Chapter 16: Pandora

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

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

A tiny bit of dialogue taken from 1.20, written by Eric Kripke & Paul Grellong.

Trigger warnings: POV Stockholm syndrome/PTSD

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

Nine years after The Blackout

Rachel lay back, enjoying the warm water relaxing away her cramps. Sure willow-bark tea helped, but nothing quite beat a warm bath. Rachel luxuriated in the large claw-foot tub, her blonde hair resting over the edge of the tub, her mind wandering, her left thumb stroking her naked ring finger.

The bathroom door creaked open and Rachel sat up with a start. It was only Miles. She relaxed back into the water.

Miles stared at her a few heartbeats before blushing and turning away. He said, "I'm sorry. The guard said you got the bathwater more than an hour ago. I thought you would be done. I'll be going now."

Rachel said without thinking, "No, it's okay. Stay." She was startled at her own impulse, but then again, after everything, what was a bit of skin?

She continued, quipping, "I don't have anything you haven't seen before. Though they may be less perky."

The back of Miles' neck turned bright red. That was odd. Rachel couldn't remember a single time she'd seen him blush, and wondered what had caused the intense reaction. She had thought she was teasing him about the new contractor/bounty hunter he had thought so highly of, and had started seeing recently.

Lately, he had dropped by a lot less and had reduced the number of their dinners together. Had even cancelled a few last-minute! Rachel told herself that she was fine with it. It would be wrong for her to expect to be the most important woman in her brother-in-law's life.

Anyways, she had grown accustomed to this curtailed life. It used to be that she thought she'd go mad if she was just a stay-at-home-mom, but here she didn't even have the freedom to drive to the grocery store, yet she found herself not unhappy. She had the time and freedom to explore fields of science and areas of literature she hadn't before – it wasn't as intellectually stimulating as trouble-shooting lab issues and synthesizing a logical explanation for all of the data, but by the sheer amount of poetry and prose she had read and critically thought about, she should get another PhD in literature.

Miles turned around and spoke, turning her attention back to the present, "I never apologized for that night. And I am; sorry that is."

Rachel was confused, and tried to trace his mental processes, tried to figure out what he was apologizing for.

Miles continued, "I shouldn't have drunk so much with Bass. I shouldn't have made you drive out to that sleazy bar. I shouldn't have made a move on you – shouldn't have done that you and Ben – and I most certainly should have listened to you when you said no. I was a dick and I was only thinking with mine."

Rachel placed the incident he was referring to. It had happened in Indiana after Bass' family's funeral. Bass and Miles had gotten stupidly drunk and had called Ben's cell for a ride back. Oh, to have a cellphone now. Ben was exhausted from writing a manuscript in the gaps between wake, funeral service, reception, and family meals – a manuscript that never actually got published because of DOD meddling – and Rachel had a hard time sleeping, so she had picked the boys up. She had gotten Bass settled on the couch and was helping Miles up the stairs when he had pressed her against the banister, kissing her neck, tangling his calloused hands in her hair. She had told him "no" several times, but he just wasn't getting the picture. He had gotten her blouse halfway off when she had had enough. She kneed him in the balls and fled up several steps. She had held her blouse closed around her pregnant belly and hormone-boosted breasts and firmly told him, 'Get out of this house, I don't want to see your sorry-ass face until you're sober.'

Rachel had tried not to think of the incident. At the time she was livid, and dismayed. But she learned that Gail and Bill Monroe were like a second mother and father to Miles, and his two sisters were like his kid sisters too. Ben said that Miles had spent more time at their house than at his own during the summers. She supposed she should cut him some slack. And once she knocked some sense into him, he had fled in mortification, so he had that much going for him. She was surprised at how he had almost completely cut off contact with Ben after that. He started giving Ben the most ridiculous excuses for why he couldn't come over for holidays.

Rachel became aware of their long silence, and the fact that Miles was staring at her. She glanced down; her breasts were floating on the water, making them appear more ample than they really were. It was odd; she felt no shame.

Rachel said, "Turn around."

Miles promptly did so, his neck still cherry red. Rachel stepped out of the tub and grabbed her towel, wrapping it around herself.

Rachel walked past him and left a trail of wet footprints from the bathroom to the main room of her suite. She grabbed her panties and slid them on underneath the towel. She sat down on a wooden chair and looked at Miles. His face wasn't quite as red as the back of his neck, but it was still pretty red.

Rachel organized her thoughts and said, "Bass' folks had just died, and you were pretty close. The alcohol had shut off all your higher brain functions…"

Miles interrupted, "Just piss-ant excuses."

Rachel continued, "You were a dick, but once I knocked some sense into the only head you were using, you had the decency to stop, to be ashamed. Now, let's stop dwelling on something that happened more than a decade ago; why did you stop by?"

Miles paced around the room, either he wasn't sure he should be let off the hook so easily, or he had bad news to tell her. Rachel tensed, afraid that he had found Ben and the kids, that this was the reason for his trip down memory lane.

Miles licked his lips and looked at her, "Rachel, I'm going on an extended mission to Georgia. Alec and Nora are coming with me. Will you be okay here, alone?"

