Words cannot express how sorry I am that I've been so delayed in updating this story. I've had a case a writer's block for what seems like forever, though it's only been a few months. I usually try to take advantage of the little spurts of inspiration that appear to me during these periods, but they usually don't last very long. I hope this chapter makes up for my absence, at least in some small way. I won't make any promises, but I'm going to try and update more frequently.

P.S. There's been a surprising amount of Charloe moments this season (or what I see as Charloe moments, anyway) and I'm hoping this ship will actually become a ship, if you know what I mean. It sure seems that the producers are pushing their relationship in a very subtle way, or maybe that's just me and my unhealthy desire to see these two together ;)

~Chapter Eight: A Lethal Fascination~

CHARLIE

Monroe's lips are so warm; they instantly begin to drive out the chill that's been inhabiting my body since I was shot. His arms wrap around me, taking extreme care not to put any pressure on my injury. I'm stuck in place, frozen by a combination of confusion, shock and…yes, relief. I've been living so long with this ill-conceived notion of…safety, though there's been no proof that I am actually protected from the horrors of this terrifying world. But now…now Monroe is here, really here, with me, and this illusion is no longer merely an illusion. I feel so comfortable, so reassured, in his arms. His touch is cathartic, soothing, and my body succumbs to it.

He lightly pushes me back against the bureau, his hands gripping my hips. The taste of him – spice, woods, and something else, something unaccountably dark – momentarily disappears, and I open my mouth to protest, but then his lips are back, pressing on mine again and again…and again. They trail down the side of my neck, across my collarbone, and then back up to my now swollen lips. His fingers slide across the sliver of skin exposed between the waistband of my jeans and my worn top, and I shudder violently. I can tell he likes this reaction; his kisses intensify, becoming deep and drawn out.

His hands are forcing my hips against his, melding them together, grinding our bodies into one being. With my injured arm held tightly against my side, I use my working one to grab Monroe by the back of his neck, my fingers playing with the soft curls of his perpetually wind-tossed hair. He's just tall enough that I must stand on the balls of my feet to keep our mouths connected. He moans suddenly, taking me by surprise, and I'm overwhelmingly satisfied to see that I do have power over him.

His grip tightens on my hips with bruising force, and then Monroe's lifting me up so that I'm sitting on top of the bureau. His hands run up and down my legs, igniting a path of searing heat. I haven't realized that, up until this very moment, I have been so cold, so barren and empty and filled with near-arctic temperatures. But that's changed. Every inch of my body is thawing; even the parts of him that only brush my skin have an astounding effect. I am a searing sun trapped beneath a thick crust of impenetrable ice.

But I am melting.

I don't need much coaxing to wrap my legs around his waist, and even as I struggle to keep my damaged arm out of the way, I want our bodies to touch, everywhere. Monroe seems to sense this as well because his hands slip under my butt and hold me even more closely to him. He carries me like this over to the small bed I woke up in, the muscles flexing in the arm that's clutching Monroe's hair in a death grip. I'm not sure what might happen if I let go – will the magic fade? will this fantasy end? – and I'm certainly not willing to find out. He lays me down oh-so-gently on the bed with a series of light kisses that end with a resounding smack each time he pulls away. I want to laugh; this side of Monroe, this mushy, caring, passionate side of him, bewilders me. I've never seen him like this. The fact that he doesn't care about anything but me – but us – is so thrilling that I can almost feel a little piece of my heart breaking off, and I somehow know that I'll never get it back. Monroe is taking infinitesimal parts of me, bit by bit, and for some reason that terrifies me.

I lean my head back, gasping, but Monroe continues to plant kisses along my jaw. Something hard is pressed against the inside of my thigh, and, strangely enough, it's throbbing in time with my heart. I'm definitely not naïve, and yet I can't allow myself to believe that I've elicited this kind of response from the formidable, unemotional General Sebastian Monroe of the infallible fortress that is the Monroe Republic. I'm shaking now, though it's not just from lust anymore. I need time to think , I think wildly. Please, I just need some time to consider all this, that's all I ask! But Monroe will not stop. He is in turns both unstoppable and irresistible. The kisses, his firm body, the sound of my shivering breath, the throbbing between my legs – both his and mine – are making me crazy. I'm going to lose it; in fact, I can already feel it starting to happen.

"Monroe," I whisper-gasp. "Wait."

Our legs are intertwined, and after a moment of half-hearted struggle, I see that there's no way out of it, not unless he lets me go. I don't think he's heard me, either – or maybe he's just elected to ignore my pleas. One of his hands is entangled in my hair, which has mostly fallen out of my haphazardly-made ponytail. The other has bunched my tank-top just under my breasts and rests on my exposed stomach.

"Monroe," I try again. "Hold on."

He murmurs something against my neck, but his words are incomprehensible and he doesn't cease moving. He devours my mouth, tracing his tongue along the outline of my lips. My breath catches, and I know it's only a matter of time until I'm completely unable to protest.

