As time passed, Charlie worked diligently with Monroe to try and fix the disaster he'd inadvertently created when he took on controlling all of the viable land east of the Mississippi River. What had at first seemed like arrogance on his part eventually revealed itself to be a happy (or in his reality, unhappy) accident. He'd only set out to reclaim what was left of his old Republic at first. The rest of it had just sort of fallen into his lap.

The first few days after their venture into town had been extremely awkward. For him, it had been because the evening rekindled an attraction he'd thought he'd eradicated when he had caught her with Connor in New Vegas. For Charlie, it was only awkward in that she could see he was going out of his way to be painstakingly professional to the point where it was almost annoying, and she couldn't quite figure out why. As far as she was concerned, they'd shared a meal and a few drinks and had a few minutes of fun—nothing had happened that should have caused him such an acute case of embarrassment.

Despite it all, being sequestered with someone for hours on end had a way of building a relationship, whether he'd been looking for one or not. His reluctance to let any of the higher ranking soldiers that lived and worked in Nashville get close to him (no matter how much closer to his age they were) meant that Monroe spent the majority of his time with Charlie and to some extent, Harris.

Even when he was "off the clock" (if there was such thing for a president), he found himself in their company. Even though he sometimes felt like an old man crashing a frat party around them, it was easier to spend time with people he trusted than it was to let his guard down around people that just might stab him in the back later. The only other option for him was to lock himself up in his quarters, and he was simply tired of being lonely and left alone to get lost in his own head for that to continue.

Because Harris acted as a go between both professionally and personally, the young captain was privy to almost every aspect of Monroe's life at any rate. And Charlie, well she was Charlie. She was the only link he had to almost every phase of his adult life. She represented the surrogate family that was; the beginning of the end of the old Republic and his abrupt emergence from the madness that almost destroyed him—not to mention the beginning of the slippery slope that was his road to redemption.

It was hard to not get close to both of them in these circumstances—especially Charlie. If he had to constantly remind himself that his friendship with her had to remain platonic, well so be it. In his lifetime he'd been attracted to countless women; being attracted to a woman didn't mean he had to sleep with her (although he had with the vast majority of them). The opportunity she offered with her presence in Nashville was far too great for him to risk anything more than friendship. And, for one such as himself, the friendship itself became far too important for him to risk throwing away just to appease his libido.

A few weeks after the dance that should never have been, Monroe and Harris sat in the library with glasses of whiskey, playing cards. The guards that had joined them earlier had already left (their presence had been an attempt on Charlie's part to make sure he was well acquainted with those charged with his protection) and Charlie had vanished shortly after dinner rather than join them as usual.

"Canasta," Harris said as he laid down seven cards before playing the rest and discarding.

"Damn," Monroe muttered as he tossed his hand down. He downed his drink while Harris collected the cards for the next deal. Why are we playing this? This was hardly a comparison to wild nights of fighting and roulette in New Vegas.

"I wonder where Miss Matheson has wandered off too," Harris said casually as he shuffled the deck.

Monroe raised an eyebrow at the younger man as he downed what was left in his glass. "Who knows?" He refilled his glass from the bottle on the table and then topped off Harris' as well. "You two seem awfully… chummy," he added.

Harris dealt and then picked up his cards, concentrating on sorting them in his hand. "Yeah, well we had to become friends. You know, join forces to keep you from working us to death… sir."

Monroe had to chuckle at that. "If you're going to sit here and drink my whiskey, don't call me that. I'm off the clock. Not like anyone's here to hear you anyway."

"What am I supposed to call you then?"

"Sebastian, Bass. Hell, call me Dickhead for all I care. Just not 'sir,' 'General,' or 'Mr. President.' It all gets old after a while."

"Yes sir, Mr. President Dickhead… Sir," he replied with a smirk as he drew a card and tried to keep a straight face. He realized he may have just crossed a line there, but sometimes he really couldn't help himself.

Monroe stopped for a second, trying to decide if he was offended or not. He watched his opponent carefully as he sorted through his cards again, most likely waiting to see if he was going to be dressed down for the comment. Instead of the warning he probably should have given, Monroe laughed. He had to admit the kid had some brass and he'd kind of left himself wide open for it. "So tell me, Shawn. Why are you sitting here playing cards with me and asking about Charlie instead of finding out what she's doing yourself?"

The way Harris had mentioned Charlie had just given his lightly buzzed mind an inspired idea. He'd spent more time than he was proud to admit trying not to look at her lately. He had to find a way to make her unavailable to him. It was the only thing he could think of to retain his sanity and keep from fucking up what they had.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. It had worked long ago in Texas, after all. She was only a few years younger than his secretary. In all actuality the two would probably make a decent couple; the kid seemed interested at the very least. Why else would he care where she was?

"Why would I want to do that?" He asked as he discarded. "Pile is frozen," he commented as he gestured to the joker he'd just played.

