Chapter 21: Mea Culpa

Author's Note: Thank you all for reading and reviewing. Thank you to LLCoyote, Kaylee Frye, and JeMappelleTea for their wonderful and detailed reviews :)

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

Trigger warnings: POV Stockholm syndrome/PTSD, contemplations of suicide

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

Ten years after The Blackout

Miles stared at the empty whiskey bottle; he was sprawled half-dressed over his office desk. It was some time in the early pre-dawn hours, and he was out with no way to get more until the sun was up. He could try to get a few hours of sleep before restarting the cycle of: staring at maps, glaring at soldiers, drinking to forget Rachel, but he couldn't take another night of dreaming about Rachel only to wake up to her ghost – bloody, broken, and vengeful.

Miles contemplated the empty glass bottle. Contemplated hurling it to the floor, picking up a shard and cutting along each forearm opening his arm vein or artery – whichever, he didn't know anatomy – letting his life's blood wash away his failures.

He had failed to protect Rachel from herself. Had willfully ignored her pleas for help. Had kept her caged her against her will. Had taken her away from her kids. It was no wonder she thought diving out of a three-story window for the merest chance of freedom was worthwhile.

Miles was still studying the glass bottle, still contemplating eating his gun, still pondering taking the same three-story dive, when Nora found him.

She took the bottle from his hands, placing it on his desk beside its empty, cockeyed brother, and huffed at the stench of alcohol-laden sweat, "When was the last time you bathed?"

Miles shrugged, taking a bath reminded him of the last he saw Rachel, alive and well. And naked.

Nora pulled him up out of his chair and led him up the stairs to his bathroom. The bathroom in the suite he'd been using for the past three, almost four, years, not his real bathroom. The bathroom he swore he'd never enter again. Nora pulled his rank clothes off of his un-protesting body. It probably would be better to die clean, save some poor sod the trouble of doing it later.

Nora pushed him into the still warm, slightly-used bathwater – she had probably taken a bath earlier – and began scrubbing his back.

She said, "I know your friend's suicide hit you pretty hard, but it's no excuse to let yourself go so entirely."

Miles was confused for a moment, and then remembered he had told Nora that a friend had offed himself. He had never gotten around to telling her about Rachel before, and certainly didn't want to explain everything now.

Nora continued, "It's not like it's your fault, some people just…"

Miles interrupted her, "No, it is my fault. There were so many fucking warning signs, and I just ignored them. I tried to fix him earlier, but I thought he got better. I was wrong, he must have just learned to hide the signs better."

Nora stepped around the tub – not as big as the one upstairs, but still big – she said, "You can't fix people like a jammed rifle. People don't work like that. You can't force someone to want to live. It's still not your fault. He was adult."

Miles released a small, bitter smile, "A very determined adult."

Nora nodded, "See, if he was that determined, he would've found a way no matter what. It's not your fault."

Miles sank into the bathwater, wishing he could tell Nora the truth about Rachel and have her off him in a fit of rage.

Almost magically, Nora said, "I know you still feel responsible, can you do anything for his family? Help them out?"

Fuck! What would he tell Ben; how could he look him in the eyes?

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Rachel was on watch, her body emanating a pleasant hum of hurt. Her shoulders, pectorals, and biceps all ached from the strength training. Miles had taught her the correct way to do a push-up; she'd been doing them wrong all her life. And she had a massive greening bruise on her thigh, but that was from Charlie. They were both still working on the hand-to-hand combat bit, Rachel had fallen for a feint and Charlie hadn't pulled the blow.

Adrenaline and determination had gotten her through a lot of scrapes; she was hoping this training would help her through even more.

Little Fly/ Thy summer's play,/ My thoughtless hand/ Has brush'd away…

They were camped outside of Clayton, New Mexico after having to take a large detour around the Pueblo Nations. Rachel was fully cognizant of the cosmic irony of village's name. Rachel could sense Miles walking over to the corpsified car – carcass as Aaron had punned – she was sitting on.

Miles sat down on the hood of the Subaru, and looked at Rachel, "You're doing good."

