When I first started posting this story, I only did so on AO3. I decided to go ahead and post it here too. I'll put the first three chaps up today and I'm just a few days away from having chapter 4 ready to post, so when I put that one up - I'll do so on both sites at once.

This is a birthday fic for Romeokijai. :)

Prologue Part 1: Charlie (one year ago)

The sky is heavy with low, angry clouds. The swirling wind whips at her hair and pulls at her clothes. She doesn't seem to hear the distant church bells or feel the sting of cold spring rain on her face. Her blurry gaze is single-mindedly focused on the pile of freshly dug earth at her feet and the sad little clutch of wilting daisies that lies upon it.

Danny.

Charlie can't believe he's gone. Danny wasn't just her little brother. He was her best friend, her partner in crime, the only one who really ever gother. He was her anchor. He wasn't supposed to leave her. Now she struggles to imagine this world without him in it.

She looks blankly around the deserted cemetery, noticing for the first time that the others have gone. Not that there were that many people who came. She and Danny were new in town, and they hadn't had a chance to make many friends yet.

Now he never would.

Charlie's mind wanders to a time when she was still quite small and their Mom had implored her to never let go of her brother's hand. They'd been in Target, and Charlie had dutifully held the chubby fingers, sticky with grape lollipop residue. Later, she took the request to heart, always looking out for her little brother.

Charlie bites her lip. She should have never let go of his hand.

Her eyes swim with fresh tears as she remembers the day when everything changed.

"It's you and me, Kid." Danny's grin had been wide and his teeth a sparkling white.

"Who you calling, Kid, Kid?" She'd asked, punching her brother playfully in the arm. They were walking through the doors of a homeless shelter. The place reeked of sweat and lemon disinfectant and broken dreams.

"I think that we can make a difference here." He motioned around them.

"Yeah. I think so too." She'd shrugged. "Maybe?"

"No maybe. We can make a real difference." Danny's enthusiasm was contagious. "We can change the world, Charlie - you and me."

She grinned at her brother, patting his shoulder. "Settle down, Tony Robbins. This is our first day."

The kitchen was long and narrow. It was adjoined to a large dining hall filled with mismatched tables and rickety folding chairs. A scratched Formica counter ran along one wall. Volunteers stood behind it handing out fruit and cups of coffee, sandwiches and soup.

"Where do you want us?" Danny had asked the harried woman who was manning the counter.

"Grab a ladle and don't forget to smile." She'd said with a distracted nod toward the end of the table where big pots of soup were steaming fragrantly.

Charlie and Danny did as they were told, donning aprons and hair nets before settling in. They'd served almost twenty people when the little bald man had approached.

"Hello, Sir." Danny had said politely, ignoring the threadbare suit and the dirty fingers.

The little man tried to smile. Clearly he didn't do it often. "You can call me Mr. Horn."

Danny nodded. "Chili or Chicken noodle, Mr. Horn?"

"Chili, please."

"Here you go." Danny reached out with a ladle full of the aromatic soup and poured it into the bowl. As he did so, a tiny splash of chili left the bowl and hit the little man's tie. "I am so sorry!" Danny said. "Let me help."

Mr. Horn sat his bowl down on the counter and with shaking fingers began to dab a napkin at the stain. "Ruined. Ruined. Ruined," he muttered, his face going red with anger.

"Need any help?" Charlie mouthed to her brother.

"No." Danny grinned at her. "I got this." He took a damp rag and walked around the table to where the little man was still muttering over his ruined tie.

An elderly woman with bright pink hair was asking for soup and Charlie's attention was with her when she heard a gasp. Glancing toward her brother, she saw the little man named Horn run away as a knife clattered to the floor. Curious, she looked at Danny. He slowly turned. "Charlie? I think this is bad." His eyes were unfocused and he began to sway.

"Danny!" Charlie cried, seeing the blood soaking the front of his apron. She ran to his side, screaming for help.

Help came, but not soon enough.

Charlie shakes herself from the memory of her brother's death and narrows her eyes against the weather. She looks once more toward the entrance of the cemetery, searching for blond hair and designer clothes, but nobody is there. Charlie shakes her head with a frown. She's not surprised. Not really. Her mom had rarely paid them any attention before, no reason she'd start now.

Charlie pulls her jacket tight around her throat and leaves her brother's grave with her head down. She walks away without looking back.

Looking back has never served her well.

Prologue Part 2: Bass (one month ago)

The hospital room looks like every other one in this particular VA hospital. Everything is colorless and indistinct. The patient sitting up in the bed looking blankly out a window doesn't care what the room looks like. He doesn't care that he hasn't shaved in a week or that his curls are sticking out at odd angles.

