A/N: Thanks everyone for the encouragement and thoughts. Always appreciated! I'm not sure I am overly happy with this chapter. It went through a lot of editing. I am not a huge team Rachel person. I tried to humanize her a bit, and it was not easy.
After having spent another thoroughly boring day in the cellar, Monroe was starting to get edgy. Miles had come once to bring him something to eat and to "let him out", but then had quickly left. He briefly recalled a time when he'd been suckered into dog-sitting for a neighbor as a kid. Twice a day he'd had to go over to feed and water the animal and let it run around the back yard for a few minutes. Now he knew how the dog felt. At least Miles had decided to leave the handcuffs off. Now he could add pacing to his short to-do list.
It was now starting to get dark. He was no good with solitude. There was only so long that he could take being in his own head. He'd tried to keep himself occupied with coming up with increasingly bizarre escape strategies – some of which could actually work if he was actually trying to escape. And why aren't I? He'd asked himself this question a dozen times throughout the day. The sad part was, he couldn't really answer it.
Since he was now loose, he made use of the light seeping in the windows to explore his makeshift prison. The back side of the cellar was split off by a narrow doorway. The door had been removed at some point, possibly by Miles. The back room was as empty as the other. The difference was a drain pipe that had been installed to prevent flooding. Well at least I don't have to wait for Miles to take me on a walk anymore. That thought had reminded him again of that damn dog.
Exploring was short lived, and again his mind had turned on itself. He must have relived every moment of his tenure as President of the Monroe Republic: Every mistake, every regret over the past fifteen years. Just when he thought he was starting to drive himself nuts (again) he heard the bolt of the door slide. He watched as it slowly opened. Recalling Gene's instructions regarding his back, he supposed it was time for a bandage change. He had been expecting Gene (although hoping for Charlie) but it was Rachel who made her way down the stairs instead.
"Well isn't this cozy?" He slowly sauntered towards the bottom of the stairs to meet her. He knew it was unwise, but he couldn't risk antagonizing her. "Miles send you to put me out of my misery?
Rachel stopped at the bottom step and stared him down. She looked like there was nowhere on earth she wanted to be less than here in the cellar. "No, my dad sent me to look at your back, actually."
Monroe turned and walked away from her. "Yeah, on second thought, I think I'll just take my chances with an infection. " He slid down and sat against the wall, crossing his legs and doing his best to appear nonchalant. "Probably safer."
"Oh just shut up and get over here. The sooner I start, the sooner I can leave." She stood there, arms crossed over her chest, waiting for him to get his head out of his ass and take the help she begrudgingly offered. After staring her down a few minutes, he finally relented and got to his feet. "Asshole," she added the insult under her breath as he approached her.
Monroe took off his shirt and turned around, unwinding the cloth that covered his back himself. He didn't want Rachel touching him any longer than necessary. A minute too long and she might give in to the temptation to put a knife in his back, he was sure of it. He almost jumped at the first contact of her fingers on his back. He was surprised at how gentle she was while removing the bandages. He'd have expected her just to rip them off out of spite. That was more like the Rachel Matheson he knew, not this.
He let his mind wander while she worked. He had thought he'd seen her in the crowd below him while he was tied to the balcony at Nunez's estate. He hadn't been completely sure at the time, and truth be told after the first lash, he simply hadn't cared one way or the other. It was afterwards, when she'd shown up with the key that he'd been sure it was Rachel he'd seen. A sick part of him wondered if her voice had been among the morbid cheers of the crowd. As the leaders of the militia, he and Miles had sometimes resorted to corporal punishment as a way to deter desertion. Never had it been as severe, and although it had sometimes been public, it was never done with the spectacle that Nunez had insisted on. They'd never egged on witnesses to sadistically applaud and cheer. Punishment and humiliation were one thing, but what Nunez had ordered was a whole new level. He was sure that she'd gotten at least a little satisfaction at watching him being brought so low.
