A/N: This will probably be the longest chapter in this by far. There was no way to split it up logically. This fic isn't meant to be overly long or descriptive, but I thought the subject matter was fun. I suppose could have gone without the first half, but the troubles he's having are significant to the plot later. Also, thanks to everyone that has commented on this story so far. I promise I'll reply to as many comments as I can once the weekend is over. It's enough just to get the chapters up with working all weekend.

Over the first several days after Charlie's arrival, Monroe spent most of his time showing her everything he'd been working on to try and bring peace and stability to the new Monroe Republic. He made it a point to show her the new policies he'd enacted in regards to taxes and the militia's behavior towards civilians first, hoping it would help to prove he was sincere.

Charlie spent hours alone in her office going over correspondences between Nashville and representatives from the south and so on. One week into her position as his advisor she found herself lying in bed with a stack of papers sitting on her lap, the oil lamp turned up to give her just enough light to see. She had her work cut out for her and had been burning the midnight oil since her arrival.

One of the first things she'd done when she'd managed to break away from Monroe was do a little digging around about him. Before she made any permanent decisions, she wanted to know if he was headed down that road again. According to his staff he'd been working from dawn until late into the night every day for months. It was a common sight to see him barking orders and sending dispatches at two in the morning or later.

He rarely left his office and quarters unless absolutely necessary and he hadn't left the compound in months. This did little to reassure Charlie. From what she'd heard when they were fighting against the previous incarnation of the Monroe Republic, he'd eventually cut himself off the same way right around the time he started to go crazy.

She'd also learned from the maids and from Sally that his drinking was starting to get out of hand. They couldn't see how he even managed to function with how much he went through. This had been going on for months—ever since Connor had popped up at their doorstep. He also never sought female company.

That struck Charlie as disturbingly odd. The Sebastian Monroe she knew had been a total male slut, if there ever was one. While she'd been tailing him in New Vegas she noticed he always had some piece of ass following him around. And, during the war she'd heard more than one rumor of his exploits.

Harris was only able to provide her with limited insight into his behavior. He'd been on guard duty when the message from Detroit had arrived and had been sent by his superior to deliver it— that was all. He'd just somehow slipped into his role as Monroe's go to guy by accident. Monroe had gone from not even knowing his name to trusting him implicitly before Harris even knew he'd been assigned the job. That had been a week before Charlie had arrived and he'd found himself promoted to captain the day after she'd shown up on their doorstep.

By the third week it was very clear that although he was honestly putting forth an effort to do things the right way, he was working himself into a deep depression and to the point of exhaustion. She also suspected that he was very lonely. His worries were many and whereas he made it a point to not act paranoid or crazy, he would soon be fighting a losing battle if things didn't change for him.

"What about Florida?" Charlie asked. They were sitting at his desk, going over the amended treaty for Texas. There was a promise to send aid as needed but the cost would be very high and it might not be enough to see them past the winter, despite the fact that the financial effects would hurt the Republic for years to come.

"What about it?" Monroe asked, looking up. Florida had remained fairly cut off since the bombs had dropped and had become autonomous under the leadership of one Governor Jeffrey Jackson.

"The growing season is year round, right? If you annexed Florida and sent workers to help, you might get a better yield throughout the season. It wouldn't be enough for the entire country, but if you added it to what Texas is willing to send it could help," she suggested. Deep down, she was almost starting to like her job, although she was still loath to admit it to him.

Monroe sat back and thought about it, his hands drumming lightly on the edge of the desk. "They'd never go for it. We'd have to take them by force, which is something I'm trying not to do, remember? That's why we ended up at war with Georgia for so long the first time around. That's the last thing I want right now—not to mention the fact that the Republic is basically broke. We can't afford to go to war."

Charlie shook her head at him. "Did you and Miles ever try a little diplomacy? You have to find the right thing to offer them. Give them an incentive." She pushed a piece of paper in front of him. Harris had enlisted several lackeys to come up with a list of what goods came from where. "Florida can't support large amounts of livestock and has no access to other things that are produced in various parts of the Republic—things like textiles and lamp oil. So, offer them a promise of those supplies in return for joining the Republic and increasing their crop yields. They don't have enough people to farm their land? Well, we have more than enough hungry people up north."

He just looked at her, in awe. Where had this amazing creature come from? "That could work… We'd more than likely have to allow them some measure of autonomy though. They could be like our Puerto Rico…" He caught the look she sent him indicating that she had no idea what Puerto Rico was and he should damn well know that. "It's an island in… you know what, it's not important."