His face is drawn. His eyes are hollow. His bleak mood matches the colorless room. The only splash of color is a small bouquet of yellow carnations which the duty nurse was wise enough to put out of the patient's reach.

"He has rage issues," she comments harshly to the doctor reading a clipboard.

"He has grief issues," the doctor responds after reading the chart.

"You're both right," a blond man in US Marine fatigues agrees as he walks past them and into the room. "Hey, Monroe. How are you?"

Monroe doesn't answer the question posed by his concerned CO Jeremy Baker. He doesn't even notice that he has a visitor. His thoughts have taken him elsewhere, to another colorless place – this one in the heart of Afghanistan.

The dust had settled on a narrow village road where a shootout with the enemy had just ended. American soldiers were still on alert as they searched the area, but it seemed that the threat was contained.

US Marine Staff Sergeant Sebastian Monroe did a double take when he first noticed a familiar face heading his way. "Connor, is that you?" Bass couldn't hide the grin that spread across his face. "What are the fuckin odds? It's been what, six months?"

"Eight," Connor corrected his dad with a big smile of his own as the men embraced. "Didn't really want our next meeting to be due to my unit needing help, but it's good to see you."

"You too, Kid. Glad you're okay."

"Yeah me too. I think we would have been all right, but I'm glad you guys were close enough to come in and give us some support – " Connor stopped talking as a burst of gunshots marked the beginning of another attack. He and his father both dove for cover.

Muzzle flashes and the stuttering echo of automatic gunfire surrounded them. Bass and Connor and several other soldiers found cover behind debris and returned fire.

When a bullet slammed into Bass's thigh, he gritted his teeth and looked around frantically for something he could use as a tourniquet. He noticed an ancient bungee cord in a nearby pile of rubble and crawled to it. He made do as best he could to stem the bleeding before picking up his gun and joining the fight once more.

As the fight died down, Connor ducked and ran over to his dad. "You okay?"

"Got a hole in my leg, but it won't kill me. You?"

"I'm fine." Connor looked at his dad's injured leg, clearly worried.

"Don't worry. The medic can fix me up." Bass nodded at his son, ignoring the burning pain in his leg. "Go."

"Yes, Sir." Connor turned his attention to his right and was just getting ready to run over to join his unit when a bullet tore through the back of his throat, blossoming in an explosion of red under his chin. Bass watched with shock and horror as his son fell lifeless at his feet.

Before dropping to cradle Connor's lifeless body, Bass looked up and saw a man holding the gun who had ended his child's life. The shooter was wearing a United States Army uniform and his expression showed only one emotion: relief.

"Bass? Hey Bass?" Jeremy shakes his friend's shoulder gently.

Bleary, red rimmed eyes slowly turn to the man sitting on Bass's bed. "What?"

"I brought the papers. Sign them and then you are free from Uncle Sam. You can go home and…" Jeremy trails off, suddenly at a complete loss as to what Monroe will do. He'd always planned to be a lifer, but early retirement had been strongly suggested after Connor's death. "Do whatever it is you want to do, I guess?"

Monroe nods absently and then looks out the window once more. "Did you ask around about that guy?"

"Yeah, I did. You were right. It was one of the men from Connor's unit who shot him. Name is Neville. Evidently they were friends. From what I hear the kid is really upset about it."

A sliver of life lights up Monroe's otherwise dull expression as he glances back at his CO. "The official ruling is friendly fire, then?"

"Yeah, the case is closed. I don't think the Army felt there was anything to investigate."

Bass flings the paperwork back at Baker. His eyes glow with rage. "That is bullshit, and you know it." He begins to pull as wires and tubes and flings his legs over the side of the bed with a hiss of pain.

Down the hall at the nurse's station, an alarm begins to beep urgently.

Jeremy's eyes are wide. "Where do you think you're going?'

"Anywhere but here."

Chapter 1 - Boston MA (The Present)

Bass parks the faded blue Cutlass Ciera near a broken meter and turns off the ignition. He pulls a flask from a jacket pocket, not even trying to disguise it as anything other than what it is, and takes a drink.

He is exhausted and weary. His eyes are bloodshot. His stubble is now bordering on full-blown beard. His hair is shaggy with unruly curls poking out. His clothes came from a charity bin at the VA, and are all about four sizes too big, hanging loosely on his lean frame. He hasn't showered in days.

He does not care.

Through the dusty window of the old car, he watches a three story brick building almost a block away on a corner. It was a church long ago, but for decades it's been one of South Boston's busiest homeless shelters. This isn't Southie's oldest or most prestigious shelter, by any means. It doesn't get any of the mayor's pet funding. It's in a shitty neighborhood, and it isn't pretty, but it does a lot of business.

