AN: This update grew and changed and morphed like one of those shapeshifty goddesses in myths that change forms as they try to kill you. Eventually, I forced it into this stasis with my word wrestling powers, but it still feels like half an update to me, even though it's crazy long. Next half coming soon - and it will include Miles playing GUITAR! :-)

Also, hilarious story from a couple nights ago when I first tried to post this: I logged on to post it, and immediately, all of the power in my house flickered and buzzed, Revolution-style, the lights went dim for a minute, and then it all went out. But here's the really funny part: When everything started to buzz and flicker, I went running around the house looking in every room downstairs for candles and a lighter - until my roommate looked at me strangely and handed me a flashlight. It had not even OCCURRED to me to look for a battery-powered light source. SIGH.

Disclaimer: Revolution's still not mine, and I'm still not making big bucks (or any bucks) off this.

Warning Lights

Miles wakes in pitch black, the rattle of the wagon just stilling around him. They've stopped, and it takes a moment for his groggy brain to process time information from the look of the stars overhead. He's slept the better part of six hours. Nora should have woken him after two, but his irritation at being allowed to oversleep is dimmed slightly by the fact that his thought processes and reaction time seem almost normal again.

He clambers out of the wagon bed, trying not to step on Bass - who's either unconscious again or sleeping like the dead - or on Danny or Rachel, who've both fallen asleep leaning against the opposite side of the wagon from Bass. Nora and Charlie have dismounted, both moving stiffly and a little bow-legged after six-plus hours in the saddle - poor Charlie's probably never ridden longer than an hour in her life, and from the way she's half limping, she's really hurting. Nora should have known better than to let her ride that long, and should have woken him to swap with her.

He steps up quietly beside Nora, who hands him the reins to her horse and points ahead of them at a large house surrounded by a tree line and an eight-foot fence. Nora motions a "stay here" and jogs off by herself toward the house's front gate. Miles watches her form fade to a silhouette against the lantern light on the gate, then redirects his attention to the house. Something looks - and it suddenly becomes clear to Miles just how much of the navigation he's left up to Nora for the last eight hours when he realizes that he recognizes the place.

This is Harold Eberhart's plantation. Eight years ago, the Eberharts had been as Republic-loyal a family as you could find in Pennsylvania, and that'd been saying something. Hell, he'd brought soldiers here on work duty once to help bring in the Militia's share of the Eberharts' crop, and he'd watched Harold put a bullet through the forehead of a rebel sympathizer caught stealing from his fields. Harold hadn't blinked.

So, either Nora knows something he doesn't, or this is all about to go to hell. Of course, it's probably about to go to hell either way. Whether Harold's switched sides or the plantation is under new management, someone is bound to recognize Bass. Nora had suggested they introduce Bass as "Brett Miller," a rebel spy placed undercover in the Militia who'd helped them break Rachel and Danny out. It conveniently explains away Bass's uniform and his injuries ("sustained in the escape"), but it still feels weak to Miles. He wouldn't believe it.

And even if everyone buys Nora's story, Harold's going to know Miles immediately. This is the part he hates most about being back in the world again - everyone's an enemy. His old friends hate him for deserting, and his old enemies hate him for - well, for everything else.

At least in his bar, ninety-five percent of people hadn't wanted to kill him on sight.

The sound of footsteps - at least three sets - puts him on immediate alert. A few seconds later, Nora emerges from the darkness, flanked by two guards. They're all escorted inside the gates in silence, then one of the guards takes the reins to the wagon horses while the other just points at the entrance to the main house like the goddamn Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. (A Christmas Carol was the only holiday movie Miles had ever liked, and he still can't put his finger on why. Scrooge is an ass, and the whole story's a little creepy.)

Nora gives him a tense smile, everyone groggily piles out of the wagon, and he slings Bass over his shoulder, waving off Aaron when he tries to help.

