Chapter 8: Echoes

- Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, reviewing and favoriting. Each notice makes me happy!

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

Some dialogue taken from 1.13, written by Monica Owusu-Breen & Matt Pitts.

Trigger warnings: POV PTSD/Stockholm syndrome

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.

Seven years after The Blackout

As soon as Alec unlocked Rachel's cell, Miles threw open the door and tossed her drawing at her. "You drew the electrical diagram for a fucking toaster oven!" Alec closed the cell door after him.

Rachel deftly caught the diagram and retorted, "Well, what did you expect, Miles? That I wouldn't try to do whatever it took to protect my kids, and myself. Of course I'd lie to you!"

Miles had to restrain himself from thwacking her. She was sitting calmly on the cot in her 5'X10' cell, her knees tucked up under her chin, her thumb and forefinger twisting her wedding ring round and around – her tell – she may look calm, but that was just a mask.

She resignedly looked at him and said, "There is no magical way to turn the lights back on. Before, Ben and I were working on a project to make unlimited green energy from capturing the sun's light without having to use expensive and fragile solar panels."

Rachel stopped her fidgeting, and gracefully rose and started walking towards Miles. He tensed, what was she going to do?

She continued, "It didn't work. The DOD took our project and turned it into a weapon – a weapon they unwittingly used on the world. God only knows what happened – if it was on purpose or not. No one knows how to fix it – and I tried for years, for my kids, for all our kids. For all we know, it's God's punishment for our hubris."

As she finished the last bit, she struck, swift as a cobra, stroking the underside of Miles chin and pulling out his St. Michael medallion. Miles quickly restrained his instinctive counter-attack. She held his medallion, studying it, and asked in the tone of detached curiosity, "After all you've been through, after all you've done, you still believe?"

Miles nodded, wondering what her point was, and trying to ignore the effect of her near presence.

Rachel continued to stand right beside him, staring at his medallion. She said almost wistfully, "I wish I could believe."

Rachel continued, her voice still even, her body still close, her eyes still fixed on the sword-wielding figure on his medallion, "Miles, I caused this. It was my idea to start a green energy company. And I let the DOD take the project in exchange for experimental medical care for Danny. The Blackout is my fault. And Ben's."

Rachel released his medallion and stepped back, looking into his eyes almost pleadingly, "Ben moved on, and actually enjoys this simpler life. Can you believe it? I want the power back on, I want to Skype with my mother, I want to wipe my ass with toilet paper. But Miles, it can't happen, there is no way it'll happen. If you can't accept that, then please, kill me now, 'cause nothing you do to me will change that undeniable fact."

Miles was shocked at this turn of events; this was starting to feel more like a confessional than an interrogation, Rachel's earnestness and truthfulness engraved on every syllable. Mile fixated on her last statement, and asked, "You want to die?"

Rachel, her clear blue eyes still staring into his own, said monotonously, "Have for some time now." She forced a fake smile to her face, attempting to and failing at undercutting her previous statement.

Miles knelt down before her, holding her hands in his, he ignored her cold wedding band, focusing on her soft palms. What had she been through for this previously vivacious woman to desire death so readily? Why hadn't Ben fixed her? She was his wife. His to have and to hold. Miles shook himself out of it, he asked her earnestly "Why?"

Rachel pulled her hands free and sat back down on her cot, facing away from him. She was silent a while and then said, "Primarily, all the guilt about The Blackout being my much-corrupted brainchild, causing all of that death. But also, I have no skills to help my kids – Ben had that Eagle Scout trap stuff – but my kids didn't really need me, don't need me anymore. I have no purpose, no reason to go on."

Miles wanted to hold her and tell her – show her – that she did have a reason to go on, but her next sentence obliterated this feeling.

Rachel glared into his eyes and said, "In short, I'd much rather die than risk you hurting my family like you hurt me."

Miles was too startled to be angry at first. Here he was, thinking they were having a moment and she goes and stabs him in the kidney. Shit. He stood up and slapped her, twice, and after he wrested control over his rage, he turned and knocked on the cell door. While waiting for Alec to unlock the door, he turned at looked at the woman huddled in the corner of her cot, in the corner of her cell, hand to her face. Iron fist, velvet glove, indeed.

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Rachel was packing her bag; thinking about exactly what she needed to optimize her and Aaron's chances of actually making it to The Tower, and wondering if she'd need a gun. She had already packed a pouch of some of Neville's diamonds, a borrowed change of clothes, and some extra socks – you never could pack enough spare socks.

Miles stormed into the room, his brown coat actually billowing behind him – like in a movie, "Charlie says you're leaving."

"Yeah, Aaron and I are going to The Tower. We have to deactivate the nanites; we're going to return the power to the people."Replied Rachel, thinking: Damn, how many times did she have to have this conversation anyways?

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Miles asked; Rachel knew he was right to question her judgment. Hell, she questioned her own judgment; she'd made a lot of wrong bloody calls, but it wasn't like Miles had a better track record. If anything, his record was worse than hers.

