Idle
Losing consciousness is always a strange experience. One time, Bass had blacked out in a bar and woken up in the backseat of a stranger's car. Twice - once before the Blackout and once after - he'd been wounded in combat, lost consciousness, and woken up on a field hospital operating table. Once, he'd been tossed off a friend's motorcycle, landed, passed out, and woken up ten seconds later as his friend was prepping to perform CPR.
But strangely, no matter how long Bass'd been out for, he'd always snapped back to consciousness one hundred percent alert. It had just felt like blinking and ending up somewhere else.
This time, he wakes to…a winged horse.
…What the fuck?
He blinks and scans the room, which is already in focus. That's a carousel in front of him. Where the hell had they - never mind, not vital right now. There are five - no, six - other people in the room: Miles is on his left, kneeling next to his leg - SHIT that hurts shit shit shit - FOCUS - okay, Nora Clayton - that's definitely Nora Clayton kneeling beside Miles, and in the background, the two Matheson kids, the chunky guy - Aaron - and against the wall, eyes trying to burn a hole in his chest bigger than the one in his leg: Rachel. If she's here, he's probably screwed.
Miles is muttering something to Nora - Bass catches "traction" and "hold him" - and then white light bursts behind his eyes and he wishes he'd just black out again because fuck that hurts. That must be Miles, setting the break in his leg. Fanfuckingtastic. He'd really been hoping he'd been wrong about it being broken. When his vision goes back to normal, Bass croaks, "You don't look sorry."
"What?" Miles gets more terse the angrier he is, and Bass knows him well enough to tell that he's about half a step from homicidal right now.
So of course, he pushes him. "Said you were sorry," he says, forcing a tense grin. "Then you shot me." He pauses, partly for dramatic effect, partly because Clayton's rigging up some kind of splint for his leg and he can either breathe or talk, but not both. Miles doesn't reply for a second, and Bass is suddenly worried that he won't be able to draw him into any banter. Banter is what keeps him alive.
Finally, Miles speaks. "Had to shoot you. Needed a hostage."
"Yeah? Well, you can't aim for shit, Miles. If you'd shot me in the fucking arm, I could have walked out of there with you."
"Yeah, and if I'd shot you in the head, I'd have a lot less chatter to deal with right now." Miles gives a particularly hard tug on the strip of cloth he's tying around the splint. Bass hisses through his teeth, grinning, because now Miles is talking in longer sentences. And that's good.
The first time Miles had ever been really and truly mad at him had been the summer they were eighteen, and Bass had banged some girl that Miles had liked. The girl had had absolutely zero interest in Miles, but it had violated the spirit of some unspoken agreement between the two of them, which Bass had only realized after the fact. He'd apologized fifteen ways to Sunday, but Miles had still hardly spoken two words to him in a week.
They'd made up eventually - three weeks, eight beers and a fistfight later - and Miles had resumed talking to him in full sentences, but the whole thing had shaken Bass in a way he'd hardly cared to admit. Over the subsequent years, Miles had razzed him about the endless stream of bimbos Bass dated, but truth be told, he'd just been trying like hell to stay away from any girl in whom Miles might've been remotely interested.
It'd worked, too, for a long time. The next time they'd fought over a girl had been almost ten years later, and she'd almost destroyed their friendship.
Hell, maybe she had.
…
"Yeah, and if I'd shot you in the head, I'd have a lot less chatter to deal with right now." Miles jerks the knot he's tying a little harder than strictly necessary, ignoring Bass's hiss of pain.
So, what the hell now? They can't stay here long, but he's been running on pure instinct and adrenaline for the last 48 hours, and now that all of that's drained out his boot soles, he's poor for ideas. And he's halfway-to-unconscious exhausted.
He tugs the last strip of cloth tight around Bass's splinted leg and stands, sliding his sword belt back into place and glancing out the broken windows at the parking lot.
"What's your plan here, Miles?" Leave it to Bass to cut right to the point of conflict. "'Cause you know Neville hates you, and Jeremy actually offered to shoot you for me…"
Jeremy? Really? Miles looks away, grinding his teeth. Jeremy'd been the one he'd hoped to negotiate with, but apparently he'd trained him, like everyone else, too well. Deserters got shot. No exceptions. Not even for the man who'd saved your life.
Shit. He runs a hand through his hair, realizes how much that gesture looks like Bass, then twists his rifle around on its shoulder strap so he can check the clip, mostly to give his hands something else to do.
For the first time since leaving the power plant, Miles looks - actually looks - at the people he's leading.
Aaron, back turned, is repacking his backpack in silence - but his hands are shaking. Danny has dropped to the floor, leaning his back against the base of the carousel. The kid looks dazed, exhausted, and more than a little beaten up, but he'll recover. Nora - beautiful, dependable Nora - is checking exits methodically, making sure no one's sneaking up on them and that they have an escape route available. Charlie hasn't moved since he yelled at her mother. He can't read the expression on her face, and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to.
Bass is smirking up at him, hair plastered, breathing shallow and pained, and for a second, Miles would give anything to be in his head. Bass'd always been better at reading people than him, and right now, he's staring across the room at Rachel.
Rachel, who hasn't taken one step from the corner. Miles risks a glance, and accidentally locks eyes with her - and of course, he can read the expression on her face, because he's seen it before.
He'd seen it in the spring of 2019, when she'd first realized that he and Bass had no intention of letting her return home to her family. He'd seen it ten years earlier, two days before Christmas, 2009, when he'd stood on the doorstep of Ben and Rachel's house, bags in hand, and she'd asked him to spend Christmas someplace else.
And he'd seen it almost exactly two years before that, on November 8th, 2007, sitting across a couch from Rachel with Charlie asleep two rooms away - he'd seen that same expression flicker in Rachel's eyes just a second before he'd leaned in and kissed her.
Then, he hadn't known what it meant.
Now, he knows it so well he doesn't need to put a word to it. It's just a feeling: a twist of the gut, a skipped heartbeat, a sick, stomach-dropping plunge, a wave of dark despair. He stands rooted to the spot, letting the storm break over him. In the end, it's just an echo - something he used to feel that should have faded with time - and probably would have, if he hadn't kept finding new ways to twist the knife.
Only Bass should be able to see the way he's standing very, very still, but suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder - Nora's, and how had he not heard her coming? - and a soft voice with an edge of playful sarcasm: "They don't have the boots I was looking for. Can we try another mall?"
And he's so tired, and so wrung out, that he laughs in spite of himself. It's not even a particularly funny joke. But it's something to laugh at, and he loves Nora for that.
For that, and for being the only one not scared shitless of him.
A voice croaks from the floor: "If you're not gonna take me back, can I at least get some bread and water or something? We're ten feet from a food court, and you haven't offered your hostage any McDonald's. That's bad manners, man."
Okay, maybe there are two people who aren't scared shitless of him.