Entry 08 The Compact, Pt 2
Title: The Compact, Pt 2
Author: goddessofbirth
Entry: 07
Fandom: Teen Wolf/Revolution
Pairing: Chris Argent/Peter Hale; Miles Matheson/Sebastian Monroe, although more in a pre/hinted sense
Rating: PG-13ish?
Genre: General I guess?
Word Count: 1,079
Warnings: Canon typical violence, references to canon typical brutality
A/N: Takes place in the current Revolution timeline. Teen Wolf time line has been pushed up to make Chris and Peter approximately the same age as Miles and Monroe. The blackout occurred sometime between their 23rd - 25th years.
There was going to be fresh meat tonight, because they were finally far enough out that the smoke and the smell won't attract patriot spies. Bass' mouth was already watering from the smell alone, from the sizzle of the fat as it dropped into the fire. It's not that he couldn't live on dry rations - or hell, no food - for days at a time. He was a fucking soldier for God's sake, even before the blackout made everyone refugees. But it doesn't mean he didn't appreciate the finer things. Maybe that's why he appreciated the finer things. Reveled in the them to excess when they were available.
Maybe that was where everything had started going wrong.
Miles was cleaning his sword near the tent, as far from Bass as he could get without making it obvious. Even when it already was plainly obvious. Even when Miles should know Bass knew him well enough that his slightest feints of hand screamed like an atom bomb.
Bombs. An unfortunate comparison maybe.
Bass had believed exactly one lie Miles had ever told him. And it had gutted him. Left him breathing nothing but fury and violence and pain.
You're not my family.
Bass had been sure there could be nothing worse than that moment. Nothing worse than learning with finality that the one person he had done everything for had cut him loose without a second look back. He hadn't understood it then, and he didn't understand it now.
But then Miles had gone and ruined it. Taken it back and replaced it with the far more painful truth. And Bass had learned that yes, indeed, there were far worse things. Such as knowing Miles couldn't kill him, couldn't hate him, but that Miles wanted to. That everything in Miles wished he could surgically remove every last trace of Bass from his life. Would probably wipe out every last memory if he could find a way.
Miles believed he couldn't kill him, but Bass thought he might be accomplishing it anyway.
Of course, part of this was his own fault. If he were smart, he would have just stood up and walked away. But he won't. Because Miles needed him, even if he wouldn't admit it. And just like Miles couldn't leave him to die at Neville's hand, Bass wouldn't abandon Miles now, either.
The only difference was - Bass didn't want to. Had never wanted to. Never. However painful it was here, it would be worse out there, without him.
And so they were left doing this awkward song and dance, where Miles pretended to ignore Bass except when they had to present a united front. Where they fought together and killed together and left bodies in their wake, but Bass was never sure he wouldn't wake up one morning and find Miles' bedroll long gone. Where every laugh and smile Bass dragged from him was immediately followed by some kind of reminder that Miles would never forget that Bass was exactly what Miles had asked him to be.
Bass knew he was a monster, but he hadn't become an abomination until Miles had left him. The honest truth was that most days Bass wanted to beat the shit out of Miles and demand he tell him what exactly Bass had done that Miles hadn't already done ten times over. Why he was being punished for following his best friend to the ends of the earth and back. Except of course he didn't actually want to hurt Miles at all. It would be easier if he did.
They were better together than apart. Eventually Miles would remember that, but Bass needed time.
He was squinting into the fire when a pebble skittered somewhere behind the tent. Both he and Miles immediately rose to their feet, Miles with his sword in hand and Bass swinging his rifle to his shoulder.
A disembodied voice floated out. “Wanted to make sure you knew we were here. We're going to walk into the camp now. Our hands are off our weapons. We'd appreciate the same courtesy.”
The voice sounded...vaguely familiar, but Bass couldn't place it. He and Miles looked at each other, exchanging a week's worth of conversation in a single glance before Bass gave a sharp nod and neither one of them moved their hands from their weapons.
Miles called out. “Walk in nice and slow. Hands up.”
Bass thought he heard a snort, and then there was the crunch of boots on rock. At first he thought it was only one man who rounded the tent, hands obediently laced behind his head. He didn't have a weapon at all - idiot - and was dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans. He looked between the two of them, rolled his eyes, and said over his shoulder -
“I told you, Christopher.” He seemed to ponder for half a second before adding, “The President, I think.”
Before Bass could respond to that, the dark haired man stepped to the side, revealing the man behind him. The man holding two guns aimed at Bass' head.
Bass narrowed his eyes while, to his right, Miles' gun suddenly appeared in his hand. He couldn't quite place the faces, but he knew them.
Miles was yelling. “Put the guns down. Put them down.” There was something immensely gratifying about the note of panic buried in the strident, threatening tone of Miles' voice. It was good to know he might actually be upset if Bass was shot. For his part, Bass was fairly certain if they had wanted to shoot him, they would have done it already. He was more concerned with trying to figure out where he'd seen them before. Patriots? Texans maybe? Neither seemed right.
“Put them down or I will put a bullet in his head.” Miles was aiming his weapon straight between the unarmed man's eyes, who looked supremely bored and unconcerned about the entire proceedings. Except Bass noticed the way his body leaned slightly to the left, toward his companion. As if he was prepared to leap in front of him if necessary.
Interesting.
“I said -” Miles broke off suddenly. His eyes narrowed as he studied the two men, and then a look of supreme irritation crossed his face. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. What the hell are you two doing here? Shouldn't you be off climbing one of your precious trees or something?”
