~Chapter Seven: Concern~

BASS

Sebastian Monroe had never been so frantic in his life, and to be honest, he's more than a little embarrassed by his behavior. While beating off that ugly hulk of a man who wanted to take Charlie from him, the girl herself had been preoccupied with saving the young, captive whore. At that point, Monroe had grudgingly come to accept that his little spitfire possessed a bit of a hero complex and that that aspect of her personality usually put the two of them into some sort of dangerous, life-threatening situation. Somehow, he'd learned to tolerate it.

Until earlier this morning, when the man fighting him had suddenly shoved him away, swung his gun around, and aimed the barrel directly at Charlie for no reason he could discern. The bullet had lodged itself into her upper arm, and he'd watched, horror-struck, as her feet flew out from under her and she'd landed in a heap on the ground, screaming incoherently. Even now, Monroe doesn't really remember the moments following this catastrophe; he had been in such a rage that everything's still blurred together. The next thing he knew, both men were dead, the whore was nowhere to be seen, and Charlie was in his arms. He had cradled her, his heart momentarily stopping as her body went completely limp; she'd fallen unconscious.

As luck would have it – and luck is a rare commodity for him – an abandoned first-aid station was set up no more than half a mile from where Charlie was shot. Monroe had taken her there, laying her gently on a stiff mattress while sorting through the chaotic array of medical supplies. He'd fed her several pain-killers and tended to her messy wound. The bullet hadn't dug too deep into her arm, thankfully, so he'd managed to get it out, although she'd lost a heap of blood in the process. Monroe, overcome with guilt, had done literally everything in his power to stop her from bleeding. Now, more than two hours later, with Charlie still in a deep slumber, Monroe eagerly awaits her awakening.

Deep in his gut, the most unfamiliar of emotions continues to stir within him: fear. Monroe had barely been able to breathe through the fear encompassing him in those brief moments when he thought the bullet had struck Charlie in the neck. He saw her go down, and everything stopped. Of course, somehow, Charlie survived. Yet Monroe's throat is still just as dry as it had been when he first caught an up-close glimpse of her body, and his nerves are frayed. He can't keep himself from pacing through the disordered first-aid camp. Raking his hands through his blonde locks, Monroe side-steps broken syringes and overturned gurneys, cursing out loud.

He feels nauseous, not just from fear, but from dread, anticipation, and worry. How will Charlie feel about what's happened? Will she blame him? Knowing his recent track record, that seems most likely. But what if she doesn't even remember the events leading up to and following her injury? What then? Not to mention he still hasn't talked to her about what went down at the burning house, where he shot that elderly woman. He's not sure either of them are ready for that conversation.

Wake up, Charlie, he thinks, growing agitated. Wake up before I lose my fucking –

From inside a hastily-constructed tent, a bottle crashes to the ground. A noise – he thinks it's a moan – filters through the air, hitting Monroe like a physical force. She's awake, he thinks, astonished. Right on cue. His heart leaps within his chest and proceeds to race with an unhealthy speed. He approaches the tent and gingerly parts the curtain.

Charlie is sitting upright on the bed, one hand covering her eyes. The injured arm lies limply in her lap, and Monroe can tell by the expression on her face that it's hurting pretty badly. There are purplish bruises dotting her chin, thanks to the full contact between her face and the ground. Her chest rises and falls slowly, like she's making a concentrated effort to keep herself together. Monroe aches at the sight of her in pain.

"Well, look who's up," he says, unable to stop the ever-present gruffness from coating his words. It seems that whenever he talks to her, his voice automatically deepens and gets uncomfortably husky. Monroe hates that his emotions are so transparent, at least in his eyes; he usually manages to keep them under strict control.

She starts at the sound of his voice but doesn't look up. "What happened?" she asks in an uncharacteristic monotone.

He saunters into the tent, trying to keep up his devil-may-care front. "That fat bastard shot you in the arm," he says nonchalantly, though his anger still rises at the mention of those detestable men. "You've been out for a few hours."

She sighs, deep in her chest. Her eyes remain closed, and Monroe hates the fact that he can't see those beautiful baby blues, which usually show him how she's feeling. An open book, that's his Charlie.

"Where are those men?"

His mouth twitches. "Dead."

"You killed them?"

He nods, then remembers a beat too late that she's still not looking at him. "Yes, I killed them."

"The woman?"

He barely refrains from rolling his eyes; Charlie's compassionate nature sometimes frustrates him to the point of madness, just as her unpredictable hero complex tends to continually set his teeth on edge. "Long gone," he replies easily.

She makes a satisfied sound in the back of her throat, and that wordless noise seems to say that her all questions have been answered to her liking. Monroe licks his lips; he's never been an outstanding conversationalist, nor has he ever been particularly witty. Those traits are part of Miles' character. At the thought of his former friend, the general closes his eyes briefly and clenches his fist.

"Well," he announces abruptly, "since you seem back to your intolerable self, I think it's about time we continued moving eastward."

He rights himself, mentally shaking off his concern, but as he turns away, Charlie sighs again. This time, however, it's not anywhere close to being steady. "My arm," she says softly, staring at the ground. "It, um…it really hurts."