"Wait," I insist, my voice stronger than before. "Please."

Monroe moans and reluctantly pulls his mouth away from my skin. He rests his head on my chest, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry," he says breathlessly, arms wrapping around my waist. "I'm sorry, Charlie, I –"

"I know," I interrupt softly, managing to keep my tone relatively steady. "It's okay. I just need a moment. Or two."

"I understand." And I guess he really does because Monroe remains in this position for a good five minutes – the amount of time it takes me to pull my thoughts together. His cheek presses against the soft material of my top, and his head rises and falls in time with my breathing. I think his eyes are closed, too, but I can't exactly tell from this angle.

"Okay," I say, exhaling slowly.

"You good?"

"I think so."

He nods against my chest. "Well, okay."

A beat of silence.

"Now what?"

He surprises a laugh out of me. This isn't like him, to ask something like this. He sounds so…young.

"God, I love that sound," he says softly, propping himself up on his elbows. His face hovers above mine.

I stare at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Your laugh," he says. "It has a…relaxing quality about it."

"Really." I find this hard to believe, and it must show on my face because Monroe leans down and gently touches our lips together.

"There's a lot of things you don't realize about yourself, Charlie," he murmurs, his voice husky. "A lot of things I find insanely attractive."

My eyebrows almost hit my hairline. "This is the first I've heard of these insanely attractive qualities of mine."

For a split-second, Monroe looks uncomfortable. "Well, you know I'm not very good at…"

I stare at him imploringly.

"…well, at expressing my…emotions." He looks away for a moment, his eyes troubled. There's a long silence, one I'm hoping will snap him out of whatever funk he's falling into.

"That was a struggle for you, wasn't it?" I tease lightly, searching his eyes for signs that I've gone too far.

Thankfully, I can feel his lips, which are pressed against my cheek, lift in a rueful smile. "A bit."

The look on his face makes me sigh, relieved. He's okay, I think. Monroe's okay, he's back, I've pulled him back from the brink. For the moment at least. I know he hates showing weakness, and admitting his feelings is equal to admitting a great weakness. I'm familiar with this concept; after all, I'm the same way.

He suddenly shifts, rolling over on his back so that I'm sprawled across his chest. Leaning forward, he moves so that he's sitting upright. I'm in his lap now, straddling him. My cheeks start to burn, not just from a delayed sense of embarrassment, but from the fact that I have no desire to move from this decidedly inappropriate position. I feel extremely exposed, with my legs spread like this and my shirt barely covering my bra, let alone my breasts. Monroe, however, seems to have no problem with our situation at all.

"Are you…you're not uncomfortable, are you?" he asks, slightly incredulous. He's actually amused by my obvious trepidation.

"Well," I say slowly, "this is a little…weird, don't you think? I mean, we're not…"

"We're not…?" Monroe tilts his head, eyebrows raised. Even as the atmosphere between us subtly changes, one of his hands rubs the side of my waist in a soothing, rhythmic manner.

I search his eyes, willing him to understand. "Things aren't supposed to be like this. I hope you understand that, Monroe. If Miles and my mother knew what was going on here…"

"Oh, Charlie," he says softly. "You're not…ashamed of me, surely."

"No! No, I just…"

He seems to understand what I can't possibly put into words: that he's done so many horrible things to me, to my family, to this country, that I can't forgive him, not this easily. He can't kiss me and miraculously make everything better. There's something between us, clearly, but the question remains – will what's happened here really evolve into anything more? There's too much hurt between us, too much pain and suffering and way too many antagonistic feelings. A band-aid won't fix this, and neither will pretty words or feather-light kisses.

Maybe this can't be fixed.

Monroe's expression doesn't change, nor does his smile falter in any way, and yet a subtle shift in the depths of his eyes tells me everything I need to know; despite everything, despite the justification behind my actions, he is beyond hurt. Somehow, I've managed to break him.

I want to apologize, truly I do, but the words won't come. We stare at each other, blue eyes to even bluer eyes, both of us speechless. The slow beat of my heart drowns out all other noise, and I wish I could just as easily ignore the stoic expression Monroe wears. It hurts to swallow, and I'm not sure if that means I'm close to tears or just ashamed of the way I've forced him to see how much he's wounded me.

Very, very slowly, without breaking eye contact, Monroe leans down and kisses the tops of my breasts, first one, then the other. His breath fans across my chest.

"I won't give up on you, on us," he whispers heatedly. "I won't le –"

There's a loud bang on the metal door, and suddenly it flies inward, slamming against the wall with an ear-shattering crash. I nearly jump out of my skin, panicked that someone's found us completely unaware. Monroe's hands instinctively tighten around my waist, squeezing me tighter to him, and I can physically feel him trying to envelope me, keep me from whatever harm's come bursting through the door –

"Charlie?"

I recognize that voice. I would recognize that voice anywhere. It comes again, this time in a softer tone, sounding simultaneously shaken and horrified.

"Charlie?"

It's my mother, and behind her stands Miles.