She gestured towards the list. "Anyway, we know part of the problem up north is that there isn't enough food to go around. People eat what is produced regionally. There is more than enough land down south, but again, not enough people to farm it. Offer free land or tax breaks or whatever to get them to move south and farm rather than sit idle where the growing season is shorter. If there's a surplus down south then you can send it up north later. The entire Republic has to work together."

Charlie looked at him meaningfully. "Before, everyone sent stuff to Philly, but not to other parts of the Republic. I sat and watched an entire batch of soft cheese go bad in Wisconsin because we'd sent what we were required as taxes and had more left over than we could use. It never occurred to anyone in charge of Sylvania Estates to send it to Cincinnati or Chicago in trade, let alone just to get rid of it before it spoiled."

They went back and forth over the next several hours, coming up with several strategies to solve their immediate problems and prevent things from getting so dire in the future. He made no attempts to hide the fact that he was a soldier, not a politician. Still, most of the things he'd come up with on his own were along the same lines of what they'd worked out together now. It wasn't that they were bad ideas. There was really no reason why his plans weren't working, except for the fact that it was too much for one person to implement and keep track of alone.

The majority of the people that were working under him were good soldiers, when they weren't out to improve their own lots in life, but that's all they were. Most of them did not have the experience or motivation to help him when it came to dealing with food supply chains and the like. The United States before the blackout had entire departments dedicated to agriculture, industry, trade, transportation etc. He was trying to govern a nation a third of that size all by himself.

In Charlie's mind, it was little wonder that he'd gone insane the first time and was working himself to death the second time around. Even with her presence and help it was a huge undertaking and it was obvious that he still wasn't sleeping or taking care of himself properly—even if he had at least taken the time to finally get that haircut and had been at least stopping to eat on occasion.

By the end of the day he'd outlined several policy changes and he'd formed a response to the treaty. This is what I needed… A fresh perspective, he thought as he watched her retreat to seek her supper. They'd gotten more done in the past few weeks than he'd done in the previous two months and although he was still carrying a thousand worries and problems it didn't seem as overwhelming as before.

He was in the middle of writing a letter to Blanchard to go along with the treaty when the door to his office opened once more. He knew it was her. Charlie was the only person that walked in on him without bothering to knock. Harris no longer waited for an invitation to enter during working hours, but at least he made it a point to rap on the door at least once or twice before barging in.

He stopped writing to look up at her, thinking she'd probably forgotten something when she'd left. She'd changed and was dressed like she was headed out for the evening. The blouse and long skirt she wore concealed everything, but were tight enough that with her trim figure they left little to the imagination. This was a far cry from the warrior she'd been in Texas. "What's with the getup?" he asked, trying to hide the fact that he was enjoying the view from both Charlie and himself.

"When's the last time you've left this building?" she asked, snapping his attention to her face.

Monroe had to struggle to focus long enough to form words and turn them into a complete sentence. "It's been a while."

"Get out of that chair, get changed and meet me downstairs. You've become a recluse and the staff are starting to think you're creepy. We're going out." She headed back towards the door. "And for the love of God, wear something other than your uniform."

Before he could respond, she was gone and the door was closed once more. "Yes ma'am," he murmured, still sitting behind his desk and staring blankly ahead. What the hell just happened? In a daze, he went into his quarters and started digging through the closet for something non-uniform to wear. Sadly, the only thing he could find were the clothes he'd worn in Texas. Creepy?

The fact that people would find it odd if he didn't go out wasn't something he'd considered before. Then again, Jeremy Baker had urged him on multiple occasions to get out and stop living like a hermit in Philly. He forced back the memory of the last time he'd let Baker convince him to leave Independence Hall as he got dressed.

He looked into the mirror as he put on his old leather jacket. It fit him like an old friend. He hadn't worn it or anything other than his uniform since he'd first arrived in Nashville. He paused by the door before returning to grab a gun and check the clip. If he was leaving the compound, he sure as hell wasn't doing it unarmed. After strapping on his sword belt he headed down to meet her.

She took in his appearance. If it wasn't for the fact that they were in Nashville and she'd just spent the past couple of weeks helping him go over legislation and treaties, she could have sworn by the sight of him that they were still in Texas. "Seriously?" she asked as she raised a brown at him.

"What? I'm not wearing a uniform," he insisted.

"Do you even own anything else?" She looked him over. The sword belt he wore wasn't the fancy one that went with the trappings of General of the Monroe Militia. It was the old and worn one he'd picked up from the bounty hunters that had taken him from New Vegas—the very swords that he'd used when he'd saved her life in Pottsboro and that he'd fought with in the months that followed.