Monroe narrowed his eyes at him. Harris was a ruthless card player, even if it was only canasta—they'd been at it for an hour and the kid was beating him quite soundly. "Why not? She's about your age, smart, pretty. And there's even a chance she might not be able to kick your ass—at least there will be with a few more weeks of training."

When Charlie had insisted he get outside very now and again, he'd taken it upon himself to work with Harris at swordplay in the afternoons. She'd really meant leaving the compound, but he figured challenging Harris to a few sparring matches was a decent compromise. When the young man had shown a lot of promise, he'd decided to work with him. That was actually something about forming the Militia that he'd actually enjoyed once.

"She's not exactly my type," Harris confessed as he waited for him play or discard.

"Really?" The question got him an incredulous look. "Oh… gotcha," he added when he put two and two together. He made a few melds and then discarded, watching Harris while he played. It wasn't like he had a problem with the man's orientation, as much as he was surprised by it. In truth really could give a fuck less who he or anyone else slept with. Even so… "You know, Shawn this-"

The captain cut him off. "Don't worry. You're not my type either," he assured his boss with a roll of the eyes. "You're too… fuzzy. And a bit old for me, don't you think?"

Monroe waited for his turn and stared at the cards in his hands. "I'm not old," he grumbled under his breath. He slapped his discard down, as much annoyed with the fact his age had just been called into question as he was with his shitty hand.

"Why would you try and push me at her to begin with? The household staff is convinced you've got a crush."

Monroe watched as Harris picked up the entire discard pile and started arranging his now much larger hand. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," he laughed as he started playing cards out on the table. "I'm out," he said as he laid his last card down.

"I hate this game," Monroe snapped as he threw down his cards again. "Can't we just get drunk?"

"Yes sir," Harris replied, ignoring the dirty look he was given at his deliberate use of the title.

Later that evening Monroe was headed to his quarters when he happened to run into the object of his not-so-secret obsession in the hallway. "Oh, you're back," he murmured, trying very hard to hide that he was fairly well plowed.

"Have fun playing cards?" Charlie asked innocently enough. She'd been out hitting a few of the local pubs. Although she'd enjoyed herself immensely, her real reason for going out had been to listen for rumors. She was curious to see what the currently public opinion was—she'd learned early on in the evening that the opinions were quite mixed.

Monroe leaned casually on the wall next to her door. "If you consider getting your ass kicked playing Canasta fun, then no. I swear Harris cheats," he replied, trying his best not to slur. He grimaced at the way she laughed at him. "So how did you spend your evening?"

"Went out, had a few drinks and a few laughs. Fended off a few local boys," she said, smiling

Monroe tried to not feel jealous. Really, he did—he just couldn't help himself sometimes. "Oh, well…" He shut his mouth for a second and did his best to hold the feeling at bay. "I… Goodnight," he said as he abruptly turned away.

"Bass? What's wrong?" she called after him.

He considered the wisdom of turning around. Somewhere in the drunken haze of his mind he knew he should just keep on walking. Instead he stopped and faced her. "I'm the president of this shit dump and you're kind of my closest advisor. Please tell me that you were at least discrete while you were bar hopping and trying to get laid."

Charlie flinched, like he'd just slapped her. "Excuse me? You have no right… What the fuck is your problem?" She was shaking with anger. He really had some kind of nerve.

Monroe realized how much he'd fucked up the second the words had come out of his mouth. "Forget it," he said before high tailing it to his own rooms as fast as he could.

Charlie watched him go before opening the door and disappearing inside. There was something in the way he'd retreated that struck her as odd. He'd been a dick, of course but he'd also seemed so… defeated, like she'd hurt him somehow.

Monroe was standing on the other side of his door. He leaned up against the wood as he considered what he'd just done. "Stupid… stupid… stupid." He was disrupted from his current pity-party by a knock on his door. He carefully opened it to see Charlie standing there. The flash of anger she'd displayed was already gone.

She stared up at him for a few minutes, taking in how wary he looked now. "What's going on with you?"

"I'm sorry. I was out of line. I…" He hesitated. "Just ignore me. I'm just an old drunk and an idiot."

"Well, I won't deny the drunk part, or the idiot part for that matter. You were wrong, you know—about why I went out."

Monroe backed up a little into his room when she stepped forward. "You don't have to explain yourself. It's none of my business. Listen, it's late and I'm tanked. I should just go to bed before I say something stupid—again."

Charlie decided to let him save what face he could. She could tell there was something else going on there, but knew that pressing him about it would only result in his retreating further. At some point they were going to have to have a long conversation about both this and that other night, but now was not the time. "It's okay. I'll forgive you—but just this once. Goodnight," she said as she stepped back.

"Goodnight," he echoed softly as he closed the door. Later he was sprawled on his bed trying to pass out. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he asked aloud. He really did have a way of putting his foot in his mouth when it came to Charlie. She's just your friend and an employee; you don't get to act like an ass…