Rachel smiled, "With what, the hand-to-hand stuff, or not snapping and killing you all?"

It was true, Rachel was feeling a bit on the saner side of things. She still caught herself reciting A Poison Tree over and over in her head as they walked, but she told herself that Blake had intended the poem to be an indictment of the Christian doctrine of 'turn the other cheek' and not as a celebration of elaborate revenge plots. And she tried reciting other, happier, poems as they walked; it seemed to be helping. Then again, she was discussing her own sanity with herself.

…Am not I/ A fly like thee?/ Or art not thou/ A man like me?...

Rachel could tell Miles was uncomfortable with her jokes about her own sanity, and felt the need to needle him some more, mostly to prove to herself that she could without repercussions, "What, is it in poor taste to make jokes about the loony-toons woman?"

Miles was in one of his taciturn moods, and made no response beyond an enigmatic look.

Rachel still had an itch to scratch, her need not satisfied by his bland non-response, "Everyone, even Aaron, has been treating me differently since you all saw my back. It's as if now that you've seen physical evidence for what you all knew happened, you know it actually happened or something. You personally should know better. Not all scars are visible."

Miles turned to her and said, "I'm sorry."

Rachel snorted, "Whatever; it is only human to need to see to believe."

Miles corrected her, "No, I mean I'm sorry for everything. For taking you from your family. For keeping you away from them for years. For letting Bass have you again. For not protecting you better. For not fixing you. For letting your family get hurt. For…"

Rachel cut him off, "I'm not some broken china doll you can glue back together. You can't fix me. Only I can fix me."

Miles grabbed her hands, and earnestly said, "I just want to help."

…For I dance/ And drink & sing;/ Till some blind hand/ Shall brush my wing…

Rachel looked up into his dark eyes for a dozen quick heartbeats. Miles slowly leaned in, and Rachel leaned back. Miles looked startled, then disappointed, then accepting, each emotion lasting mere seconds on his face before being chased off by the next.

Rachel said, "You are helping. But we can't do that."

Miles nodded, acceptingly.

Rachel elaborated, knowing that his sappy center was hurt, "It wouldn't be fair."

Miles said gently, "Rachel, Ben is dead; he doesn't care, and I'll explain it to Charlie."

…If thought is life/ And strength & breath;/ And the want/ Of thought is death;…

Rachel replied, "No, Miles it wouldn't be fair to us. There needs to be a me, before there can be a we. And you don't want to do this to yourself. Anyways, you want to help me, help me. Take care of Charlie, teach me how to defend myself; don't drag us into a destructive relationship. I don't need a good fuck that badly."

Miles looked disgruntled at the denigration of his skills, so Rachel continued, "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to feel your lips, your hands, your…"

Rachel remembered how skillful his hands had been all those years ago, and he certainly would have learned a lot in the decades since. He had been endearingly inexperienced with anything beyond simple missionary style, but he had had a certain natural talent and willingness to please. Rachel wondered if that had changed. Rachel shook herself out of her counter-productive and smutty thoughts, and noticed a small smirk on Miles' face.

Rachel returned to her train of thought, "But if we do this, I'll be yours and you'll be my crutch. That can't happen. I've already been yours and we've seen how that story ends." With you leaving me for someone stronger, fiercer, not broken. "If we do this, it needs to be as equals, and right now I'm hardly the emotional equal of a blueberry scone."

Miles chivalrously stood up from the rusted Subaru and walked back to his bedroll, leaving Rachel alone with her thoughts. She wished it didn't have to be this way, but she was pretty certain that this was the only way it could be.

…Then am I/ A happy fly,/ If I live,/ Or if I die.

William Blake's The Fly

Little Fly,

Thy summer's play

My thoughtless hand

Has brushed away.

Am not I

A fly like thee?

Or art not thou

A man like me?

For I dance,

And drink, and sing,

Till some blind hand

Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life

And strength and breath,

And the want

Of thought is death;

Then am I

A happy fly.

If I live,

Or if I die.

- Author's Note: This is the penultimate chapter guys, I hope you've enjoyed it, and as always, reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)