeping hold of the guitar by the neck, crosses to Harold -
- and wraps the older man in a one-armed hug. Charlie blinks, and Nora, next to her, can't seem to close her mouth. With a "thanks" that sounds like it caught in his throat on the way out, Miles claps Harold on the back a couple of times and retreats, free hand rising to rub the back of his own neck like he's a little embarrassed by his display.
Harold just grins, showing both rows of teeth in a way that makes Charlie think of a large, jovial bear. "You're welcome, Matheson." He pauses, then leans in toward Miles and drops into a voice that only Charlie is paying close enough attention to hear. "Good to see those hands can do something besides wield a sword."
Miles pulls back, blinking a couple times like he's trying to clear something from his eyes, and nods almost imperceptibly.
Then the moment is over, and, one by one, after a bit more chuckling and several slaps on the back for Miles that seem to just make him more uncomfortable, they all head back upstairs for some decent rest. Charlie's counted, and this is going to be the first real bed she's slept in in two and a half months, and she throws herself into it in one excited leap.
A few minutes later, as she drifts off, keeping one eye on Danny in the next bed over, she can still hear the music ringing in her head. She falls asleep smiling.
…
Never let it be said that Nora Clayton is not patient. She waits a full ten minutes after Miles flees up the stairs with his guitar to knock on the door of his room.
"Miles?"
When there's no answer, she turns the knob and cracks the door - to an empty room. The fire crackles, reflecting in the polished surface of the guitar, which rests against the wall next to the bed. Miles' jacket is laying across the chair in the middle of the room. But no Miles. Nora sighs and shuts the door with a soft click, proceeding down the hall to the next door. This time, she doesn't knock.
Instead she cracks the door silently, lifting the knob to remove the slight scraping noise of pressure on the doorframe. Miles stands with his back to the door, shoulders slouched, looking down at Bass's unconscious form.
Even back when she'd been temping as a mercenary for the Militia (and a bed-warmer for General Miles), Nora had always avoided Bass as much as possible. He'd creeped her out, first of all - at least Miles had had rules for his violence - and secondly, she'd not been overly enamored of the way he'd toyed with Miles' head. She'd gotten pretty good at reading when the General had been doubting himself or his decisions, or even having a crisis of belief in his own cause, and at each of those moments, infallibly, Bass had been there to push him in the wrong direction.
Looking back, it'd been half the reason Nora had eventually left Miles: Even after he'd deserted and put a thousand miles between himself and Bass, he'd never really been able to let go of the relationship. It had taken him two years after she'd left to make that botched assassination attempt (and for just the tiniest part of a second, when she'd heard about it, she'd wondered if he'd done it for her…then she'd laughed herself out of town, because what kind of schoolgirl crush did she still have if she thought Miles Matheson would try to assassinate his best friend and the President of his own Republic to win her back?). And now, four years later, he'd come face to face with Bass and been unable to pull the trigger, again.
There's a clink of glass against metal as Miles raises a bottle to his lips, scraping it past his sword hilts on the way up.
"You know," she says, pushing the door open and waltzing into the room, "if you're going to be a self-destructive asshole, you could at least do it with company."
Miles doesn't turn, but his head raises just slightly, the muscles in the back of his neck standing out, and Nora grins in satisfaction. He hadn't know she was there.
"I've got company," he mutters, waving the end of the bottle at Bass. Whatever liquor he's drinking - and she's not quite close enough to smell it - is already half gone. Maybe she should have waited five minutes instead of ten.
She steps up behind him, hooking two fingers in the back of his sword belt and pulling, firmly. "I'm better company," she whispers, standing on her tiptoes so her breath ghosts across the side of his neck.
Miles grunts, but allows himself to be led back to his room without a fight. Once there, Nora pries the bottle of - good God, had Harry really left gin in Miles' room? She's going to kill that man… - pries the bottle of gin out of Miles' hands, throws back her head and takes a swig - and it's actually pretty decent, so maybe she won't murder Harry outright - then clunks it down onto the nightstand.
Miles is grinning at her, one eyebrow raised, and Nora realizes his eyes have wandered to where the hem of her tank top has pulled up across her midriff. She leans down into his field of vision - just to catch his eye, and decidedly not because it puts her cleavage on display - and sets her hands on her hips.
"Uh-uh. Bath first, Matheson. You smell like a horse."
Miles rolls his eyes and strips off his shirt - and he's still built like a swordsman - tall and lean, with every muscle made of the same flexible steel as his blades. "You just want a shot at real hot water for once. Beauty queen."
He's half right. Harry's a genius - the real, off-the charts IQ kind - and one of the best parts of her stint here five years ago had been real, running hot water, heated by a wood-burning furnace and delivered via a series of steam-powered pumps. Harry had always lit the furnace for important guests, so assuming they qualify, then -
Miles turns the tap and jumps back with a curse as a rush of steam and water pours out. He waves a scalded hand, scowling.
Nora grins. "Too fancy for you?"
He snorts, still waving his hand. "Yeah. Never did hold with water. Give me a good dirt bath; I'm good to go."
