Chapter Text
The piercing whistle of the train sounded through the station where Charlie sat, reading and waiting. Regretfully, she dog-eared the page and closed her book. She was at a really good part, but this was the second time the whistle had gone off, and she knew Miles would kill her if she let herself get left behind.
Charlie swung her backpack onto her shoulder, popped out the handle of her rolling suitcase and made her way out onto the platform, somewhat hesitant in the smooth, heeled boots she was wearing. Her mother had insisted that riding on the train was a classy activity, not suited to Charlie’s usual wardrobe. So Rachel had “helpfully” outfitted Charlie with a week’s worth of feminine clothing, including her current powder-blue overcoat. She supposed it was nice, but all Charlie could see when she looked at it was the endless expanse of light fabric screaming for dirt to mar it.
The porter took her large suitcase, and Charlie climbed the wooden steps of the passenger car. She’d been on a train before, but in that context, she had been more of a hijacker than a passenger. She smirked. That had been over a year ago, when the war with the Patriots was just starting. Boarding as a passenger, she reflected, was less exciting but far less stressful.
Entering the corridor of the cabin car, Charlie had to admit she was impressed. One side of the hallway was all windows, which for now just showed the scene of the bustling train station -- the steam surrounding the train, workers swarming around, people as finely dressed as herself making their way aboard. The hall had a deep red carpet, and brass lanterns all along the walls that were lit despite it being daytime -- an ostentatious luxury -- bathing the interior in warm light. Green wreaths with red velvet ribbons hung between them. The other side of the car was lined with wooden doors with brass numbers on them, the passenger compartments. The Texas Union government hadn’t quite sprung for first class, so these were shared berths, Charlie knew. A small knot of anticipation in her stomach, she followed the numbers until she reached Cabin 8.
Knocking lightly first, so as not to startle the room’s occupant, she then tried the door, which was unlocked. She swung it open and stopped in shock.
Shirtless Bass Monroe stood half-turned away from her, rummaging through his bag. Charlie had certainly seen the man half-naked more times than she could count, but it was still a hell of a sight. Her hunter’s senses quickly absorbed the sight of his strong back, the black lines of his tattoos, the hard points of his nipples in the slightly chilly air.
“Hey, brother,” he said, not looking up, intent on his search. “Some asshole in the station spilled coffee on my shirt, and now I can’t find the one I wanted…”
“Um,” Charlie said. Bass’ head snapped up. “Yeah, not Miles,” she added.
“Charlie,” he greeted her, standing up straight to face her, his bag forgotten. “Where’s Miles?”
“Okay, well first he said don’t kill him,” Charlie explained, relaying the message from her uncle. “And then he said he’s sorry, but Rachel didn’t want him to leave D.C. for the holiday. So he’s staying behind.” Charlie felt the train begin to move, as if punctuating her statement.
Bass was staring at her in disbelief. “And he sent you instead?”
Charlie smirked, “Yeah.” She paused. “You gonna get dressed now?”
Snapping out of it and glaring at her slightly, Bass went back to his bag, digging around with more urgency than before. Finally, he pulled out a button down and shrugged into it. Charlie noticed that he, too, was dressed more nicely than usual. Maybe her mom hadn’t been totally full of it.
“Did Miles explain to you anything that is going on, by any chance?” Bass asked sarcastically. “Or does he expect me to brief you?”
“Guess you’ll have to handle it,” Charlie said, taking a perverse glee in his obvious annoyance. “Miles told me this wasn’t just a pleasure cruise and made sure I was fine backing you up, but that was about it.”
Bass rolled his eyes. “Great. Glad to hear he couldn’t tear his lips off your mom’s ass long enough to even do me that solid. Sorry,” he corrected himself immediately, waving away any protests she might have to his slander of her mom. Charlie hadn’t planned on raising any.
To Charlie’s relief, Bass finished buttoning his shirt, but her heart leapt again as he opened his pants to tuck it in. She tried to get ahold of herself and thought that maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. Bass met her eyes for a hot second as he finished buckling back up, then quickly looked away, turning back to his bag.
“Okay, so, short story, your moron uncle was supposed to be helping me get some intel safely down to Texas,” he explained. “Watching my back, in case there’s some Patriot bastard in disguise on board and he tries to get his hands on it.”
“Or she,” Charlie corrected. “A spy could be a woman.”
“Fair enough,” Bass agreed. “Though not too many women do what you do.”
Charlie glowed at the apparent admiration in his voice and the compliment. “True, but that just makes it even harder to know when you’re dealing with one of us,” she pointed out. She thought back to when Drexel had forced her to act as an assassin, her first act of espionage, using her youth and beauty as a weapon. Shuddering, she pushed the thought away.
“Right, well, if it is a woman, maybe it’s actually a good thing you’re here,” Bass said. “If there’s one thing the last few months have shown us, it’s that your uncle is useless at standing up to women.”
Charlie snorted. She couldn’t disagree. Her family (and Bass) had relocated to Washington, D.C., the northern capital of the new Texas Union government, since the Patriot War had ended several months before. Miles and Rachel were both high-level Union officials, but Rachel kept Miles pretty well under her thumb. It seemed pretty obvious to Charlie that he was terrified of letting himself once again slip into becoming the Butcher of Baltimore, and so he let Rachel control his every move.
Bass pulled a leather folio out of his bag. “This, by the way, is our cargo,” he explained, holding it at a few angles so Charlie could see. She nodded, and he put it away, sliding his bag under the bed. The room was divided into two halves. To the left was a set of bunk beds, and to the right was a set of drawers and mirror next to a small desk with a stool beneath it. A rectangular window let in light and gave them a view of the woods beyond where the train station sat on the edge of town. It was cramped, but Charlie’d stayed in worse. Though, she reflected, never for a week, alone with a man. Let alone with Bass.
She looked up, and he was watching her assess the room. “You good with top bunk?” he asked. “I want to be able to get to the door. If something happens.”
“Would Miles have taken the top bunk?” Charlie teased, already throwing her bag up there. She didn’t care.
“He always claimed he was afraid of heights to get out of it back in basic,” Bass replied. “Never seemed to bother him when he was hanging halfway out of a Blackhawk during training exercises, but somehow when it was time to go to bed, he couldn’t climb up the four feet.” He laughed. “God, I haven’t thought about that in years.”
“What’s a Blackhawk?” Charlie asked offhandedly, hauling herself up onto the bed to test it, laying down to get the feel.
She heard Bass pause slightly, then he answered, “A helicopter.”
Charlie’s breath caught. It wasn’t a word she had occasion to use often, and truthfully she associated it with only one thing. The Militia. Bass--no, General Monroe--and his fucking pendant and the attack on the Rebel stronghold and Danny… the sound of the chopper blades suddenly filled her ears, and she closed her eyes and breathed in and out deeply, fighting off the memories, the feelings.
“Hey,” she heard Bass ask hesitantly. “You okay?”
Feeling tears welling up in her eyes, Charlie pursed her lips and nodded. She hated herself for being so weak, after all this time, hated that the most random things could set her off. Sometimes she’d go days without thinking about it, and then it would hit her out of nowhere. She opened her eyes, and Bass was right at her eye level, staring at her with concern. But cleaned up as he was, pressed collar along his neck, suddenly it wasn’t Bass, the man she’d fought alongside for so long, but General Sebastian Monroe. Her stomach rolled.
“Just go,” she managed to whisper, throwing an arm across her eyes. She heard Bass turn and leave, shutting the room to the cabin with finality behind him.