Chapter Text
March…
Bass was on his way home, intending on surprising his wife. After all these months of going from Austin to Willoughby and back again, he was finally done and coming home to stay. They’d gone back and forth for a while now—Charlie didn’t want to leave Willoughby—her family was here and her mother wasn’t exactly well. Bass hadn’t wanted to not have a job.
Towns like Willoughby weren’t exactly overflowing with employment opportunities, after all. Miles might be happy with all of those little side jobs he’d been doing, but Bass hadn’t been able to settle for that. Besides which fact, there was really only one thing he was good at anyway.
It had been so long since he’d even considered a vocation that didn’t involve killing or military strategy that he didn’t know what a “retired” Bass Monroe would even look like. Charlie had asked him countless times, “What do you want to do?”
He’d never been able to come up with an answer. He knew he absolutely hated working for Texas, and he hated bouncing around between his job and his home all the time. One month there, two weeks home. It had been wearing him down for some time. And yet, he’d resisted all the same.
The problem was that Bass didn’t really know who he was anymore. He certainly wasn’t General Monroe (and thank God for that). Nor was he that drunken boxer that had found himself buried in New Vegas—at least, that’s not who he wanted to be. He wasn’t a freedom fighter and in reality, he never really was. He’d been in it for family, for revenge and because he liked a good, bloody battle. After so many years, it was what he knew—his comfort zone.
And then, two weeks ago, he’d woken up in his lonely and cold bed in that shit slum that he rented while working in Austin. He’d been unable to fall back to sleep. The same questions kept burning in his mind. Who are you? Who do you want to be? When are you ever happy?
And then, it hit him. It had been staring him in the face all this time and he’d just been too stubborn and resistant to change to see it. It didn’t really matter what he did—what mattered was who he was with. He might not know who he was, but he finally knew who he wanted to be. Hers.
He’d had Charlie all these months and yet he hadn’t really taken any time to just enjoy that. So, he’d stayed up all night thinking about what he could do. The town was slowly coming back to life after the war. Whereas no one was really hiring, there were a lot of businesses that had been closed when the owners had either disappeared, joined the patriots or died.
Hadn’t there been a butcher shop? He was pretty sure he recalled someone mentioning that the owner, some Dawson guy had disappeared right when the Patriots came to town with their promises of making things better for everyone. Just your helpful, happy red, white and blue psychopaths!
He knew that nothing made Charlie happier than a good hunting trip. She loved being out there, loved the process of it. Every part of it brought her peace—the anticipation of the trip, setting up camp, the hunt, the kill, field dressing and even bringing it home to cook. The problem was that she’d never found a way to make hunting really pay.
Bass’ own talent at killing wasn’t limited to just humans either. He was every bit the tracker and hunter Charlie was. They could run the shop together, working to fill the cases with the game they brought in and eventually include domesticated stock as well. In the world they lived in, meat was expensive and people had a hard time making sure they had enough. The town always seemed to have a shortage. The situation would be a win-win.
Did Bass know a damn thing about properly butchering an animal? Hell no. He could field dress one and that was about it (even then, Charlie told him he was horrible at it). But, Charlie knew and was actually pretty good at it and Bass figured that since he had a reason to care to learn, Charlie could teach him whatever he needed to know about it (or at least have fun trying).
If it went over well, they could hire a neighbor or two to help out and even expand since the town didn’t really have much of a general store or anything. All in all, this could be a good thing, if he could figure out a way to make it happen.
All of those closed businesses were now owned by Texas. In the morning, he’d gotten up and had checked on it—that butcher shop was indeed still up for grabs—and the price wasn’t cheap either (no wonder it had still remained closed). Apparently Ken Dawson had owed quite a bit of back taxes and it had been tacked onto the sale of the building and the rights to run it.
Still, it wasn’t impossible. They’d have to save for a while, but just maybe they could make it happen if they worked their asses off on every side job imaginable. The next day, he’d walked right up to Frank Blanchard in the middle of one of his stupid and pointless strategy meetings. He’d told him he could take his missions and his men and all his political bullshit and shove them up his wrinkly, perverted ass.
He was done with playing “slap the stray” with the Patriots. He’d done his time and he’d earned his pardon and he wanted out. He had a girl and a life waiting for him in Willoughby and he was tired of being away from it for weeks on end. He was tired of missing out on the chance for a real life.
To his surprise, Blanchard hadn’t threatened to revoke his pardon nor had he ordered him removed from the premises. Instead, he’d smiled in that good ol’ boy way he had about him and had simply said, “Well it’s about fucking time. Give my regards to the missus.”
Bass had been even more surprised when Blanchard had arranged for a fairly decent severance as a thank-you for his services. That had solved the problem of how to make a possibility a reality. He’d decided to surprise Charlie with the whole thing. He’d gotten the deed for the business and had made sure everything was perfectly arranged before boarding the eastbound train for home.
As he’d watched Austin disappear for the last time, he knew that this was what he wanted. A real life, with this woman he couldn’t get enough of. They could work side by side and build something together. Sure, it’d be awkward for a bit, but they’d work it all out.
Her family had not been happy when they’d been outed. He and Miles had even once come to blows over it before his lifelong friend had begrudgingly accepted that it wasn’t going to change. When they’d eloped? Well it was World War III all over again.