Rachel smiled; this was what he was worried about? Rachel reassured Miles, "I'll be fine."

Miles continued, "Bass should be away most of the time. Major Hudson will be in charge when we're both out – you've met him, right? Jeremy will be on messenger duty, expect him to drop by once a month or so."

"Wait, how many months are you gonna be gone?" Asked Rachel, not aware of how long 'extended' was.

"At least eight, maybe more." Replied Miles.

Rachel felt a surge of fear, but she crushed it ruthlessly. She didn't need to be baby-sat, didn't need him hovering around her, protecting her 24-7.

"Miles, I'll be fine. Have fun with Nora," she tried to quip, not noticing the touch of bitterness in her voice.

Fifteen years after The Blackout

Miles head was still ringing with Rachel's simple 'I'm sorry about Nora.' He wasn't ready to deal with any of that, and something told him that he wouldn't like finding out how Nora got her wound, but he had to focus himself on this whack-job. This Mr. Flynn had just pushed some giant red button and sent fleets of Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles to Atlanta and Philly. Miles was certain there had to be safe guard to prevent one lone psycho from doing this weren't there? Some two-key turn system or double-verification passwords! Why wasn't there a fucking two-key turn system?! He shot at the Plexiglas, trying to stop this mass destruction from happening.

The whack-job shot and destroyed the button, yammering on, spewing his crazy nonsense about being a fucking patriot. Miles couldn't rip his eyes away from those red arrows homing in on Philadelphia and Atlanta – on Clare the bar owner, Jim the stable boy, and President Foster. Nora had died for this?

Then the whack-job blew his brains out.

Miles desperately said, "There's got to be a way to get in there. How do we – Rachel, how do we get in?"

Rachel stood still a few seconds watching the screen, and then ran off; Miles tailed her. There was a shot-to-hell card access point.

Rachel shouted back to the others, "There's no way in."

Miles staggered back to the dented Plexiglas window. He felt the need to sit at the wake for all of these soon-to-be dead people. To respect their last few moments of life.

The red arrows stopped moving.

Charlie turned around and asked Aaron, her voice full of awe, "What did you do?"

Miles glanced back; Aaron was sitting back at the computer.

Aaron replied, "I don't know, maybe saved hundreds of thousands of lives, maybe nothing, maybe nuked some poor unsuspecting innocent farmers."

Miles swallowed. Had Aaron turned the power back of? ICBMs did need computer guidance… maybe the missile heading for Philly would land in the Atlantic.

Aaron looked uncertain, a mix of jubilation and dread etched on his face. Miles felt the other man needed some moral support, and hell, if he had saved all those lives, he deserved it. He walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Miles said, "You did good, Chuckles."

Rachel returned from futilely attacking the other door, a hangdog look upon her face. She glanced puzzled at the two men, and Aaron replied semi-proudly, "I turned the power off again."

Rachel gave him a small smile, like he had just announced he made cookies, and turned to the large screen, studying it intently.

Miles caught Charlie glaring at her mother. Miles felt they all needed to have a little sit-down, but now was not the time. He stopped Charlie's imminent attack with a look, and she left the room in a huff.

Rachel shouted. Miles scanned the room for enemies, his adrenaline spiking. She was pointing at the computers in the main control room. They were dying.

Rachel ran over to Aaron. She was shouting and he was rapidly typing.

Miles asked Rachel what was going on, and was ignored, and Charlie returned to the room, drawn by the commotion.

Aaron calmly said, "If everyone could please stop shouting please."

Miles grabbed Charlie's shoulder for moral support, whether hers or his he couldn't tell, as they both tried following what Aaron was doing.

A few minutes later, Aaron crowed in success, "Don't hack a hacker, buster!"

Then all the computer monitors and the lights, and even the faint hum of the ventilation system, turned off.

"Well, here we are, again," dryly said Miles.

Rachel asked Aaron, "What happened?"

"A hacker, from near Austin, Texas, released a virus into the nanite's code. Whatever was keeping The Tower immune to the effects of the nanites must have failed," replied Aaron.

Charlie lit a candle and Rachel asked, "Well, now what?"

Charlie angrily retorted, "I don't know, Rachel, know anyone else who deserves to bleed-out?"

Rachel turned, her enraged face made even more threatening by the flickering candlelight. Well fuck. This was neither the time nor the place for this discussion, and he was fucked if he had to play intermediate between these two women. They were far too similar. Too iron-willed and determined.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said as he stepped in between the two women, "Can we not do this now?"

They reluctantly nodded, the candlelight reflecting off of two stubborn faces, glinting off of four steely, blue eyes.

"Thank you Miles, and I'm sorry…" said Rachel.

Miles abruptly cut her off with a terse, "Not now." He wasn't in the mood. It was too raw. Too soon.

Rachel nodded, and Charlie said, "I say we get out of here, who knows what Neville is up to, and what the rest of the Tower people will do with us."

Yes, first things first, get out of here alive, then sort all this shit out.

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :) I will elaborate on how Aaron stopped the nukes in a as-of-yet untitled story that I'm writing for the #ClaytonLives story contest. I'm just going to focus on the progression of Miles and Rachel's relationship in this one.