AN: Now we verge into AU territory. Begins near the end of "Nobody's Fault But Mine," when Miles and Bass have their semi-epic face-off. I thought the writers could have made more interesting character choices in this scene, and the choice you'll see here is the one I would have preferred.

MAJOR thanks to buttercups3 for some excellent information on the military, firearms, and ballistics that greatly informed this chapter! Any remaining silly mistakes are mine, not buttercups3's! :-)

Disclaimer: Although the beginning of this scene is played pretty straight from "Nobody's Fault But Mine," including use of some of the original dialogue, I must legally remind you all that I don't own "Revolution," or these characters, or that borrowed dialogue, and am just having a hell of a good (but definitely not financially profitable) time playing in this universe. Also, after this, we're off into full AU territory. I don't mind skirting around the edges of episodes, but I hate repeating them. I do so here only inasmuch as is necessary to get to the real plot. :-)

Ignition

"ig·ni·tion

/igˈniSHən/

Noun

1. The action of setting something on fire or starting to burn.

2. The process of starting the combustion of fuel in the cylinders of an internal combustion engine."

- Google Dictionary

It's funny how a moment you've been dreading for time immemorial can be there and gone in a few short seconds.

Miles Matheson stares down the rifle barrel at Bass - at Monroe - and grits his teeth to still his shaking hands. Hell, he's standing five feet away holding a goddamn semi-automatic rifle and he's still not sure he's going to hit his target.

"You just gonna kill me?" Bass says, a hard edge in his voice. It's a fair question.

Miles is focusing so hard on his aim he hardly hears himself asking, "Aren't you gonna do the same?"

The muzzle of Bass's Desert Eagle lowers, incrementally, and the whole world shifts under Miles' boots. Bass speaks again, but this time, it's that soft, gravelly voice that sets all the alarm bells in Miles' head buzzing: "No. I'm not gonna hurt you, Miles." What is this? A con? His hallucinations come true?

He can't help but follow the gun with his eyes, giving plenty of opportunity in his distraction for his best friend to put a couple rounds in his chest, but Bass just spreads his arms out wide, pistol held loosely in one hand.

"Put your gun down." Like hell. This is some sort of trick. He raises his eyes again to his target - to his friend, to his enemy, and dammit, Bass is walking toward him now, arms still held wide.

Holy fucking hell. Half of him wants to run to Bass and hug him till he can't breathe, but all the other half can think is, He's a liar, liar, liar… And he has about three seconds to decide which half to believe before Bass'll be close enough to grab for his gun.

He's too tired for games, so when he speaks, Miles voices what he's actually thinking: "What are you doing?"

And the answer throws his off-kilter world into a full blown spin. "I'm not gonna shoot you. I want you to come back." Bass edges a step toward him, raising one hand as if to stay Miles' shot.

"You want me to what?" If he couldn't keep his hands steady before, they're a fucking flea circus now. He's as liable to shoot himself in the foot as shoot Bass. Bass takes another step forward, and Miles slides sideways and back, starting a slow circling pattern, trying to give himself some space to think.

Bass is still talking, always talking, that smooth voice that rolls truth and lies into one seamless package: "We look out for each other; that's what we do. Even when the other one screws up. I forgive you - okay? I forgive you. You come back, I'll let your family live. I'll give you whatever you want."

He's seen Bass use this exact same technique a hundred times on a hundred different prisoners: establish rapport, put them in your debt, remind them of your power with a backhanded threat, offer them the world on a platter if they join your cause. Miles' eyes harden.

And then Bass breaks script.

"It was better; it was…simpler, with you here." His voice wavers, and his eyes shine with something like desperation. And in those eyes, for just a second, Miles sees the little kid, the best friend, the brother who'd never left his side, who'd worshipped the ground he walked on.

Then the last word Miles expects comes out of Bass's mouth: "Please?"

The gun clatters to the ground, and Miles flinches like he's been shot. Bass steps closer again, unarmed now, eyes never leaving Miles. Miles is so distracted he hardly realizes they're still circling until his right foot bumps against Bass's discarded pistol.

He glances down at the gun, then up at Bass over the scope of the rifle. Bass has always read him better than most, and he must see something in Miles' eyes now, because he almost, almost looks relieved when he says, "Now, you tried to kill me once before, and you couldn't pull the trigger."

Miles flashes back instantly to that moment - the gun buried in the back of blond curls, Bass's whispered "Why?" - and for a second, he's there and here at the same time, holding a pistol to the back of Bass's head and pointing a rifle at his chest. He'd thought it would be easier, somehow, looking Bass in the eyes. He'd thought he would see how far gone he was, see the monster instead of the man.

He'd been wrong.

...

Bass had been wrong. Oh, shit - he'd been wrong. When he'd seen Miles round that corner, for just a split second, he'd actually expected him to lower his rifle, grin, jog up and clap him on the back with a "Gotcha!"