And just like that, Monroe's worry returns with a vengeance. He's also aware that this statement has dealt what Charlie probably assumes is a major blow to her dignity. For her, admitting pain is synonymous to admitting weakness. Monroe is at her side in just a few steps, and he slowly sits beside her on the sagging mattress.

"Of course it hurts," he says softly, imploring her to look at him. "You've been shot. That's not as easily fixed as a paper cut."

A small smile flickers across Charlie's lips, but it's gone even before Monroe's own lips can respond. "I should be stronger than this," she says finally, angrily. Her eyes meet his, boring holes into his head. "You and Miles and Aaron and even my mother have all been shot before, some of you multiple times, but not once has anyone complained, except during the initial pain." She shakes her head sharply. "No, you're right. We need to move on." Standing abruptly, Charlie grimaces, keeping her arm close by her side, as she pushes aside the curtain. Monroe grabs her good arm before she's made it ten feet.

"Charlie, hey," he says, trying to get her to stop without actually leaving any bruises on her skin. "I'm not sure what you've seen, but Miles, your mother, everyone you know who's been shot has suffered through just as much pain as you have, and they haven't dealt with it nearly as well as you are right now. In fact, I remember that Miles put up a huge fuss when he was shot the first time."

But Charlie's frown remains solidly in place. "I appreciate you trying to comfort me – and God only knows why – but it's unnecessary. I told you I was fine, and I still am. Let go of my arm so we can get out of here."

"We're not going anywhere until you calm down," Monroe snaps, his patience wearing thin. If only she would just listen to him...

"I said, let go," Charlie yells, and lashes out at him just as he turns her body so they're facing each other head-on. The blow lands solidly on his jaw, sending him back two steps. Her eyes are on fire. "I don't know what the fuck you –"

But she doesn't get another word out. Monroe silences her the only way he knows how – with a feather-light kiss. Their lips barely make contact, but it's enough to shut Charlie up for good. She gasps as he leans away, and Monroe blinks, his mind reeling. He didn't expect such intensity upon touching her.

"What –" she says breathlessly, a wild glint in her eyes. "How did…why….Jesus, what are you thinking?"

Monroe, attempting to gather his scattered wits, says simply, "I need you to calm down."

"I am calm!" Despite this sentiment, her voice rises with unconcealed hysteria. She's obviously just as shocked by his actions as he is.

"Look, I don't want you hurting yourself. Just…just take it easy, okay?" He tilts his head so she has no choice but to meet his eyes. "Can you do that?"

Her lips move soundlessly. He nods. "Good."

Monroe guides her back inside the tent, but no sooner have they settled down again when Charlie says something that stops him cold. "I still haven't forgotten what you did to that woman."

Grinding his teeth – he'd assumed that entire fiasco had slipped her mind in light of recent events – Monroe runs his hands through his tousled hair. "Yes, Charlie, I killed her."

Her eyes cool, as does her voice. "How can you say that so callously? Who just does something like th-"

Monroe is in front of her in an instant, cupping her chin in his rough hands. Her eyes widen at the fierce expression on his face. "It's growing increasingly difficult for me to keep my hands off you, so if you wouldn't mind shutting your goddamn mouth for three seconds, maybe I could explain some things."

"You –" she starts indignantly.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Charlie," he hisses, his face contorting with rage. "Jesus Christ, what will it take for you to open your goddamn eyes? You really want to know why I killed that woman?" He stares at her, waiting for an answer, his mouth set in a thin line. Releasing her chin, he steps back, truly afraid he'll hurt her somehow, and places his hands on an old bureau that holds a plethora of medical bandages.

"She was extra baggage," he says, his voice still simmering with fury. "We don't have the supplies necessarily to sustain three people, and I think you're forgetting that she was a stranger. My priority is keeping you safe, Charlie, and I can't do that if I have one more person to look after. You," he repeats, swiveling to face her, "are my main concern. Okay? Do you understand now?"

He kneels down in front of her. "I can't afford you getting hurt. That's not on my agenda. So just…just…" At a loss for words, Monroe rubs one of his hands over his face tiredly. "Sit."

And, much to his relief, she does.

CHARLIE

And, much to my shock, I think I do understand now.

Monroe is on one knee before me, his hands lightly touching my legs, as if trying to get me to comprehend what he's saying through physical touch alone. My mouth is open, gaping, but there's really nothing I can do about that. How I look right now is of minor concern. Sebastian Monroe has just stated, in the most simplest terms possible, that I am priority number one in his eyes.

How did that escape my notice? What have I done to make him feel this way about me? And most importantly, what are we going to do now that it's out in the open?

Without even realizing it, I bring my unimpeded hand to my mouth, where I lightly brush it across my lips. The lips that Monroe kissed. He was so gentle, almost as if he'd been afraid of…what? Touching me? Breaking me? I'm not sure. God, I'm so confused.

Monroe doesn't seem to be faring any better. He's braced himself on the bureau across from the bed, and his head is bowed. Does this mean he's ashamed of what he's revealed to me? Or maybe he's just tired, like he said. I have to know. Swallowing, I stand up on shaky legs and reach for his shoulder.

"Monroe," I say, unsure, and nearly lose my balance when he abruptly whirls around. His face exudes raw desperation, and this expression seems so out-of-place on his usually stern, controlled face that anything I'd been meaning to say flies right out of my head.

"Just one more," he pleads, and before I can ask any more questions, his lips are back on mine.

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