"You look like you've had one of those already." Nora shrugs off her jacket and sits on the edge of the bed to remove her boots. Actually, Miles does look like he's had a dirt bath. There's dust and mortar coated in his hair and dried blood from Bass's leg wound streaked across the leg of his pants. His hands are a mess of small nicks and cuts covered with ground-in dirt, with the exception of the pads of the fingers of his left hand, where the dirt and the first layer of skin have been rubbed off by the guitar strings.
Miles reaches to remove his swords - and he's wearing two sets, one on each hip. One of those must be Bass's, but Nora is smart enough to act like she doesn't notice. Some things with Miles, she's learned to leave alone. He lays the first pair of swords across the arms of the chair that holds his jacket, and props the second set - his set - against the wall next to the tub.
Nora leans back on the heels of her hands to watch him. Oddly, this has always been the most intimate moment of sex with Miles - the fact that he'll disarm himself in front of her. Without those swords, even though he's still wearing pants and combat boots, he might as well be naked.
"So," he says, over the splash and swirl of water filling the tub, "How'd you meet 'Harry'?"
She's not prepared to answer that question. She'd met Harold Eberhardt when the Militia had turned her over to him to work off her sentence for beating the shit out of those soldiers. That had been three days after she'd lost the baby, and she'd been a royal mess.
Harry had seen it right away. He'd kept her going, helped her give her pain purpose - connected her with the rebellion. She'd stayed for a year and a half, making pipe bombs for the rebels in Harry's basement and running the odd reconnaissance mission, before she'd hooked up and left with with a group of rebels looking to raid arms depots and stockpile weapons and ammo to mount a real resistance.
Truth be told, Harry had probably saved her life.
But it's just not the kind of story she and Miles tell each other. So she answers him like he'd answer her: with a shrug and an evasion. "You stay involved with the rebels in this area long enough, you meet Harry."
She stands and brushes past Miles, turning off the water with one hand and testing it with the other. Hot enough to sting. She's out of her pants and tank top in a blink, and slipping into the water with a groan of pure enjoyment. Nora closes her eyes and rests her head against the side of the tub, feeling the steam rise from her skin to dampen her face and hair.
There's a double thud as Miles kicks off his boots, and then Miles' rough legs slide next to hers as he lowers himself into the water. "Shit, that's hot, Nora."
"Gotta boil the dirt off," she says, slipping over next to him and running a hand over his shoulder and bicep. She's asked before about the spiraling tattoos that criss-cross Miles' upper arms (he'd gotten them after his first and second tours, respectively), and she doesn't need to ask about the arched "M" emblazoned on the inside of his right forearm. Instead, she picks up his left hand, running her fingers over the tips of his, feeling the indentations left by the guitar strings.
"I've never heard anybody play like that."
He leans back and looks at her out of the corner of his eye. The edge of his mouth turns up in a smile. "Shoulda' gone to more concerts instead of all those Miss Teen USA competitions."
Nora puts her left hand on his unshaven jaw and turns his head, looking straight into his eyes with her best serious expression. "You're an ass, Miles."
He grins. Then he leans in and kisses her.
Miles is whiskey and fire, sunsets and a shock like cold river water and the sharpened edge of a blade. Nora tips her head back, leaning into his touch - rough hands against smooth skin - and he groans through his teeth, snaking his hand up the back of Nora's neck and twisting his fingers into her hair like he's trying to anchor himself there. "Nora…" Her name comes out as a growl as he moves to kiss her again, stubble scraping her chin.
There's a burn like whiskey sweeping through her veins, and the next few minutes pass in a blur. When her back hits the edge of the tub and Miles slips and half-drowns, he lets out a frustrated growl and picks her up bodily from the water, practically flinging them both onto the bed. She's cold for half a second before he covers her body with his.
After that, neither of them are cold for quite a while.
A little while later, as she lays splayed across Miles' chest over the damp sheets, she feels his rough voice tickle her ear. "Does this make you my band groupie?" A chuckle moves his throat.
Nora turns her teeth into the side of his neck, nipping at the source of that chuckle. "The man plays one song," she murmurs, "and he thinks he's a rock god."
"I am a rock god," Miles mumbles, shifting her over until her head rests in the crook of his shoulder and burying his face in her hair. He breathes in, slowly, and his voice drops to a whisper. "Goddamned God of Rock and Roll, here…"
His breathing evens out and slows, and Nora can tell he's asleep by the time she closes her eyes. The firelight plays across the backs of her eyelids and Miles' heartbeat is a warm, steady cadence in her ear.
Nora hasn't had a home since she and Mia had fled their family's house after the Blackout. And for most of that time, she hasn't needed or desired one. She's grown to like the life of adventure, the life of movement and change, the life constantly on the road. But there are times, like this one, when she starts to realize that, little by little, she is finding a home. One, like her, that's constantly in motion.
Nora sighs and snuggles a few inches closer to Miles' sleeping form, relaxing against the slow beat of his heart. Well, almost constantly in motion.
She drops off to sleep with a smile.