He and Miles had since found an uneasy truce—they never talked about it. When he was home, he’d reserve a night or two to have a few drinks at the bar with Miles (the first business to reopen, go figure), and Charlie would stay at home. It was just easier for Miles to pretend that his best friend wasn’t married to his niece.
Still, if he was back for good and planning on making a go of life in Willoughby, his brother would have to come to terms with the marriage. He was sure that a few more fist fights would break out, but it’d be okay in the end.
Rachel would, of course hate it. In her mind, as long as Bass was just a part time resident, it meant that there was a chance Charlie would come to her senses. She’d throw a fit for several weeks before going back to pretending that Bass didn’t exist and acting like her daughter was a single woman still.
It was annoying, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with, after all. Gene would probably not react at all. He was convinced that if he just ignored the relationship long enough, it’d just go away. As such, he acknowledged Bass when he had to and pretended that he was just visiting whenever he was around his granddaughter.
And then, there were the Staypufts. They’d played the rather interesting part of mediators over these many months. They’d probably continue in this role as well. They’d make the best of things, plaster those uncomfortable smiles on their faces and would try to include him and welcome him for Charlie’s sake, just as they had since day one.
So, yeah, it would be awkward, but they’d all survive it. Eventually, Charlie’s family would figure out that they had something and would suffer it in silence. That’s what family did, after all. Charlie wouldn’t be the first person in the history of mankind to shack up with a guy her family disapproved of and she most certainly wouldn’t be the last. The important part was that they’d be in it together.
He ended up getting back to Willoughby just a few days before he’d been originally scheduled to come home. He’d thought about writing her at some point, but he figured it would just spoil the surprise.
He’d been hoping to show up around dinner time, but a tree had fallen across the tracks in a storm and the train been delayed because of it. It was now the middle of the night and as he walked down the drive to the house, he was surprised to find lights still burning in the bedroom window.
Charlie’s up reading again, he thought as he dug his key to their rental house out of his pocket. He set his backpack down on the table by the door and made his way to their bedroom. The door was closed, which should have made him wonder, but he was tired from the journey and so happy to be home that it didn’t cross his mind to be concerned.
When he opened the door, he saw something he’d never thought he’d find. Charlie jumped out of the bed (their bed), taking the quilt with her. This left Tommy Riley—that stupid kid from the livery, exposed and instantly looking like he was about to soil the sheets.
“Bass!” She had nothing else to say, other than that—the shocked screaming of his name, which echoed around the room, reverberating off the walls and slapping him again and again. The guilt immediately spread across her passion-flushed features. She’d been caught and he could tell that she was far too stunned to even try to explain herself.
As the next two seconds passed a thousand thoughts and images few through his head. He imagined beating the shit out that little punk that had wormed his way into their bed. He imagined wringing her pretty little neck. He then imagined reaching for the gun strapped to his leg and shooting them both—a double tap and the cause of this instant and overwhelming pain would be gone forever.
He pictured himself throwing her lover out the door, buck ass naked for the world to see and then having one hell of a screaming match, followed by breakup and/or makeup sex. He even imagined asking her why and begging her not to do this to him. Charlie’d tell him that this wasn’t what it looked like and he’d believe her.
Of course, he did none of these things. Instead, he turned around and slammed the door shut behind him. He stomped to where he’d left his gear, ignoring the sound of their bedroom door opening and Charlie following him down the hallway, pleading for him to wait. He ignored the sounds of her sobbing and he tried to pretend that his heart hadn’t just shattered into infinite, pathetic little pieces.
He just walked right out the front door and into the night. His pace was slow and steady and all the while Charlie stood on their front porch, the quilt covering her traitorous and unfaithful body while she begged for him to come back.
By the time he was out of sight, he could hear her screaming at Tommy the stable boy to get out. Maybe he’d tried to convince her to finish what Bass had interrupted, or maybe he’d just not taken then hint that he should leave after witnessing the death of a marriage.
Either way, Bass didn’t care. He wouldn’t let her see how she’d just destroyed him. He just walked until he couldn’t anymore. Maybe it was fate that he found himself staring at that house that Rachel had brought him too after digging up his supposedly executed body. Maybe it was just a coincidence and geography. Who cares? It was outside of the town walls and away from her. That was all that mattered to him.
Bass sank down on that old and musty mattress that he’d woken up on eighteen months prior. He barely recalled trashing the rest of the place on his way through the house and up the stairs, even though it had just been moments prior. He didn’t care about the cuts on his hands and the swelling in his knuckles. He neither recalled nor cared if he’d even closed the front door (incidentally, he hadn’t).
He didn’t care about anything. His future had just been taken away from him. A small part of Bass wondered if it had even been a possibility—had he just imagined that things between them had meant something? Another small and pathetic part of him wished he’d have come home in the morning instead—or better yet, on the day he’d told her he’d have been there. Living that lie would have been so much easier than facing the truth of what he’d seen.
Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow in Austin, and it’d be two weeks ago and he’d have dreamt a cautionary tale of why he should just stay put. Maybe he’d wake up back In Philly and all of this would have been a strange and stupid nightmare. Maybe he wouldn’t wake up at all. Personally, he’d give everything he had if any of those scenarios would be true.
He held his head in his hands, feeling stupid and so very alone. In the dark, on this stinking mattress, he let it all out. If someone had heard him, they’d have thought him insane—and maybe he was for having believed that he could ever have a happy ending. He cried, he laughed and he raged for hours before curling up in a ball and seeking the painless and numb refuge of slumber.