Ficlet: Heart Of
Author: Ashley
Heart Of
disclaimer: not mine.
warnings: language, implied slash.
summary: Bass Monroe makes the best of a bad situation.
author's notes: written for nbc_revolution 60 in 60 challenge, prompt death. Feedback is love!
Surely it would be easier to die.
Kill him.
Those words had rolled off Monroe’s lips without him even thinking about it; had come out like they didn’t mean anything, hadn’t mattered, hadn’t made his stomach twist into knots the size of the smashed trash cans that litter the ground outside the power plant.
Surely it would be easier for him to run, to forget this command he holds, to leave it all for God damned Tom Neville of all people, if he shows back up - his head pounds as he thinks it - surely it would be a faster way to forget what had happened. To forget what’s happened to his family, to him and Miles -
The other man’s name sticks, suffocates like burned honey in his throat; he mouths it silently twice as he stares at the hole in the wall that the “fat guy” had made with the pipe bombs Nora had taught him to make (no doubt). Various lackeys are running back and forth and the helicopter makes a whining sound he’s not heard in what feels like a lifetime.
Memories of desert sands, blood and more blood, guns and violence and he hadn’t thought he’d make it home. And he had. And his parents and sisters had been taken from him, and Miles had been there. And he’d survived because of that.
The sun blasts through the hole in the wall as the chopper powers up - Monroe watches as it takes off, amplifier on board, Rachel’s machine he’d forced her into making for him working as he’d known it would (he has - had - her son after all that goddamned bitch) and fuck but how did things fall apart so fast?
He had everything, and now he’s lost them all.
He’s lost Miles for sure now.
But he’s got power.
“Sir?”
“Find them. No survivors,” he answers without waiting for the question. The lackey nods and shouts orders to the helicopter pilot, the crackling of the old radios making Monroe’s teeth ache.
He descends into the bowels of the power plant and lets himself start to shake then, when he’s ensconced in a secondary office and away from others. He leans over the desk, his hands placed tightly on the top, his back hunched, his eyes burning and shut and he shakes and trembles, his teeth biting his lip. He shudders and thinks of the words Miles had said that were worse than any he could have imagined.
I mean I’m sorry I didn’t kill you the first time.
You’re not my family. I have a family. You mean nothing to me.
Tears come as they had threatened to when he’d been fighting with Miles, when Miles had said those words that had cracked him in two, had split him down the center, his brain frying and finished. He’s two people now.
He’s General Monroe, head of the militia, in command, and he takes no prisoners.
And he’s Bass, too, even though he won’t admit that to anyone now, as it’s weak and he thinks it might be easier to die than to deal with this confusion and he grits his teeth and slams his fists into the desk even as the report that the chopper has seen movement in the trees comes over the ancient radio he’s had installed in his office.
It might be easier to leave and forget, but he’s never been one for the easy decisions, and no matter what Miles had said, they are brothers, they are, and that truth is enough to keep Bass alive in inside Monroe. No matter how much he hates the idea. He won’t let Miles break him down. He’s stronger than that.
You mean nothing to me.
One more tremble and he’s done.
“Guard,” he says out the door of the office, and a nondescript man is there, ready to take orders. “Bring me any notes the Matheson woman left behind.” The man salutes him and scurries off to do his bidding and Monroe exits the office and climbs to the outside again, even though the chopper is gone. Even though the sun is hot and even though he feels naked and exposed, a live wire (even after all this time in darkness) and his face hurts from where Miles hit him and he stands near the platform from where the helicopter had taken off.
He narrows his eyes and waits, even though it’s not the easy way. Even though it’s the most painful way, and he realizes (remembers, really) that he’d been right, that night in the cemetery.
I got nothing left.
Might as well make the most of it.
Heart Of
disclaimer: not mine.
warnings: language, implied slash.
summary: Bass Monroe makes the best of a bad situation.
author's notes: written for nbc_revolution 60 in 60 challenge, prompt death. Feedback is love!
Surely it would be easier to die.
Kill him.
Those words had rolled off Monroe’s lips without him even thinking about it; had come out like they didn’t mean anything, hadn’t mattered, hadn’t made his stomach twist into knots the size of the smashed trash cans that litter the ground outside the power plant.
Surely it would be easier for him to run, to forget this command he holds, to leave it all for God damned Tom Neville of all people, if he shows back up - his head pounds as he thinks it - surely it would be a faster way to forget what had happened. To forget what’s happened to his family, to him and Miles -
The other man’s name sticks, suffocates like burned honey in his throat; he mouths it silently twice as he stares at the hole in the wall that the “fat guy” had made with the pipe bombs Nora had taught him to make (no doubt). Various lackeys are running back and forth and the helicopter makes a whining sound he’s not heard in what feels like a lifetime.
Memories of desert sands, blood and more blood, guns and violence and he hadn’t thought he’d make it home. And he had. And his parents and sisters had been taken from him, and Miles had been there. And he’d survived because of that.
The sun blasts through the hole in the wall as the chopper powers up - Monroe watches as it takes off, amplifier on board, Rachel’s machine he’d forced her into making for him working as he’d known it would (he has - had - her son after all that goddamned bitch) and fuck but how did things fall apart so fast?
He had everything, and now he’s lost them all.
He’s lost Miles for sure now.
But he’s got power.
“Sir?”
“Find them. No survivors,” he answers without waiting for the question. The lackey nods and shouts orders to the helicopter pilot, the crackling of the old radios making Monroe’s teeth ache.
He descends into the bowels of the power plant and lets himself start to shake then, when he’s ensconced in a secondary office and away from others. He leans over the desk, his hands placed tightly on the top, his back hunched, his eyes burning and shut and he shakes and trembles, his teeth biting his lip. He shudders and thinks of the words Miles had said that were worse than any he could have imagined.
I mean I’m sorry I didn’t kill you the first time.
You’re not my family. I have a family. You mean nothing to me.
Tears come as they had threatened to when he’d been fighting with Miles, when Miles had said those words that had cracked him in two, had split him down the center, his brain frying and finished. He’s two people now.
He’s General Monroe, head of the militia, in command, and he takes no prisoners.
And he’s Bass, too, even though he won’t admit that to anyone now, as it’s weak and he thinks it might be easier to die than to deal with this confusion and he grits his teeth and slams his fists into the desk even as the report that the chopper has seen movement in the trees comes over the ancient radio he’s had installed in his office.
It might be easier to leave and forget, but he’s never been one for the easy decisions, and no matter what Miles had said, they are brothers, they are, and that truth is enough to keep Bass alive in inside Monroe. No matter how much he hates the idea. He won’t let Miles break him down. He’s stronger than that.
You mean nothing to me.
One more tremble and he’s done.
“Guard,” he says out the door of the office, and a nondescript man is there, ready to take orders. “Bring me any notes the Matheson woman left behind.” The man salutes him and scurries off to do his bidding and Monroe exits the office and climbs to the outside again, even though the chopper is gone. Even though the sun is hot and even though he feels naked and exposed, a live wire (even after all this time in darkness) and his face hurts from where Miles hit him and he stands near the platform from where the helicopter had taken off.
He narrows his eyes and waits, even though it’s not the easy way. Even though it’s the most painful way, and he realizes (remembers, really) that he’d been right, that night in the cemetery.
I got nothing left.
Might as well make the most of it.