Then he'd seen Rachel behind Miles and that hard look in Miles' eyes, and he'd processed it all just fast enough to dive for cover as Miles mowed down the soldiers in front of him. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

He knows he'll have to talk his way out. Sure, they could have a bloody shootout, but they both know the odds are pretty even they'll both end up dead once the shooting starts. And Bass hasn't ever been able to compete with Miles in a fair fight, not since they were kids. So he falls back on what he's always been good with: words.

As he steps from cover, leveling his pistol at Miles' chest more for insurance than anything else, he can see that Miles, for all that his hands are shaking, has already made up his mind, and Bass pushes to the back of his own the voice that's looping: He didn't come back for you. It wasn't a con. You were wrong. You were wrong. You were wrong.

He's got to keep Miles talking. At least talking long enough for Jeremy to bust through the door behind him and blow his best friend to hell.

So he talks. He spins lies and drops veiled threats and pushes and twists and turns the words to his advantage, pulling at everything he knows will put Miles off kilter; will make him hesitate. And if these are his final moments, then this speech is Bass's magnum opus - a masterpiece of manipulation so convincing that Bass actually feels the words start to catch in his own throat as he stares at Miles through burning, blurred eyes.

And then the next words come unbidden: "It was better; it was…simpler, with you here," and his goddamned voice is shaking because there's too much truth mixed in that lie, but he's a fucking genius at this, because he sees real doubt surface for the first time in Miles' eyes.

Softly, because he's got Miles on a knife edge and he's afraid to break the moment, and - if he's honest - because all the rest of his carefully planned words have fled him, Bass whispers, "Please?"

Then, as if of its own accord, his hand opens, and his gun clatters to the ground. Miles flinches. Bass opens his arms wide, staring at Miles through red-rimmed eyes.

Holy fucking goddamned shit. What in fuck's name is he doing? He's taken the con too far, and Miles is going to blow his fucking head off. Panic claws at his skin, and Bass's whole body tenses like someone's twisted a spring between his shoulders. He grabs at his words to shield himself, and the rest of his artful speech comes flooding back to him, along with a profound sense of relief. Miles hasn't shot him yet - why is that? - and now he has his words back; has control.

"Now, you tried to kill me once before, and you couldn't pull the trigger." Their slow circling has brought them 180 degrees from their starting points, meaning that the door Jeremy is about to blow through is now directly behind Miles. Which means Bass has probably less than a minute to get Miles to drop his rifle before all hell breaks loose and one or both of them dies.

He's still speaking, creeping forward, backing Miles incrementally toward the door. "I understand that now; I couldn't do it either if I were you." He wonders if that's actually true. Bass pauses, eyeing Miles searchingly over the rifle barrel - there's that flash of doubt again in his friend's eyes. This is poker, and that was Miles' tell. Bass plays his last card:

"And I don't think you're going to pull it now." He really hopes that's true. Real fear flashes in his eyes before he can stop it. Miles tenses, raises the rifle a half-inch. Bass just holds his position, arms raised, one hand reaching forward slightly as if to ward off an attack.

Then Miles blinks, suddenly and rapidly, like he's clearing a fog from his thoughts. His eyes soften, and Bass feel the flood of relief turning his muscles to jelly even before Miles' rifle lowers to his side.

"I'm sorry." The words catch Bass by surprise. Not because Miles bought the con - it had been his best work of manipulation ever, perfectly executed - but because of the way his gut twists when Miles says them.

Miles bends down and sets the rifle carefully on the ground next to the body of a dead soldier. He looks at the dead man for a moment, then around at the four other bodies, as if seeing them for the first time.

Bass can't move. He's shaking with relief and residual adrenaline, flooded with more than he ought to be able to feel at once. It's looking, impossibly, like his ploy had worked better than he'd ever expected - like he's gotten Miles back. He's got him back. Of course, there'll be some objections, and a hell of a lot to work out - like how to keep Jeremy from shooting Miles on sight - but -

Shit, Jeremy. Bass flicks a glance at the door behind Miles. And hears the sound of approaching boot steps. Bass reaches for his words.

"Miles…" is the only one he can find.

Miles, still crouching next to the dead soldier, lays his hand on the man's back. The sound of running soldiers has got to be loud enough for him to hear by now. He bows his head, dark hair hanging over his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says again. It comes out softer, more broken.

Then, in one motion, Miles pulls the sidearm from the dead man's holster, levels it at Bass, and fires.

The door behind Miles flies open just as pain explodes in Bass's left leg, halfway between knee and ankle. He can't actually hear the bone break over the report of the 9mm and the shouts of Jeremy's soldiers, but he sure as hell feels it. His vision goes blindingly white, and the spots clear just long enough for him to see Miles grab the rifle in one hand, strafing enough bullets across the doorway to make Jeremy and his men dive for cover. Then he feels Miles' shoulder slide under his arm, an arm wrap around his back, and then nothing.