Author: goddessofbirth
Entry: 07
Fandom: Teen Wolf/Revolution
Pairing: Chris Argent/Peter Hale; Miles Matheson/Sebastian Monroe, although more in a pre/hinted sense
Rating: PG-13ish?
Genre: General I guess?
Word Count: 1,079
Warnings: Canon typical violence, references to canon typical brutality
A/N: Takes place in the current Revolution timeline. Teen Wolf time line has been pushed up to make Chris and Peter approximately the same age as Miles and Monroe. The blackout occurred sometime between their 23rd - 25th years.
There was going to be fresh meat tonight, because they were finally far enough out that the smoke and the smell won't attract patriot spies. Bass' mouth was already watering from the smell alone, from the sizzle of the fat as it dropped into the fire. It's not that he couldn't live on dry rations - or hell, no food - for days at a time. He was a fucking soldier for God's sake, even before the blackout made everyone refugees. But it doesn't mean he didn't appreciate the finer things. Maybe that's why he appreciated the finer things. Reveled in the them to excess when they were available.
Maybe that was where everything had started going wrong.
Miles was cleaning his sword near the tent, as far from Bass as he could get without making it obvious. Even when it already was plainly obvious. Even when Miles should know Bass knew him well enough that his slightest feints of hand screamed like an atom bomb.
Bombs. An unfortunate comparison maybe.
Bass had believed exactly one lie Miles had ever told him. And it had gutted him. Left him breathing nothing but fury and violence and pain.
You're not my family.
Bass had been sure there could be nothing worse than that moment. Nothing worse than learning with finality that the one person he had done everything for had cut him loose without a second look back. He hadn't understood it then, and he didn't understand it now.
But then Miles had gone and ruined it. Taken it back and replaced it with the far more painful truth. And Bass had learned that yes, indeed, there were far worse things. Such as knowing Miles couldn't kill him, couldn't hate him, but that Miles wanted to. That everything in Miles wished he could surgically remove every last trace of Bass from his life. Would probably wipe out every last memory if he could find a way.
Miles believed he couldn't kill him, but Bass thought he might be accomplishing it anyway.
Of course, part of this was his own fault. If he were smart, he would have just stood up and walked away. But he won't. Because Miles needed him, even if he wouldn't admit it. And just like Miles couldn't leave him to die at Neville's hand, Bass wouldn't abandon Miles now, either.
The only difference was - Bass didn't want to. Had never wanted to. Never. However painful it was here, it would be worse out there, without him.
And so they were left doing this awkward song and dance, where Miles pretended to ignore Bass except when they had to present a united front. Where they fought together and killed together and left bodies in their wake, but Bass was never sure he wouldn't wake up one morning and find Miles' bedroll long gone. Where every laugh and smile Bass dragged from him was immediately followed by some kind of reminder that Miles would never forget that Bass was exactly what Miles had asked him to be.
Bass knew he was a monster, but he hadn't become an abomination until Miles had left him. The honest truth was that most days Bass wanted to beat the shit out of Miles and demand he tell him what exactly Bass had done that Miles hadn't already done ten times over. Why he was being punished for following his best friend to the ends of the earth and back. Except of course he didn't actually want to hurt Miles at all. It would be easier if he did.
They were better together than apart. Eventually Miles would remember that, but Bass needed time.
He was squinting into the fire when a pebble skittered somewhere behind the tent. Both he and Miles immediately rose to their feet, Miles with his sword in hand and Bass swinging his rifle to his shoulder.
A disembodied voice floated out. “Wanted to make sure you knew we were here. We're going to walk into the camp now. Our hands are off our weapons. We'd appreciate the same courtesy.”
The voice sounded...vaguely familiar, but Bass couldn't place it. He and Miles looked at each other, exchanging a week's worth of conversation in a single glance before Bass gave a sharp nod and neither one of them moved their hands from their weapons.
Miles called out. “Walk in nice and slow. Hands up.”
Bass thought he heard a snort, and then there was the crunch of boots on rock. At first he thought it was only one man who rounded the tent, hands obediently laced behind his head. He didn't have a weapon at all - idiot - and was dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans. He looked between the two of them, rolled his eyes, and said over his shoulder -
“I told you, Christopher.” He seemed to ponder for half a second before adding, “The President, I think.”
Before Bass could respond to that, the dark haired man stepped to the side, revealing the man behind him. The man holding two guns aimed at Bass' head.
Bass narrowed his eyes while, to his right, Miles' gun suddenly appeared in his hand. He couldn't quite place the faces, but he knew them.
Miles was yelling. “Put the guns down. Put them down.” There was something immensely gratifying about the note of panic buried in the strident, threatening tone of Miles' voice. It was good to know he might actually be upset if Bass was shot. For his part, Bass was fairly certain if they had wanted to shoot him, they would have done it already. He was more concerned with trying to figure out where he'd seen them before. Patriots? Texans maybe? Neither seemed right.
“Put them down or I will put a bullet in his head.” Miles was aiming his weapon straight between the unarmed man's eyes, who looked supremely bored and unconcerned about the entire proceedings. Except Bass noticed the way his body leaned slightly to the left, toward his companion. As if he was prepared to leap in front of him if necessary.
Interesting.
“I said -” Miles broke off suddenly. His eyes narrowed as he studied the two men, and then a look of supreme irritation crossed his face. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. What the hell are you two doing here? Shouldn't you be off climbing one of your precious trees or something?”