Author's Note

This fic is set right at the end of episode 2.13 "Happy Endings", but before the guys get caught. That's where I take Connor and Charloe (yes this is definitely a ship fic) AU because in my version Connor and Bass get away clean and meet Charlie at the rendezvous point as planned.

Rated M for violence, language and sex. Not all chapters will be naughty. Read the author's notes for warnings.

This is pretty much complete, but I'm going to dole it out over the course of the Olympic break. Anyway, hope you enjoy. This is not my first attempt at fan fiction, but its been a while. This is definitely my first for Revolution.

Leaving New Vegas

"Wow" Connor chuckles, "That was fun." He grins at Charlie. They are bumping down a road on the back of the horse drawn wagon. The lights and sounds of New Vegas are now behind them, but just barely. The excitement of the night is fading, replaced by the exhaustion that weighs them down. They are all so tired. Bass is driving. He hasn't said a word since they met up with Duncan and exchanged the diamonds for a promise of men. The mercenaries will be setting out tomorrow. Connor, his Dad and Charlie are headed to a small settlement that Bass considers friendly – at least for the most part. The plan is that they will camp there tonight and start out for Willoughby in the morning. Charlie is sitting at attention across from Connor in the back of the wagon. Her cross bow is loosely clutched in her hands. Her swords are at the ready. Her eyes are scanning left and right. They are now enveloped in deep darkness, with only the occasional flutter of moonlight through the trees to light the way.

She's ignoring Connor completely. He shrugs. Nothing is going to shake his good mood tonight. Smiling, he leans back against the side of the wagon and relaxes, using a rolled up tarp for a pillow. Soon he is sound asleep. Charlie climbs up front and sits next to Bass. "Now's your chance."

He glances at her, "Chance for what?"

"Seems to me like you've been itching to say something for a while now." Charlie's voice is low. She doesn't want nor need Connor's input. "So, now's your chance."

"You're wrong Charlotte. There is nothing for me to say." He stares ahead. His jaw is set firmly. His eyes glint in the moonlight.

She sighs, "Really?" Her eyes are glued to his profile. "Because it seemed like you wanted to say a whole lot after you found me with Connor, but you shut down, pretended it didn't happen. We haven't really had a moment alone since."

"Well, I'm sorry." Sarcasm drips from every word, "We've just been too damn busy fighting and stealing diamonds and escaping with our lives. Forgive me if I haven't taken some time to sit around painting my toenails and sharing my feelings with you.' He grimaces a little at the soreness he feels everywhere. "But I'm telling you the truth. I have nothing to say about…" he pauses. "About you and Connor." He prays that she'll just drop it. He does not want to talk about this. He's not in the mood to talk at all. Now, if she decided she wanted more than talking…

No. He shakes that out of his head. Wrong time. Wrong place. Definitely the wrong woman.

"Obviously it didn't mean anything." She's no longer looking at him. "I've known him for about five minutes. He may be older than me, but he is childish and smiles too much… I was just so damn horny and he was there. He was there and he was cute. He was there and he was cute and he wanted me. He was there, and he reminded me of you…" She realizes she's said too much and closes her mouth tightly.

"Connor is not the only one who wanted you Charlotte." Bass is looking at her now. Really looking. Piercing her with those amazing blue eyes, before moving his focus back to the road ahead, "I suppose he's about the right age for you though."

"What the hell does age have to do with anything?" she is gritting her teeth and trying to keep her voice even. "Maybe that stuff mattered before the world turned upside down, but what difference does it make now? I may not have had as many birthdays as you have had, but that doesn't mean I'm a child. I am not a child."

Bass shakes his head, "Believe me, I well aware that you are not a child." The tone of his voice has shifted, and she hears the heat in it. A shudder runs down her spine. She glances over, and their eyes lock. "Like I said, Connor isn't the only one who wanted you, but sometimes wanting something isn't enough to warrant taking it. Wanting something doesn't mean you deserve it or that you are worthy of it. Sometimes we want something that can never happen."

She doesn't know what to say so she doesn't say anything.

They sit in silence for a while. Neither notices that Connor's eyes are now open. He had been startled awake by their voices, even though they'd tried to be quiet. He stares off into the night, just listening. So much for a good mood. "Ah hell." Connor mutters disgustedly under his breath before closing his eyes again. What a fucking mess.


Charlie is sitting at an old wooden table in a big tent that passes for a bar in this small settlement where Bass has brought them. She's been here for a while, trying to sort it all out in her head.

Sleeping with Connor had clearly been a mistake.