They trudge up a couple of stairs to the pillared front door, where Nora looks at him, then knocks. The door swings open almost immediately, revealing a man who's always reminded Miles of an athletic Santa Claus - jocular, wide-shouldered, gray-bearded Harold Eberhart. Nora steps in front of Miles, blocking his view - and Harold's, for which he's grateful. He'd rather not slug it out right here on the porch, and he doesn't like his chances anyway with only one hand free.

"Nora Clayton!" Harold booms like she's a long-lost daughter, literally lifting her from her feet in a bear hug. "Come in!" he continues - redundantly, since he's already set her down on the other side of the threshold. All six of them file into the huge stone-tiled foyer, Danny, Charlie, and Aaron craning their heads to stare at the sweeping staircase, the art on the walls, and the general "I've got a boatload of money" decor of the place.

Rachel looks less impressed, but living in the capitol of the Monroe Republic for eight years will do that to you.

Harold sets two massive hands on Nora's shoulder, frowning like Ben used to frown at Miles when he'd visited on leave looking a little too gaunt and hollow-eyed for Ben's taste. "It's been far too long, Nora. I know you're busy restoring the United States, but you could at least stop by for dinner once every six months."

Nora smiles and bats Harold's hands away. "Just what you need, Harry - a known rebel bomb maker frequenting your spare bedroom."

"Oh? Have you become famous, then?" Harold laughs.

"She's working on it," Aaron mutters under his breath, his eyes sliding unconsciously to Bass before Rachel jabs him hard in the ribs, as Nora says, "I may have provided fireworks for a few important events."

Harold keeps right on chuckling as he jerks his bearded chin at the rest of the group. "Who're your friends?"

"Harry, this is Rachel, her two children - Charlie and Danny - and Aaron Pittman - " Harold raises an eyebrow like he recognizes the name, though Miles notices Nora's conveniently left out -

Harold notices too. "Rachel, Charlie, and Danny…?"

"Matheson," Charlie answers, planting her hands on her hips like she's ready to defend the name.

Harold looks sharply at Nora, then at Rachel. "Wife?"

Miles' head snaps up in time to see Rachel wince visibly. He looks away, studying the woodwork on the long, curving bannister, but he still hears Rachel's sigh as she replies softly, "Sister-in-law."

Harold regards her steadily for a long moment, reading something in her blue eyes. Then, apparently satisfied, he turns toward Miles.

"The unconscious one is Brett Miller," Nora begins, "and he - "

But Nora's cover story turns out not to be necessary after all, because apparently Harold doesn't give a damn about "Brett Miller" when the person carrying "Brett Miller" is…

"Miles Matheson," Harold spits, eyes narrowing until he looks a lot more like the Harold Miles remembers. "So my intel guys really weren't shitting me."

Well, that hadn't taken long. Five escape plans run through Miles' head in a split second, but they're all too likely to get one or all of them killed. He opts for squaring his shoulders and staring right back into Harold's blue eyes.

"Harold," he says, keeping his voice carefully even. He pauses, then can't not ask. "How long have you been playing both sides?"

Harold's eyes grow a little less narrow, and for a second, Miles could swear they actually twinkle. "Been working deep cover for the resistance since before your last visit, General."

Harold Eberhart, model citizen of the Monroe Republic, had been a goddamned rebel for the better part of fifteen years, and no one in Miles' Militia, including himself, had even noticed? Hell, he'd eaten dinner with the man ten years ago and talked over his and Bass's plans for the Republic's expansion into New York and Harold had sat right there across the table from him, lying through his teeth. Rage flashes through him -

- and Harold sees it. From a holster strapped inside his jacket, he produces a Militia-issue 9mm and aims it at Miles' chest.

He could have killed Harold three times in the time it took the older man to draw his gun, but Miles just stands there. Because honestly, he deserves it. What the hell does it matter now that Harold had lied to him ten years ago? He should be throwing the man a fucking party. Congratulations - you didn't get killed by me back when I was a murdering psychopath. For a second, he wishes Harold would just pull the damn trigger.

Then Nora yells "Harry!" and Charlie yells "Miles!" and both women jump in front of him like goddamn fools.