As Bass watches, he sees people wandering in and out. Most of them look as sad and downtrodden as he feels. He figures he'll fit right in.

He doesn't see her. Not yet. She's probably already inside, working. He opens the glove box and pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper. His eyesight is a tad blurry so he has to squint to read it.

When the call came, he'd been sitting in Connor's apartment, going through his son's things. The tears had dried by that point, but he'd been very drunk when the phone rang.

The caller's voice was familiar in a vague, ancient history sort of way. He remembers the bile that had risen when he finally figured out who was on the other end of the line. He'd almost hung up, but changed his mind when the voice promised him the one thing he wanted - answers. He'd listened, made a few notes and agreed to the caller's terms.

Bass squints down at the crumpled paper. He can barely make out his own handwriting.

Charlotte Matheson. Works at homeless Shelter on South Sylvania Rd, Boston. Shift usually starts at noon. Gets off at 8. Will prob fight back, but don't hurt her. Deadline = one week. 10998 Mitchell Drive, Los Angeles CA. Payment on delivery

He runs a shaky hand along his jawline before stowing the paper back in the glove box and taking another heavy pull from his flask. Two months ago, he was a respected Marine Staff Sergeant, fighting for his country and living a simple but happy life. His free time had consisted of Skyping with his son, occasionally finding a woman for the night, reading the latest Stephen King novel or catching up on his Netflix queue. How times have changed. Now he's driving around in his son's old beater car, planning to commit a felony so that he can get the revenge he craves more than air.

Is he doing the right thing? No. Does he care? Also, no.

He stares blearily at the flask, turning it gently in his fingers so that he can see the other side. The initials CB are engraved there. He traces them with a calloused thumb. Seeing this reminder of his dead son gives him the mental push he needs to get started. Bass tucks the flask away and gets out of the car.

Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his oversized hoodie, he limps toward the shelter. As he gets closer to the brick facade, he wishes for a moment that things were different, and that he had another choice. He doesn't. Not that it matters. It will all be over soon.

Charlotte Matheson will be his final mission.

Charlie hands a plump red apple to a little boy with shaggy brown hair and freckles. He is probably seven or eight. "What's your name?" She bends down, smiling at the boy.

He blushes and looks down at his dusty tennis shoes. "Logan." His voice is very quiet.

"Well, I'm glad you came in today, Logan. Do you have any pockets?"

The boy looks at her curiously, shyness forgotten, and nods.

Charlie hands him a second apple. "Here's an extra for later."

He beams at her as his dad leads him away.

Charlie looks up at the next person in line. It's Matilda. She's a regular and always has a sour expression on her face. "Do I get an extra apple too?" She sounds far too petulant for a woman pushing sixty, but Charlie doesn't point this out.

Instead, she smiles and hands the woman two apples. "Of course you do, Matilda. Some sweet fruit for a sweet lady."

Matilda growls something under her breath about disrespectful kids and moves on down the line. Charlie watches her walk away with a smile. Charlie loves working here. She loves helping these people, even if it's only for a moment and even if they don't always appreciate it.

"Excuse me. May I have an apple?" The voice is low and scratchy. It reminds Charlie of the sound an old car door makes when it hasn't been opened in a long time. She looks at the man who belongs to the voice and isn't surprised at all by what she sees.

She sees it in this line every day: pain and desperation.

The man is far too thin for the clothes he's wearing. It's possible that he's recently been sick. His cheeks are hollow and he's very pale. He is unshaven and smells like stale sweat and spilled whiskey. He holds out an empty tray.

She sets an apple on it. "Would you like some soup? Maybe a sandwich?" She tries to catch his gaze but he's looking down at the tray.

"Just the apple is fine."

"All right then." She nods, but something about this man calls to her. This is the kind of man she and Danny always hoped to help. He is the kind of person who needs it the most. Charlie puts her hand on his wrist and his eyes jerk up to meet hers. They are a startling blue and filled with immeasurable pain. "Um, there's coffee at the end of the counter. Also water and juice."

"Thank you," he says and limps away without taking any of the offered drinks. He sits by himself in a corner table that faces the door. Between bites of apple, he takes sips from a flask tucked in his pocket.

Charlie watches the man for a moment, but soon she is once again caught up in the seemingly endless line of hungry Bostonians. She hands out apples and oranges and peanut butter sandwiches, and she chats with the people as they make their way through the line.

Her feet are tired and her back aches, but Charlie's smile is genuine as she does the thing she loves most - helping others.

