TITLE: Additional Duties as Assigned

CHAPTER: 1

AN: This is garbage and I apologize. I meant it to be a one-shot, but if I don't publish it I never will. I've been working on this for at least a year...maybe two years? Ugh. The new season is at hand so I thought I'd dust this off.

Also, regarding the novel "The Last Ship," by William Brinkley. I finished it a few months ago. It is the strangest book I've ever read with a unique style, voice, and tone. That said, I'll admit that I listened to the Audible unabridged version because I'm not sure I'd have made it past the first chapter otherwise. I encourage you to give it a try. It is worth the effort. Just don't go looking for a duplicate of The Last Ship TV show and you won't be disappointed.

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break." ―William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Two years ago…

Commander Thomas Chandler, Skipper of the Nathan James stood in the brightly-lit corridor of a hotel and resisted the urge to check his watch. It's at least after midnight, and the headache climbing up the back of his neck sent a warning throb into his jaw. Gone are the days where he could go day after day on just a few hours without rest. Thoughts pulled him toward his hotel room, with its king-size bed and decadent—compared to standard Navy accommodation—bathroom. Chandler squared himself fixed a smile on his mouth and faced the brunette gazing up at him expectantly. This must be a sign of aging when peace and quiet are more attractive than the promise glittering in Doctor Scott's eyes.

She's beautiful but not with that fashion model kind of beauty. Instead, she's alluring with a brilliance, courage and the resilience of a Navy SEAL. Just now, outside the door to his hotel room, she's looking up at him with a look in her eyes that's different from her typical look of determination. There's a question there, and she's waiting for an answer. Chandler didn't have to guess what it meant, she's given him openings, a special smile, and moved quite obviously into his space. The envelope that he forgot about was forced into his hand and she brushed her fingers across his.

The headache sent another warning volley of pain winding its way around his temples. The affected smile faded from his face and his teeth clenched. He used the envelope as an excuse to pull his hands free and slid it into his jacket pocket. The thing is, he's married. He's a family man and naval officer. That's just who he is and he likes it that way. Easier to keep things in black and white without too many gray areas. His dress uniform provided him with the shield he needed to resist the temptation of this enigma draped in black lace known as Doctor Rachel Scott. Her silhouette...okay, she's a bit too thin—his wife, all curves and baby hips—a body a man could hold on to. That's all gone now, but Rachel is here leaning toward him in hopeful invitation. He forced his features back into a pleasant smile and held himself still. A good CO knew patience and how to be still. He wouldn't last long if he hadn't learned those two skills. There's about a hundred more, but this will do for now.

Captain Chandler's thoughts wandered to those early days at GITMO. After Tex joined the crew, he thought she might have picked him. It might have been better if she had. Instead, she's here outside his room with its king-size bed and his for the asking. If he took her hand she would follow him, but all he can say is, "Great dress by the way."

She smiled a grateful smile, "Better than the usual jeans? This was a formal reception."

"You could have pulled it off," he responded with a cringe. If he opened his mouth one more time he would say something abrupt and leave this gorgeous woman standing in the hallway. Chandler renewed his grip on the cover under his arm. He knew from experience that she's the kind of woman who gets what she wanted. Before she forced the issue, i.e., pushed him into his hotel room, better go for something neutral. "Where to next?"

The flirtatious smile faded, and the hands that reached for him fell to her side. "Nebraska. Toledo and on West." Still, she gave it one more try. "So I'll see you when I see you?"

A part of him prompted him to give her what she wants, but there's another part that's relieved this verbal tug-of-war is almost over. The other side of his pragmatic mind, the side that knows better than to turn down such an obvious gift, urged him to forget about should-not and guilt, take her inside and fuck her into the mattress until the pain faded enough that he can sleep. An image of that too-wide mouth wrapped around his dick flickered into awareness. It surprised him that he doesn't want it. Let's just get this over with, he told himself. He should think like a sailor because a fuck's a fuck, right?