Suddenly, Harold's pointing a gun at his niece and his - well, whatever Nora is to him, and he really can't think about that right now - and Miles feels rage for an entirely different reason. "Nora! Charlie!" he growls, shoving his way between them. "Get out of the way." He steps fully in front of Charlie and Nora, shifting Bass's dead weight on his shoulder, and takes two steps closer to Harold until the muzzle of the gun grazes his shirt.

"Let me put this idiot down first." Miles jerks his head at Bass. "Then, you can shoot me if you want." He pauses, fixing Harold with the full weight of everything he feels on the subject: "But if you ever point a gun at my family again - " He looks Harold straight in the eyes and hopes the other man is remembering every nightmarish story he's ever heard about him - "I will break your neck with my own damn hands." Slowly, not taking his eyes off Harold, Miles lowers Bass to the floor, then straightens, raising his hands and stepping forward till the 9mm's actually pressing against his chest.

Charlie lets out a strangled sob, and Miles almost loses his nerve right there. It takes everything in him not to just break Harold's wrist and take the gun.

But he can't.

Because that's what General Matheson would have done.

The cold from the gunmetal starts to seep through Miles' shirt as Harold regards him for a moment, like he's assessing something about him - but hell if Miles knows what it is. Then the gun disappears into Harold's coat as quickly as it appeared. "Good enough for me," he says, smiling.

Charlie rushes forward, throwing her arms around Miles with a tear-streaked grin, and it's possible that he's actually getting used to his niece's sudden displays of affection, because he doesn't immediately tense. He just peels her arms off one at a time and wriggles from her hold, awkwardly ruffling her hair with one hand like she's a puppy. "See? I'm a master negotiator."

Harold claps Miles on the shoulder hard enough to send him staggering, and, with a hearty chuckle, adds, "Welcome to the rebellion's best-kept secret base, Mr. Matheson."

"Just Miles," he mutters, bending to pick up Bass again. This time, Nora moves to help him, something unreadable in her eyes, and Miles lets her shoulder half of Bass's weight, looking away when she tries to catch his eye.

From previous visits, he knows that the Eberhart plantation is huge, and he finds that he's - grudgingly - impressed that Harold's managed to run an entire resistance operation right under the Militia's noses while wining and dining most of Militia high command. He's stayed here before, and remembers it being a nice, if a little overly opulent, vacation from sleeping in tents on the march. Tonight, Harold just waves a hand at the entire upstairs and says, "Help yourselves. You look exhausted. I'll wake you for breakfast." Charlie, Danny, Aaron, and Rachel trundle up the stairs, ahead of Miles, Nora, and Harold. As they climb, Harold looks over at Miles and Nora and sighs. "I'd offer to send a rider for a doctor for your friend, but the only one I trust was executed last week for treating both rebels and Militia soldiers after a skirmish."

Beside Miles, Nora pauses, forcing him to slow his pace. "Anthony?" she asks quietly.

Harold nods. "Saw it happen. Had to have the bastard commander over for dinner afterwards and laugh at his goddamned jokes." His voice thickens. "Just gotta keep thinking it'll be worth it when we finally blow up the whole damn Republic from the inside."

Nora reaches over with her free hand and squeezes his arm, smiling grimly. "You're still doing the right thing, Harold. Even when you're doing the wrong thing, you're - "

" - doing the right thing. I know, I know," Harold finishes her sentence, returning her grim smile. "Now, c'mon; let's do the right thing for your friend here."

Miles places his feet carefully as he navigates the last few steps, and wonders how Nora'd met Harold. They have a comfortable rapport that suggests a long-term friendship, but she hadn't known the man when Miles had been with her…of course, she'd had six years on her own since then, during which she could have met a lot of men… He slams the door shut on that particular line of thought. Her life; her business. But suddenly, he's noticing that Nora's close enough for him to pick up the familiar jasmine-and-gunpowder scent of her hair. When had he tuned in to that? What is he now - jealous? Nora's always been free to do whatever the hell she wants, with whoever the hell she -

He misses a step, and starts thinking about his feet instead.