She is struggling to decide what to do next. She runs scenarios through her mind, trying to determine her next course of action. How can she fix this? Can it be fixed at all? There are no answers in this dingy bar. There is no solution at the bottom of her whiskey glass. But still, she drinks and festers and regrets. Charlie is not usually prone to regret. It is a hopeless waste of time. She knows this. It serves no purpose at all, and yet she can't shake the feeling that what she did was wrong – that she has ruined everything. What had she been thinking? Why Connor? What the hell? He was Bass' son. Bass. She sighs, and tries to shove the thought of him farther back in her mind. The look on his face when he'd found them had been awful. She'd played it cool on the outside, but inside she was dying, instantly regretting what she'd done. What had she been thinking? What can she do now to make it right, or at least – not so very, very wrong? She drinks deeply, emptying her glass and motions the little man behind the bar for a refill.

Wordlessly he pours. She drinks more.

Maybe if she'd not been so wrapped up in her own inner turmoil, she'd have noticed the change in the atmosphere when the scraggly crew walked in. She is preoccupied with the mess in her head, and she's not even close to sober. For these reasons she doesn't pay any mind to the guys that saunter into the bar. She also doesn't notice that the bar quietly empties when these new faces arrive. The little barman pours for them. He doesn't need to ask what they want. He knows. After ensuring every glass is full, he disappears into the ether. He has little hope of stopping what he knows will come next, but he doesn't have to watch. He got his fill of that long ago.

It isn't until the tall one (probably their leader) sits next to her, that she even stirs from her reverie. She looks at him without really seeing him. "Go away." She mutters.

"But we've not even formerly met," he replies jovially. His breath stinks of dead fish. Some of his teeth are blackened. Some are missing. He is ridiculously tall. Maybe seven feet. He reminds her of a freak she saw at a carnival a couple years after the lights went out. He is long and lean except for his huge hands and big bald head. He has a long thin beard and his beady eyes are taking in every inch of Charlie's slouching frame. He is clearly drunk or high. He rubs some sweat from his bony brow with strangely fat sausage fingers. Charlie focuses on the incongruous hands. They look so out of place – so large, it's as if they should belong to a different person altogether. She drunkenly wonders if somewhere a giant is missing his hands.

"Go away." She says again. But her heart has started to beat a little faster. The fighter in her knows that this freak wants to do her harm. She knows she is in for trouble and closes her eyes as the severity of her situation dawns. She has made one other mistake tonight. She is alone – very alone. She didn't tell Monroe or Connor where she was going. Never even told them she was leaving her tent. They will think she's in her bunk. Nobody will miss her till morning, and morning seems very far away indeed.

There will be no cavalry tonight - nobody to save her, except maybe Charlie herself. She takes a deep breath. "I said, go away."

Ignoring her repeated words, the big man with the even bigger hands leans close. His foul breath curdles the air around Charlie's nose. "My name is Boaz. This is my bar. This is my camp." He spreads his arms wide, proud of what he deems his. "You are my guest." He says these words and then leans in closer, hungrily inhaling her scent. "I adore having new guests." He grins wickedly and the gaps between his rotten teeth are obscene.

Charlie tosses some coins on the bar. She'd snuck them from Miles' pack earlier in the evening. She wonders now if she'll ever get a chance to pay him back. "Well, thanks for the hospitality Boaz," she looks him in the eye, "I have people waiting for me," the lie slides off her tongue. She stands and starts to move away from this foul man with the big hands. His minions watch. They are excited. The air seems to vibrate with deranged anticipation. She can smell it on them. Boaz stands when she does. He towers over her. Those big sausage fingers close around her upper arms. He is very fast. In a blink, he has pressed his long legs against hers, pinning her to the bar. She feels the sheer strength in them. She is rooted. Though slender, his body is lethally strong and hard and he makes that very clear to her when he roughly pushes against her body with his own. Bile rises in her throat as he presses into her. She grits her teeth. "Let go of me."

"Not yet my beautiful little lady." he sing-songs before throwing his head back to laugh. The laugh is echoed by his men. They are as hungry for her pain as they are for their own pleasure. Their intent is palpable.

She tries to free her arms from his vice like grip. She wills her hands to find the sword sheathed in her belt. She is unsuccessful. He gestures with his head and one of his followers relieves her of all weapons. Boaz' stance doesn't waver. He just grins down at her with those nasty black teeth. She is at his mercy, though she knows in her heart this man has no mercy within him at all.

The haze of whiskey has cleared from her head. She feels the anger building. She is a Mathison damnit, and she won't go without a fight. She waits till he lowers his head close to hers. He opens his mouth to say something but doesn't get the words out before she bashes her forehead into what is left of his teeth. She is a bit dazed from the hit, but other than the blood now glistening between his lips, Boaz is unfazed. His grin widens.

"You," he pauses to taste his own blood, "are going to be exquisite."