Yes, I understand these are relatively short chapters, but that's just how I roll. I'm like a young version of James Patterson. Seriously, his chapters are literally three pages long. Sometimes even less. Don't hate.

~Chapter Three: The Start of A Long Day~

CHARLIE

Something heavy drops onto my stomach, and I'm so startled that my semi-dreamlike haze evaporates. I'm instantly wide awake, my body tensed and cautious for whatever threat might be lurking nearby. I glance down and see what looks to be a wrapped bundle of…something…resting on top of me. I snatch it up, moving abruptly away from the source of my weariness.

Monroe is sitting contentedly nearby, too close for my comfort, and he appears to be chewing on a chicken leg. We're in a confined space, probably a small room or maybe a wagon by the looks of our wooden surroundings. Sunlight streams through the cracks in the broken slats. Still, it's so suffocating in here, made even more claustrophobic by the fact that I have to share it with this man. Speaking of the devil, Monroe wipes the grease off his chin with a clean towel in a manner I would actually call refined and smirks at me.

"Oh, sorry, did I wake you?" He sounds anything but sorry.

"What is this?" I ask instead, trying to keep my tone neutral. I gesture to the thing in my hand.

"A rabbit leg. Obviously," he adds.

"Why is it wrapped in a towel?" Even as I'm questioning him, I feel that something isn't right. My mind is currently drawing a blank, and I think that's exactly the problem here.

He shrugs and resumes eating. "I didn't think you'd want me touching it," he explains through a mouthful of meat.

And, in fact, I shudder at the thought of him touching my food, or anything that belongs to me, so maybe he's not so far off. Yet there's still something I'm missing here, some important clue that probably shouldn't have escaped my mind… As I scowl, my face throbs at the sudden movement, and my hand instinctively reaches up to brush against a giant bruise on the side of my jaw.

"What – " I start, and that's when I remember. Without even blinking, I'm up and lurching towards the ragged opening of my prison. Monroe grabs me from behind before I've taken more than a step or two, and his arms wind around my chest like two boa constrictors, pulling me back into the depths of the wagon.

"Let go," I grunt, jamming my elbow into his rock-hard stomach. He doesn't even appear to flinch. I writhe, kick, and jerk, making every attempt to free myself, but it's no use. Monroe has his back up against one of the walls, and his arms are squeezing me so tight I'm afraid for my lungs.

"Are you done?" he asks mildly. Sagging, I let him ease me to the uneven floor of the wagon, his arms not releasing me until it's clear that I've no intention of making a run – or leap – for escape any time soon.

"Why?" I ask simply, hunkering in the far corner and protectively wrapping my arms around myself.

"You're not ready to survive out there on your own just yet," he replies, sitting down less than a foot in front of me. He starts picking at a piece of the rabbit, grease coating his quick fingers.

"What's it matter to you?"

"It doesn't. Though what does matter," he continues, scraping at several lingering slices of meat on the rabbit's leg bone, "is finding your Uncle Miles. He's no doubt with your mom, so it appears we're looking for her, too." The thought doesn't seem to sit too well with him, for reasons I don't understand.

"So why do you need me again?" I asks sarcastically. Clearly, I'm pretty useless. The question is, why doesn't Monroe see that?

He raises an eyebrow, tossing the rabbit bone out of the wagon altogether. "You're the one who's going to lead me to them. If I approached them alone, they'd attack me, but if they see that you're there too…well, they'll hesitate."

"Oh, good!" I exclaim with mock cheeriness. "So I'm just your insurance, is that right?"

"You got it," he replies absently, shifting through the remaining pieces of the cooked rabbit.

My expression darkens. "Yeah," I don't think so." I make a move to rise to my feet, but Monroe's hand comes down hard on my shoulder. The weight is too much to bear in my weakened state; I plunk back down.

"Who says you have a choice?" he asks with a pleasant smile, eyeing me.

I glance away and say nothing. It's going to be a long day.

BASS

Goddamnit, he thinks, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. His torture is never-ending. Ever since he brought Charlie back to camp, he's struggled second-by-second to keep his eyes and hands away from her. Carrying her limp body really hadn't affected him all that much – c'mon, he's sick but not that sick – but restraining her from that pathetic attempt at escape had jump-started his heart. She'd writhed against him, her back to his stomach, her hair flying around her head and her arms beating against his own. Her scent had enveloped him, and Monroe had to reign himself in even as Charlie tried to break away. Unfortunately for her, he had always been a skilled multi-tasker.

Now, as she huddles in the far corner, avoiding his gaze, Monroe sighs. He doesn't like this game. Seek-and-destroy? Battles fought with swords and catapults? Those are the games he can dictate and usually correctly predict an outcome to. But dealing with emotions? No, that's too messy and unpredictable. He'd rather play with his brain than his heart.

"It's getting late," he says at last, observing the way the light steadily grows brighter. It's filtering through the wooden slats at a deeper slant; this sun is rising. "We have to move."

Charlie mutters something unintelligible under her breath but doesn't voice her thoughts aloud. Monroe is acutely aware of her uncooperativeness, but his curiosity (and patience) is low. He slings his worn pack over one shoulder and empties out the burnt twigs still left in his pot. As he stows it away, he eyes Charlie, who hasn't moved.

"Hey," he says, and she shifts her head but doesn't look at him. "Any day now would be great."

"I bet it would," she mutters, probably not realizing that Monroe can hear her.

"Up and at 'em," he continues, clapping his hands. An impatient man by nature, he reaches down, yanking Charlie up by her elbow. She hisses and moves away from him, brushing herself down as if he somehow made her dirty.

"Thanks, but I think I can manage," she snaps, eyes blazing. She tries to shoulder past him.

He catches hold of her wrist, bending it just the slightest bit until her baby blues widen. "Why don't we play nice now, hmm?"

"Let go," she snarls through gritted teeth. Monroe can sense that he's hurting her, and he appreciates the fact that she can hide her pain so well. He releases the pressure on her hand and clasps it between both of his in an unprecedented move he hopes will surprise Charlie into listening. It does.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but you're going to have to learn how to follow my rules until you can rejoin your valiant uncle." He says this last part bitterly. Shaking off this momentary lapse in control, Monroe gifts her with a brittle smile, still holding her aching hand. "So. Obey what I say and everything will be smooth sailing from here. Got it?"

The question is rhetorical. Dropping her hand (with some regret) Monroe jumps out of the wagon, gesturing for Charlie to follow. She moves forward, eyes hard as steel, and grabs hold of the wooden side, but before she can leap down, Monroe's hands are grabbing her waist and his arms are lifting her easily into the air, as if she weighs no more than one of his many knives. Her feet make contact with the ground, but Monroe doesn't release his hold.

"See?" he says softly. "You're safe with me."

A dry lump forms in the middle of Charlie's throat. She's totally taken aback by this weird and unfamiliar Monroe, and she isn't quite sure how to react. Hoping her actions won't bring out his more volatile side, she firmly places her hands over his and shoves them away from her waist. She then pushes him back a step, a pleasant smile touching her lips.

"That'll be enough of that," she says agreeably, then turns on her heel and starts walking.

Monroe feels an admiring smile touch the edges of his lips. What I wouldn't do for this girl, he thinks in a what he recognizes as a rare moment of affection. But he promptly shakes the mood off. That doesn't exclude fucking her, either.

Whistling, he follows Charlie down the empty road, hands in his pockets, loaded gun tucked in the waistband of his Levi's.