Instead, "When you get back, look me up." Came out of his mouth. Good thing his crew wouldn't see him now. He could hear their laughter. Mike's loudest of all. In fact, he was pretty sure he could hear his wife laughing at him. Damn that Captain Kirk character, anyway. Not all Captains are lady-killers. He still wore his wedding ring. She took his left hand and pressed her thumb on the gold circle he's worn for twenty-plus years and gave him a look that said, I'm lonely too.

"Be safe," he said. She frowned and walked away.

A sense of relief invaded his thoughts of should not and why not. His wife is dead. The truth is he never cheated on her. Not even when he was a young officer and cheating on your spouse was couched in terms of what happened on deployment stayed on deployment. Although he's more than a little surprised his body didn't react to Rachel's obvious overtures. Nothing. Not a pounding heart or a twitch. It's as if he's dead inside and maybe he is. Captain Chandler slipped inside his hotel room, placed a Do Not Disturb sign on his door, tossed his cover on the desk, left his clothes in an untidy line from the door to his bed. Yanked the covers back and flopped spread-eagle over the mattress, stretching his fingertips to the edges of the mattress. He was asleep in seconds.

Present…

Captain Slattery raised his arms and pivoted in the narrow corridor to avoid colliding with the fire-breathing female striding toward him. Not that he ever made a big deal out of Navy protocol. Just enough to get the job done worked fine, but typically, a crew member stepped aside for him. Watching her stride down the corridor at flank speed, she didn't even take a moment to acknowledge him. And, boy, oh boy, did she look pissed.

His efficient mind supplied him with her identity. That was Sasha flying down the corridor. He always had to remind himself of her name, mostly because he spent a lot of time trying to wish her off his ship. Odd name for a kick-ass spook, though. She was the woman who made herself at home on his bridge. The woman who questioned orders and decisions. The woman who ignored the chain of command. And dammit, the deck of a Navy destroyer should smell like sweat, courage, and grease, not that rank, flowery, crap that wrinkled his nose.

Civilians.

Mike Slattery rapped his knuckles against the hatch and entered without waiting for permission. He pushed the door closed behind him and with a backward nod of his head, commented in the general direction of Captain Chandler's back. "Our resident Spook looked unhappy. You piss her off by reminding her of the chain of command?" When Chandler didn't respond, Mike kept talking. "I don't like civilians wandering around my bridge. I don't care how many languages she speaks. Intel spooks belong in front of a computer not at sea on the bridge of a ship with millions of dollars worth of firepower at their fingertips."

His internal alarm for battle stations—same alarm he relied on when he was a cop—didn't go off in time to prevent him from continuing. "That's at least the second time I watched you send a beautiful and willing lady away. They don't come along that often…" He chuckled but stopped in mid-breath when Tom Chandler pushed off from the table and rounded on him. Mike swallowed hard when he noticed Chandler had apparently forgotten to put his command face back on. Okay, maybe he almost gasped. At the very least he sucked in a breath. Then he stopped breathing altogether. Because at the precise moment he should pull his shoulder's back to apologize a cascade of emotions shook him and sent an icy tendril of sweat down his spine.

He might have been the straightest guy in the Chicago Police Department, but that was a career, half a lifetime and one global apocalypse before Thomas Chandler. Handsome in a way that caught Mike's imagination. Something instinctive made him want to touch the stiff shoulders and inhale the power rising from the firm tanned skin stretched over rounded muscles. The piercing gaze from under the thundercloud of silver hair sent thoughts into his body, but not into his brain where he could appropriately compartmentalize this odd need to surrender, grasp and bury himself into the tightly coiled body of his CO. Slattery shifted his feet and swallowed the lump of fight or flight that suddenly lodged in his throat.