Suddenly, her voice broke his train of thoughts. "If you don't stop tensing up, the new bandages will pull when you stand up, and you will split these cuts back open again." She sounded decidedly irritated. He hadn't realized he'd been so tense. He took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the images of that night from his mind.
Despite all instincts to the contrary, he couldn't resist the impulse to finally ask her, "Did you watch? In the crowd?" He let the end of the question trail off, unable to quite finish.
Rachel quickly wrapped the cloth bandage back around him. She didn't want to admit to him she'd seen. Somehow, it almost seemed like a violation. She started putting the medical supplies back away, not wanting to look at him while she spoke. "I did," her answer came quietly, barely above a whisper.
He looked at her for a few moments. "Well at least our little road trip had something for everyone then," he remarked bitterly. He knew she had every reason to hate him, but the idea of her and the rest of the crowd sadistically watching and cheering made him feel ill.
She suddenly turned to face him, her blue eyes sparkling with both hurt and rage. "You think I enjoyed watching that? Watching your own son torture you while dozens of people cheered? Laughing at the notorious Sebastian Monroe for being Nunez's bitch to slap around?" He flinched slightly at that. She realized then he hadn't been aware his identity had been known to everyone. "Oh yes, Nunez's little henchmen made sure to spread the word about who you were.
What kind of person do you take me for? It made me sick having to watch that. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't want you dead. After everything you've done, nothing would make me happier. And, when this is all over I may very well hunt you down and kill you myself. Nothing you can do will ever make up for killing Danny. But, I wouldn't wish a public lashing on anyone, not even you. I am not a monster!"
He caught the implied "like you" that she didn't want to say. He turned away from her and started buttoning up his shirt. He knew he'd insulted her. For all her own sins, Rachel always took the moral high ground. He knew that, knew how her mind worked. He'd known her for a very long time, and knew that her holier than thou act was a coping mechanism. He'd overheard something about a suicide attempt after the tower, about her breaking. The angrier she got at him, the less she probably hated herself.
Rachel reflected on that night while she packed up the rest of her supplies. What Monroe didn't understand is why she was so horrified about that night. How she'd wanted herself to cheer with the rest of them. She'd tried so hard to take satisfaction in what she'd witnessed, but she simply didn't have it in her. She'd failed to enjoy it, and that felt like a failure to her. The world was finally paying him back for his crimes, and she'd failed Danny by wanting to stop it. (Ben did not require such vengeance. She'd been on the verge of leaving him right before the blackout, and in a lot of ways she had blamed him for not backing her up when she'd wanted to delay the DOD launch of the nanites. For all she knew, if he'd listened the blackout may not have happened)
Any failure to enjoy Monroe's pain seemed like a betrayal to Danny's memory. But the true moral side of her felt guilty for wanting to inflict pain on anyone, even Monroe. So she was stuck in a tautology of remorse, revenge, regret.
She could not forgive Monroe, and she refused to acknowledge the man she'd known before the blackout. To do so would give him a slim window of redemption, forgiveness. If she forgave him, she'd have to again face her role in everything that had happened because of the blackout. She simply didn't have it in herself to do that again. It had driven her insane the last time she'd faced it.
She slowly climbed the stairs. She had been worried that she'd gone too far when she'd thrown everything that had happened to Connor in Monroe's face. The urge to slap at him, hurt him was too strong. But, Monroe had seemed genuinely worried about the direction his son's life had taken. His desire to get him out of the cartel had seemed so real. How did someone go from wanting to help fix their child to wanting to break him more? Everyone had a point where they simply gave up, stopped caring. Was it possible that she and Miles had pushed Monroe to that point? He had shown up in Willoughby wanting to help, wanting their forgiveness. But, they had just kept slapping him down. He wasn't exactly known for his emotional stability. Maybe their resentment had finally pushed him to the point that he didn't care anymore. That would make any attempt he made at reforming the republic partially their fault.
Rachel turned around and tossed a bedroll and bag of food down that Miles had asked her to bring. Her thoughts weighed heavily on her as she locked the door and walked away.