"Yes," she said straightforwardly.

"Forget it. You're not goin'," asserted Miles.

"It's not up to you." Rachel stridently pointed out his patronization; she wasn't his prisoner anymore, wasn't his anymore. She collected a few unmarked tins of food, mostly for trade purposes.

Miles said, "Say you make it across the Plains Nation, to this Tower, and you flip the lights back on – all big ifs. Why the hell would you want to?"

Rachel set the food tins down beside her bag. "Miles" she reprimanded, and palmed some first aid supplies – an ace bandage, some gauze, and one precious tube of antibiotic ointment.

"Give power to everyone? To Georgia, to California, Texas. Oh, God, Texas? What do you think they're going to do with it?" Miles ranted. Rachel remembered how Miles used to rant about Texas during their dinners, before. It had been one of his favorite topics, she thought with the faintest traces of amusement.

Rachel walked up to Miles and looked him straight in his deep, soulful, brown eyes and explained, "The bad guys have it. The good guys need it too." Unsaid was her need to reclaim herself, to reassert the value of doing things for herself, to show that she still had control over her life. To show that she was an independent and worthwhile being.

Miles licked his lips and shook his head in frustration, "No one's a good guy." Oh, how well I know that, probably more intimately than you, and isn't there some Shakespearean line along those lines – one man in his time plays many parts and smile, smile, and be a villain? No, that's a mixed metaphor. Oh well, mused Rachel as she placed the medical supplies in her bag.

Rachel stepped back to Miles, she needed to take control of the conversation, "Listen, I need you to look out for Charlie." As much as Rachel needed to be needed, she also needed to fix the world she shattered, and maybe, at the same time fix her shattered self; then, maybe she could return to protect and heal her once-happy girl. In the meantime, she knew she could trust Miles to protect Charlie's skin, maybe not her psychological well-being, but certainly her skin.

"Don't," he commanded, shaking his head, "Just stop talking like you're dead already."

"Promise me that you'll take care of her," requested Rachel, ignoring his command.

"That's supposed to be your job," quipped Miles, in poor taste.

Rachel gave Miles a significant look, pointing out that it hadn't been her job in a long time, and she had utterly failed recently. Charlie would be better off with Miles, without her shattered husk of a mother. It didn't really matter whether Rachel survived or not. Rachel was afraid Miles could read the desperation in her eyes, moved back to the counter with her supplies and started packing the tins.

Miles sighed heavily. "Rachel… look at me." Miles grabbed her arm forcefully, turning her around. "I'm not letting you do this." He said, his voice crackling with emotion.

He shook his head forcefully; Rachel hesitated, looking into that Matheson face with its strong chin, prominent nose, expressive eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. She tried to work up the fortitude to say what needed to be said. She placed her hands upon his chest – she was doing this, she was actually touching a man out of her own free will, but then again, Miles didn't really count.

She entreated, "You can't be who you were. You need to take better care of her… than you ever took of me."

Rachel waited, watching; watching to see her words get through to him. She knew his weak spot – his guilt over her – and would leverage the hell out of it to ensure Charlie's safety.

Rachel saw him lick his lips, his tell – like a cat moving its tail – and wondered what was going on inside that mind of his; and then, suddenly, hungrily, he was kissing her. Rachel brought her hands up, to protect herself. Then she could feel his stubble on her chin and cheek, the warmth of his nimble lips, and allowed the kiss to continue.

Rachel placed one hand against the nape of his neck, and then the other. She felt a rush of warmth to her womb, and cupped his neck with one hand while playing with his coarse hair with the other. Miles grabbed her lower back, pulling her up towards him. Rachel felt a surge of fear and shame that he would feel her scars. Her fears were washed away with a fresh wave of sensation.

Rachel played with his hair, and wrapped one arm around his head to pull him down, towards her. Miles nudged them backwards until her back was against the counter. There was some faint, easily ignored, clattering as Miles pushed her against her supplies. But the added leverage was oh so nice. For once Rachel's mind was firmly in the present, enjoying the present, not tainted by the past, or worried about the future. She pulled him down onto her, the feel of his lips against hers, his stubble scraping against her chin, his hand running along her back, and his body pressed against hers in so many warm and inflamed places was so intoxicating, it certainly couldn't be wrong.

He backed up a millimeter, and she wrapped one leg around his, desperate for more contact, but he continued to back away.

She panted for breath, and pulled her hands down, away. She shouldn't have given in. She heard Miles sigh, and knew he regretted it too. She couldn't look at him right now – her mind had flashed back to that night oh so many years ago. The night she had forcefully stopped Miles from restarting their affair; the night she told him she didn't want to see him again until he was sober.

She fought the serotonin and oxytocin rushing in her brain for a clear thought. Damn. She tried to say something, but all she could feel was shame, and fear, and disgust. She turned away, leaving the room, leaving Miles and his damn charisma. She should be focusing on killing Bass, revenging Danny, not on whatever the hell Miles just tried to draw her into.

...In the morning glad I see / My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)