- Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting. Each notice makes me literally do a little dance; I've been getting odd looks from my co-workers :) I hope you continue to like my little tale.

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

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit. T for language and some sexual themes. Mild spoilers for 1.8.

Four months later

Miles was sitting in his chilly office on the first floor of the president's compound. Winter had not yet arrived in truth, but it was hard to keep the whole damn compound warm without central forced-air heating, and there was no need to waste fuel to keep his office at a toasty 72 degrees. As Miles sifted through his weekly correspondence his eye came across the Weekly Criminal Activities Report for the whole republic. One line in particular caught his eye:

Atlantic City, NJ: Three bombings, multiple fatalities, targets unrelated, no suspects.

The report was dry, factual, and succinct, but Miles had to suppress a wave of glee coursing through his veins. He would bet his last bottle of single malt Scotch that Nora was behind these bombings.

Miles stood up and walked over to the fireplace, there was a blue enamel teakettle on the mantle and he placed the handle on a hook over the fire. He swung the kettle into the fire and gathered a scoop of mint leaves into a tea ball. Mint tea was a piss-poor replacement for coffee or even black tea, but he only wanted something warm to calm himself down and didn't want to waste his stash of precious caffeine.

Miles had tried so hard to forget the spunky bomber. Had tried to forget her gumption, her expertise, and the feel of her hands. Miles had told himself repeatedly that Nora and her kid sister were long gone and he should just get her out of his head.

He tried everything. It didn't work. Groupies were too shallow. Civilians he met in bars were too weak. Alcohol just gave him erotic lucid dreams about her. Even Bass, who was generally pretty self-involved – cunning as they come, but self-involved – started noticing his atypical behavior. Miles had brushed off Bass's queries, blaming Rachel, and had tried to focus, but now – now he had a lead, and all he had to do was not blow it.

The kettle whistled, and Miles used a fire iron to pull the hook out of the fire, and then used a bit of poorly tanned leather to pour himself a cup of tea. He placed the hot kettle on the flagstone mantel and carried the cup back to his large walnut desk.

Procrastination over, Miles pulled out a strip of parchment – paper was scarce even for the General – and began writing an order:

Suspect mercenary bomber; Latina, early twenties.

Locate and apprehend without prejudice. Request skills for militia. Full pardon for past crimes.

- General Matheson

Miles blew on his tea, took out the tea ball, and took a sip. He read over the decree twice hoping that Nora would agree to come, hoping that she wouldn't be enraged at the presumption of him summoning her from 60 miles away, hoping he'd see the enchanting young woman again.

Miles placed the mug of tea down on an empty patch of desk and slid the slip of parchment in a leather courier-case. He stepped into the hall and flagged down a nearby private.

"Get this to a courier immediately. Tell him to double-time it to Captain Fleming in Atlantic City," instructed Miles. The private saluted, yes sir'ed, and strode off to the stables at a brisk pace. Miles hoped he had done the right thing, and thought what's done is done.

One week later

Miles was sitting in his chilly office, his body in the same physical space as a week ago - his mind, not so much. He was in a fretful bother. Even though it wasn't yet five, there was a tumbler of applejack in his hand and a 2/3rds-full bottle of applejack on the desk. Applejack wasn't even close to his favorite poison, but it was much easier to come by than whiskey, and it got the job done.

Nora should have been here by now, or he should have heard something from Captain Fleming by now; what had gone wrong? He did the mental calculation for the umpteenth time: it would have taken about 10 hours for the courier to get to Atlantic City, and then once Captain Fleming had apprehended Nora it would have taken 2 or 3 days to get her here, but Captain Fleming would have sent a courier ahead. It shouldn't be taking this long for a whole station of militiamen to locate one young woman, even one who was a demolitions expert and a damn fine sneak.

Miles had spent the first three days after the fateful Weekly Criminal Activities Report setting up a "diplomatic" expedition to the Baltimore Empire vassal state. The territory was arrogant – especially in choosing a name – but they paid their tithe, housed several units of militiamen, but kept their own peace for the most part. Miles had convinced Bass that they were getting too superior, overconfident, and might be planning a revolt. This was enough to get Bass to green-light a large expedition with discretionary objectives. It was nice to be able to push Bass's buttons so well, he thought smugly. It took quite a bit of time to orchestrate such a large undertaking, and Miles had planned the expedition to leave the first week of the New Year. That would give himself time to get everything together and a large margin of time to win over Nora. Now that margin was being eaten into by Captain Fleming's incompetence!

For the fourth and fifth days, he had kept one eye on the requisitions – ensuring everything went smoothly – and another on the door, waiting to see a courier bearing news that Nora was on her way. He had gone to the barber – a far more specialized occupation post-Blackout – twice in those first five days, wanting to look his best for Nora. Bass had noticed his pre-occupation – and his immaculate grooming – and proceeded to rag on him for getting worked up over a girl. Bass never suspected who that girl might be, or what skills she might have.

After the first five days, Miles had sent another message requesting a progress update to Captain Fleming. That was 52 hours ago. Where was that update? Where was Nora?

The past two days had been hellacious. Miles had literally worn a hole in his office rug; sure it was probably 300 years old, but still. He had been short with everyone and yesterday Bass had sent him his "presidential" whores – buxom, redheaded, twins – to "relieve his tension."

Miles had thanked Bass for the girls, but didn't use them quite as Bass had intended. After swearing the twins to secrecy on pain of death or mutilation, he had told them about Nora, his fears, and desires. He probably wouldn't have unburdened himself to them, but he had finished his second bottle of last year's applejack, and Bass was right, he did need to relieve his tension.

The girls had been surprisingly helpful. Miles had gotten to vent, they had given him reassurance, and a bit of advice. He wasn't sure if he was going to actually follow their advice but still it was nice know that Kelly and Erin didn't think Nora would hate him or kill him for requesting her skills for the militia. And they thought that she wouldn't automatically assume that he was only offering 'cause he wanted into her pants.

A knock on his door released him from his anxious contemplation. A recently recruited, young private entered at his shout and informed Miles, "There's a young woman here to see you sir, she says you have a job for her."

Miles glanced out the window, and thought it was a bit late for people coming to see about being a kitchen assistant, but hold the young private, "Send her in."

Miles put down the glass, scrubbed at his scruff, adjusted his uniform, and turned to face the door.

To his utter shock and amazement, there, in the doorway stood Nora. She was wearing the same Carhartt's and a much-battered Wesleyan hoodie. She was far too young to have attended college prior to the Blackout, so she must have scavenged it from somewhere. Nora's ebony hair was down, and longer than he had thought, tumbling past her shoulders. She looked more beautiful than he had remembered.

Nora stepped into the room, the private closed the door behind her, and she said, "I heard tell of a job you've got for me?"

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated; who wants to make me get odd looks from my co-workers?