Word Count: ~1200
Summary: It's not the concern of an uncle for his niece, it's jealousy, the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head because the girl he wants has chosen another one, and isn't that just all kinds of fucked up?
Author's Note: Written for the theorgyarmada's challenge Revolution: The Second Coming and prompt #59: Good guys are overrated anyway. This is my Miles/Charlie fill for the prompt. (Written in a sort of "the deadline is rushing towards me and I'm not ready at all" style. \o/)
Disclaimer: I own neither the show nor the characters. I don’t earn any money with this piece. I just do it for fun.
She's on the other side of the clearing, looking like a fierce warrior princess in the bright firelight, and the heat pooling in his stomach has got nothing to do with the whiskey he's been drinking all night. When she laughs at something Major Babyface says, Miles closes his eyes and raises the bottle to his lips again, taking another long swallow, welcoming the burn it leaves behind in his throat.
Letting his head drop back against the tree trunk behind him, Miles stares up at the clear night sky. He should get up and go before the alcohol makes him forget that he's got no right feeling this way, this hot flash of irrational anger paired with the sudden urge to hit the other man just because he's making Charlie smile.
It's not the concern of an uncle for his niece, it's jealousy, the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head because the girl he wants has chosen another one, and isn't that just all kinds of fucked up? God, he's a real bastard.
Miles shakes his head and scrubs his hand across his face before daring to glance over to the campfire again but Charlie and the Major are gone. He ignores the pang in his chest and tells himself it's better this way. The world's spinning a little as he stands up and he braces himself with one hand against the tree, waiting for it to stop.
“What are you doing here in the shadows?”
“Jesus, Charlie.” He hasn't heard her move through the grass, too caught up in his own thoughts, and her sudden appearance is playing havoc with his body and mind. What he desperately needs is a moment to get himself back under control.
She doesn't give him that moment, moves closer instead. “Are you okay?” The moonlight illuminates the planes of her face, casting her eyes and face into shadow, a beautiful play of light and dark, and he can't take his eyes off her, can't look away.
“Miles?” Charlie asks, her eyebrows creasing in a little frown, and at the soft sound of his name, he tightens his grip on the bottle.
“You should go, Charlie.” He needs her gone, his self-control is slipping and he knows what's going to happen if she doesn't.
“Miles, what's wrong?” She tips her head slightly to the side, and before he can stop himself, he brushes a strand of hair away from the side of her neck and tucking it behind her ear.
“You know, Charlie, I've survived the war, the patriots, nanites, everything and everyone who tired to kill me, but you might very well be the one thing that does me in.” He leans back against the tree and takes another large swig. “Go back to your Major, kid.” It's a last resort, aimed to hurt and make her leave, because if there's one thing she truly hates, it's being called that, especially by him.
For a second, Miles thinks he's been successful, but in his drunken state he's forgotten that Charlie knows him too, can read him better than Bass sometimes, and he's not as good at hiding his emotions as he has thought.
“If I didn't know it any better, I'd say you're jealous.” She takes a step forward. “But that can't be, can it, Miles?”
He tenses, her words settling in her stomach like lead. “Charlie,” he warns her, his voice a low growl, but she doesn't heed his warning and takes another step towards him. “Don't.”
“Don't?” She narrows her eyes. “Don't what, Miles?”
“Don't go there.” He shakes his head and pushes away from the tree with every intention of walking away from her. “Leave it be.”
Her fingers wrapping around his wrist stop him dead in his tracks. “I will not.” Charlie blocks his path and Miles has not other choice but to back up. She follows him, matches him step for step until his back hits the tree and he's got nowhere else to go.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Charlie cuts him off. “Why do you look at every guy who shows even just the littlest interest in me like you want to kill him?”
Her voice is quiet but her eyes have that blazing look in them, the one that tells him she won't give up without a fight. It's the same one she had the very first time they met and he'd told her they weren't family.
At that thought, anger flares through him, bright and furious, and Miles welcomes it. “You want to know why?” He snaps, letting the anger darken his voice, and part of him relishes in the way Charlie flinches. His hand finds its way to the back of her head and he entwines his fingers tight in her hair, and before she has the chance to react, he's pulled her forward and reversed their position.
The bottle drops to the ground as he lets go of it to turn his wrist in her hand and lock his fingers around hers. Pinning her arm above her head against the tree, he leans in and crowds her back into the trunk. “Because they're not me,” he breathes into her ear and hears her breath catching in her throat.
Miles pulls back slightly, expecting to see disgust or repulsion, but Charlie's face is an unreadable mask and her lack of reaction only serves to fuel his anger. He's baring his soul to her and she's just staring at him. The least thing she could do is give him some fucking response, anything.
“What? Got nothing to say? That's a first.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “C'mon, Charlie. Don't you wanna tell me what a sick son of a bitch I am?” His palm finds her hip, fingers flexing into her muscles as he feels a shiver run through her. It's not the reaction he's expected, the opposite actually, and the possible reason for that makes him feel more light-headed than the alcohol ever did. “Damn it, Charlie—“
Her mouth pressed quickly against his steals his words and breath, and for one moment the whole world stops. Charlie's eyes are wide as she looks at him, her warm breath brushing lightly over his skin, and if it weren't for her flushed cheeks, Miles could swear he imagined what just happened.
“I wish they were you too,” she says, the words coming out as a barely audible whisper, and this time Miles knows for sure that it's not the alcohol making him sway on the spot but her confession.
It winds around his heart like a vine, its thorns keeping it anchored there but he doesn't mind the pain. It's wrong, all of this is wrong, their feelings, him, her, everything. He's not the good guy, he doesn't get the girl in the end, at least not the on he truly wants, but for some twisted reason the girl he wants doesn't care who he is, doesn't care that he's got a black soul, doesn't care they're wrong, she wants him still, the same way he wants her, and the world stopped having a say in his matters a long time ago anyway.
His hand curls possessively around the back of her neck as he stares down at her and Charlie's eyes close as she leans into his touch. They will talk about this, about the future, but for now he doesn't want to talk anymore, doesn't want to think, he just wants her, and when he kisses her again, his mouth moving slowly over hers, she sinks into it with a small moan, and everything around them slowly fades away until all that's left is him and her.