When she thinks to look toward the corner again, the sad-eyed man is gone.

Bass slouches down in the driver's seat of the Cutlass, watching the shelter's front door under the glow of a flickering street light in the distance.

He's waiting. It's almost eight o'clock.

The empty flask lies discarded in the passenger seat. He's drinking vodka now. It's not particularly good vodka, but Bass doesn't believe in wasting anything and he'd found it in Connor's apartment.

Other than a few random bottles of booze, there hadn't been much there worth saving. Connor hadn't been home in months, and it wasn't much of a home to begin with. Bass had found a bookcase full of compact discs. He'd dumped the discs into a big Rubbermaid tote and put it in the backseat of Connor's car along with a box of letters and photos. He'd called a local Salvation Army to come and collect the rest.

Bass screws the lid back on the vodka bottle when he sees Charlie emerge from the shelter. She's talking to an African-American woman who appears to be a fellow volunteer. They say goodbye at the foot of the stairs, and Bass tenses slightly, his hand on the door latch.

Charlie should be heading his way any minute. He knows that to get to her apartment, she will need to walk right by where he's parked the car. But instead of heading his way immediately, she walks to the bus stop on the corner and talks to an older woman who has a big shopping cart. It is piled high with various items.

Bass watches as Charlie gives the woman an apple and a sweater that she has pulled from her backpack. Then she helps the little old lady put the sweater on before pausing at the curb to wait for traffic to clear.

Bass is on edge, watching as Charlie crosses the street. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and gets out of the car. He makes his way into the shadows next to a boarded up hardware store and waits. His plan is simple. When she walks between him and the car, he'll make his move.

As she approaches, he walks out of the shadows, holding out a cup. "Spare some change?"

She hesitates, but only for a moment. Digging in her backpack, she's looking down when he pounces. Even with a bum leg, he is far bigger and stronger than Charlie, and he has the element of surprise in his favor. Charlie doesn't realize what is happening until he's flipped her over his shoulder and begun to carry her to the car.

She kicks and yells, but Bass moves quickly. The trunk pops open, and he unceremoniously dumps her inside. Charlie's survival instinct shifts into high gear, and she launches a kick in his direction. Catching Bass in the jaw with her boot, she sits up and tries to climb out of the trunk as he staggers back.

Bass reels from the kick, berating himself for not believing the caller who had said she might fight back. She kicks again, and this time she gets him in the ear.

"Little fucking bitch!" he hisses, pushing her back down. She bites his forearm, hard enough to break the skin, and Bass backhands her with a loud thwack. Charlie's mouth is bloody and her eyes are hot with fear and rage. Again, she scrambles to get out of the trunk and he pushes her back, but not before she gets another solid kick in. This one hits Bass square in the injured part of his thigh, and he sees stars as a surge of pain rushes through his body.

He's done. Pulling a gun from his waistband, he points it at her head with a shaky hand. She stills, breathing heavily. He can tell she's assessing her odds. He shakes his head with a little jerk, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. "I'm not supposed to kill you, but I am not in the mood for bullshit."

She opens her mouth to speak or scream - Bass can't tell and he doesn't care. He releases the safety, pressing the muzzle of the gun against her temple to show he's serious. Charlie sees the mix of pain and anger in his expression and she clamps her lips shut.

"Give me your phone. Your bag."

She shakes her head.

"Just give it to me!" Spittle collects in the corners of his mouth and Charlie feels the cold grip of raw fear. She is screwed. Charlie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her phone. She hands it and her backpack over.

"Now lie down."

Charlie does as she's told even though what she really wants to do is kick him in the head again. "You'll never get away with this," she snarls.

Bass shrugs, his gaze cold and vacant. "We'll see."

The trunk falls closed, and she is thrust into utter darkness.

A/N This is a bday fic for Romeo, who is a good friend, a really kick ass writer and a joy to work with as well. She asked for something angsty that channeled Season 1 Bass, and in which Bass kidnaps Charlie. She's left the rest up to me...so we'll see if this works. :) Because I'm me, there will be a happy ending, and before you say how can Charlie possibly fall for the guy who just pointed a gun at her head? Well, trust me. This one is all plotted out and will run ten chapters. My goal is to post one chap a week.

Happy Birthday Romeo! Hope it's all you hoped for and more. I have heard a lot of rumblings from our Revo community, and I have a feeling you will be showered with all sorts of fic. I hope you love every bit of it. Have a wonderful birthday - you deserve it.

A special thank you to TexasRevoFan for reviewing and giving me some excellent feedback and encouragement.

If you have a moment, please leave a comment. I do love to hear what you think.