The upstairs hallway is as enormous as the rest of the house. Miles can hear soft exclamations of surprise, mostly from Charlie, as she and Danny walk up and down the hall, opening door after door to almost ridiculously opulent bedrooms. Harold swings open the door to the nearest one, and Miles and Nora install Bass, not without difficulty, in the bed.

He looks like shit, but he's still breathing, the splint's still in place, and, amazingly, he hasn't bled through the bandages. In other words, there's nothing to do for him. It's chilly in the room, so Miles lights a fire in the fireplace and throws the blankets over Bass. Then he pulls his canteen out of his pack, takes a swig, and leaves it on the nightstand.

Nora and Harold have disappeared into the hallway, chatting like old friends. Almost like father and daughter, really. Shit, he's missed a lot in six years.

He turns to follow them, so his back is to the bed when Bass's rasping voice makes him nearly jump out of his skin: "Why?"

Miles turns, to find Bass with his eyes open, staring at him piercingly. "Why what?" he returns, automatically. His heartbeat's still thudding in his ears, muffling the sound of his own voice.

"You got out, got what you wanted. You got your family - " Bass spits the word " - so why keep me?"

Miles squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe I missed your sparkling personality."

"Fuck you, Miles."

Bass has always been surly when he's in pain.

"Glad to see you're feeling better."

Bass takes a slow, hissing breath, and locks his eyes onto Miles'. And Miles isn't always the best at reading people, but he's known Bass for a million years, and for just a second, Miles can see through those eyes clear down into Bass's soul, and what he sees there isn't frustration or malice or spite or anger. It's rage. Absolute, blinding rage.

The last time he'd seen that look, Bass had punched him in the face a second later, resulting in a twenty minute brawl fueled by alcohol and jealousy. They'd both come out of it bleeding - Miles with a broken nose, Bass with two broken ribs - but friends.

But this time, there's something else in that look. Something that tells Miles that Bass doesn't just want to punch him.

He wants to kill him.

"You know they're gonna come kill you, Miles, right? All of you," Bass whispers, leaning his head back against the pillows - and it's weird to see him with dark, close-cropped hair, without his trademark curls - "Nora, Rachel, even that fat guy…"

Nine hours ago, Bass'd been cracking fucking jokes like they were on campaign together. Now, he's someone else - the President and evil overlord of the Monroe Republic - and maybe Miles'd been wrong to bring him along. Hell, of course he'd been wrong. They don't need a hostage - he'd lied to Rachel - and they'd be able to move ten times faster without an injured man in their party.

Maybe Bass is just too far gone.

And yet, he'd had six hours on a wagon ride, for which Miles now suspects he'd been awake, during which he could have cut Miles' throat several hundred times. Miles hadn't even bothered to disarm him.

He'd been careless - which, with his own life, was no big deal - but he'd also put Charlie and the others in danger, because he'd looked at Bass over that rifle scope back in the power plant and wanted something that he couldn't have back.

In two strides, Miles crosses to the bed, drawing a sword, which he lays against Bass's neck. Bass, wisely, shuts up. With his other hand, Miles unbuckles and takes Bass's swords and sword belt and checks him for other weapons.

"Thought I was Brett Miller," Bass rasps, adam's apple pressing against Miles' sword blade. "How you gonna explain disarming your ally?"

"I don't want Brett Miller to stab himself in his sleep. I'm a concerned friend."

"You're a lying fuck."

Miles shrugs. "Semantics." Then he raps Bass across the temple with the brass-knuckled sword hilt, hard enough to knock him out. Miles isn't really afraid of what he'll do if he's awake - he can't get far on a broken leg - but it's not been Bass's actions that are dangerous.

It's his words.

You're a lying fuck. Miles had lied to Bass about exactly two things in his life, one of them almost twenty years ago. He has an unsettling feeling that that's not the one Bass is talking about.

Trying to ignore the increasingly twisting feeling in his gut, Miles steps out into the hall, closing the door behind him, and goes to look for Rachel.