"No," he replied. He could feel the blush rising to his cheeks. There was something about the way she was staring at him that had him feeling flustered.

"Come on then," Charlie said, trying her best to hide her amusement at his obvious discomfort. Fair is fair, she thought to herself. She'd caught him giving her the once over when she'd come to his office to extend her very forceful invitation. As far as she was concerned he deserved to know what it felt like. They were almost to the seldom used side door past the kitchen when she stopped and turned. "Wait a minute. Where's your security detail?"

Monroe rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I sort of… dismissed them."

"For the evening?" She was bewildered. The General Monroe of the past had never gone anywhere in Philly without one, or so Miles had told her once.

"Indefinitely."

She pulled him aside, out of the earshot of the kitchen staff, who were eyeing them with interest. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I…" He hesitated. "Look, in Philly, I got really bad, okay? After I sent Connor to Jasper, I started feeling a little paranoid. So, I dismissed them…" the confession was hard for him. How could she possibly understand? It was bad enough to constantly look over your shoulder, wondering if your own son had people on the inside helping him plot against you. Having six men constantly following him around only seemed to exacerbate those feelings. "With them gone, things feel a bit more normal. That's why I don't leave the compound."

"Well, maybe we should have Harris get a few guards for us," she said thoughtfully. Watching the man she'd promised to help get assassinated wasn't her idea of a good time.

Monroe was firmly against it. "You want me to get out for a few hours? Well, I'm not doing it if I'm stuck tripping over body guards all night." He took a step closer to her. "Look, it's been months since I've left. If we're careful, I probably won't even be recognized since I'm out of uniform."

"Well at least you're armed," she murmured as he took the jacket she carried. She turned around and allowed him to slip it over her shoulders. And people say chivalry is dead, she thought with a grin.

They found themselves sitting at a table outside of a little pub on the outskirts of town. Torches had been lit so that the patrons that chose to sit there could see the drinks in front of them. Somewhere nearby an impromptu jam session had started with several men playing guitars and singling along to old country songs that Charlie had never heard before. The scene around the pub reminded her of the town square in Willoughby.

So far they'd lucked out and no one had even suspected that their president was among them. He'd never realized how liberating it would feel to get out after so many months being cooped up inside the capitol. The problems that plagued the rest of the troubled nation had not yet reached Nashville as severely, so most people seemed happy and at ease. Then again the same had been true of Philly once. If they couldn't get things to turn around it was only a matter of time before people would be tightening their belts and cursing his name here as well.

Early fall or not, a cold snap had just set in and the air was just brisk and it had sent most of the other patrons inside, but it wasn't bad enough to discourage them. At least here they could hear the music and were less likely to be noticed. It was almost like they were in their own little world apart from the others. "Why Monroe, is that an actual smile I see?" Charlie asked quietly so as to not be overheard.

"Bass."

"Huh?" she asked.

"I have a name, use it." He didn't know why it mattered so much that she stop calling him by his surname, but at that moment he couldn't think of a thing that took more precedence. She'd never called him anything else. It had never bothered him before, but things were different. He found that it annoyed the hell out of him now.

Charlie chuckled at him. "Okay, Bass then. So why the shit eating grin?"

He shrugged trying to appear more casual than he felt. "I don't know. This is just… nice. It feels normal. I can't remember the last time life felt normal. It's probably been since before the blackout."

He picked up his glass and went to take a drink. Charlie clicked her glass to his. "To normal then," she said as she raised it to her lips and downed its contents.

He could see the flush on her cheeks. Charlie Matheson was buzzed. And, if he was to be honest, so was he. He wasn't exactly drunk, but that perfect warm and fuzzy feeling that came when you had just enough to feel good but not so much that you were out of control—happy but not about to do anything stupid.

Of course it occurred to him that they really should be calling it a night before they got drunk enough to do something stupid. Try as he might he couldn't quite force himself to suggest it. After spending a lot of drunk and lonely nights in absolute misery, he wasn't ready to go back to the prison he'd created for himself quite yet. Besides, you're usually a lot more trashed by this time of night, he silently reasoned.

Just then the band started playing another song. Several couples from inside the bar had wandered out into the street and had begun to dance. He rose from his chair and held a hand out to her. "Dance with me."

"Excuse me?" she asked suspiciously.

That flustered smile found its way back to his face, lending him a boyishness that she hadn't noticed before. "Dance with me," he repeated. When she still sat there looking incredulous he shook his head at her. "It's not a marriage proposal, it's just a dance."

Charlie eventually accepted his hand and slowly rose. She let him lead her to where the other couples were swaying. She'd never been one to dance really, but the way he asked her was alarming adorable and benign that once she'd gotten over her shock at him suggesting it at all, she hadn't been able to refuse.

He pulled her into his arms and led her into the dance, moving her about in time to the music while one of the players crooned on in his rich tenor about love found and lost again. As they moved around the other couples, he looked down at her with an intensity that brought back memories of the man she'd traveled beside in Texas, of the camaraderie they'd once shared. It had petered out little by little once they'd arrived in Willoughby, but every now and again she'd catch him looking at her as he did now.

By the time they'd returned from New Vegas, he'd stopped looking at her all together. It wasn't until that night by the train that he'd willingly met her with his intense gaze again. It was just after he'd stopped Tom Neville from shooting through Miles to get to her.

Neville had said it was because Monroe was unable to deny anything for his "precious Miles," but the man had been unconscious when he'd given her that same heated and longing glance. Later when she found out how much helping her family with Texas had cost him, she wondered if there was something more to the way he'd looked at her. When her mother had been thanking him for not fucking them all over outside that church, it hadn't been Rachel he'd stared at, after all.

Now as the music played and he spun her around she saw a shred of a different man trying to escape from the gruff and cold exterior. In the past three weeks she'd seen the internal war he waged as he tried to hold it together and she'd learned that there was more to him than she'd ever realized.

The fact that he'd turned to her as a final act of desperation seemed at this moment to hold more significance than it had before. It was as if he wanted something more than a backup plan, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what.

Before long the song ended and the moment was gone. He led her back to the table. "We should be getting back," he murmured. "It's only a matter of time before someone recognizes me." He seemed almost wistful as he handed her a bag of diamonds so she could go inside and pay for their meal and drinks. He waited in the shadows for her to return. The bar was too crowded for him to risk going inside.

When she returned they made their way back in silence. Charlie was in utter confusion as to the change in his demeanor. He'd been open with her from the moment she'd gotten to Nashville and all of the sudden he'd completely closed himself off after that dance. He wasn't cold or mean, just shuttered in.

Monroe didn't speak at all on the way back to the compound because he didn't quite trust himself. Asking her to dance was not a wise move on his part, however much he'd enjoyed it—and it was overwhelming how much he had. Enjoying her company was not what he'd written her for, and he knew life would go a lot smoother if he remembered that.

She was here because he had been fighting a losing battle with himself and his own administration. He'd known within the first six months that he wasn't fit to lead a country, but he'd made his presidential bed and now he was stuck lying in it because there was no other. What started as a last ditch effort to keep his head above water seemed already like it would pay off, but he had to remind himself that's where it had to end. Now that they were finally starting to get somewhere, he couldn't lose sight of that now.

He'd already written the change in the law that would allow her to take over as President of the Monroe Republic. Technically if he were to die tomorrow, the job was already hers. She was here to help him fix this disaster he'd created for himself. She was not here for him to develop (or rekindle) an attraction or feelings for her. So yes, dancing with her had been a huge mistake because it had felt too damn good and had sent his mind places that it had no right to be.

Always the gentleman, despite rumors to the contrary, he still walked her to the doors that led to her office and private quarters, which were located just down the hall from his own. "Thank you, for tonight," he said.

His voice sounded so sad and for a split second he let his guard down again. She could almost see the longing in his eyes before the mask came back down and he turned to walk away. "Bass?" She waited for him to stop and look back at her. "Are you okay?"

Monroe smiled weakly at her. "It's just been a long day. Goodnight," he replied before retreating to his lonely rooms.

Charlie went into her room and got ready for bed. As she climbed under the covers she couldn't get him out of her mind. For a second there, I could have sworn he was going to kiss me, she thought to herself. For a second there, I might have let him.

Monroe stared at the ceiling for quite some time before he slowly started to doze off. A few hours later he awoke from a dream: blue eyes boring into his, learning his secrets and tempting him beyond his ability to endure; the feel of a warm body next to his and soft arms around him, holding him close. He'd woken up with his heart pounding in his chest and an uncomfortable throbbing between his legs. "Nope, I definitely shouldn't have danced with her," he grumbled.

Still, what was a man to do? Thoughts of the young woman in question drifted in and out of his mind as he quickly worked his way out of his current predicament. It didn't take long and within minutes of washing his hands in the basin and returning to bed he was asleep again. In the morning he would wake up for the first time in ages feeling rested and sans hangover. He would, however also spend the next few days too embarrassed to look her in the eyes without thinking of that dream (and what followed) and blushing.