~o0o~

Proud to be counted among the crew of USS Nathan James (DDG-151,) Mike had looked forward to meeting up with the ship. That long ago Spring morning in Norfolk, his wife dropped him off at the pier. To his lasting regret, he hadn't kissed her goodbye. The fight they had that morning over their son, left him in no mood to placate his wife…he'd done quite enough of that today. Thank you. Their fighting seemed to grown exponentially as Lucas moved through his teen years. His wife wanted him to be home more often to help raise their growing family. Daughters and sons need their fathers around. Couldn't argue with that. But his answer to join the Navy hadn't helped at all. If anything he was away from home more often in the Navy than the late nights and double shifts of a homicide detective.

Just before he turned up the gangway he waved to his wife—she didn't wave back. Commander Mike Slattery adjusted his bag, put the frustrations of his personal life behind him and allowed his eyes to fill with the vision of the mighty Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, the USS Nathan James rising above him and didn't look back. Anyway, plenty of time for tempers to cool and get things sorted out when he got back from this mission. Slattery quickened his step, stopped to salute the Ensign and headed up the accommodation ladder to the Officer of the Deck. With each step, his excitement grew and his heart filled with pride. His wife's response to his decision was less than encouraging, and that left him with no one to share in the excitement. His dreams and personal goals of getting to sea were finally happening. If his family didn't understand? Well, he was about to meet a group of people who did.

They hadn't spoken since the initial interview and Commander Chandler requested Mike as his exec. He purposefully ignored the stories other sailors tried to tell him. The day he reported in, Chandler stood behind the OOD waiting for him. A Seaman grabbed his bags with a smile and a "welcome aboard, sir." Then Chandler reached around and took his right hand in a bear hug of a grip. Homicide detectives, especially Chicago homicide detectives aren't prone to emotional displays. Today was different, today he looked into the eyes of a man who knew his passion of the sea, a man who would understand. The steel blue eyes pulled him in and set his stoic heart pounding. Chandler didn't let go of his hand, and Mike didn't try to pull away.

Intensely handsome, Tom Chandler didn't need to show off his masculinity it poured from him, engulfing Mike in a wave of—what the fuck was this, anyway? Even his dick responded by twitching in anticipation. Christ. This was bad. All kinds of bad.

That initial moment of recognition led to late night talks over coffee or whiskey. As their friendship grew, Mike threw himself into his duties as Chandler's XO and fell in love with the Nathan James and her crew. The last two years had squeezed them hard, thrown grief and danger into their path until there wasn't much left but raw emotion and the instinct for survival. And he never questioned the physical response to Chandler's touch. Until tonight.

Tom's eyes glistened in the dim light with his fists clenched at his side. He crossed the small compartment to his XO as if he were ready for a fight. Mike had gone too far. As usual.

"Tom… Sir, that was out of line. I..." His back found the closed hatch. Nowhere to go. Stand fast, sailor.

"You're exhausted, Mike. So am I."

Mike swallowed hard. "That doesn't excuse…"

Chandler waved a hand as if to dismiss Mike's words. "Belay that." Then he fumbled in a small cupboard and finally pulled out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. The first one he filled and downed. The second, he slid across the table toward Mike. Between the spaces of the two men and the silence electricity filled the small room while Mike remained quiet and Tom stared into his scotch. When Chandler began to speak, Mike had to step closer to hear him.

"There was a girl… on that island. I don't even remember her name." Chandler shrugged and emptied his glass. "The time was never right. I lost Rachel. Sasha's still here," He said and filled another glass. "My wife is gone." Chandler tossed back the second shot. "None of that guilt hit me as hard as finding you in that jungle. And what they'd done to you."

"Guilt over Rachel's death. It's not your fault, Captain."

Mike drank his scotch before the glass slipped from his fingers then very deliberately set it down. Addressing Chandler's guilt over what happened on that damn island seemed an unreachable goal right now. The scotch beckoned, but if he reached for the bottle because he definitely needed more. To do that he'd have to reach across the Captain and if he did that he might touch him and if he touched him, then all the useless feelings about missing Tom Chandler over the last eighteen months might pour out of him and that would be very bad. So what if they were having two different conversations.

Mike eyed his empty glass and tried again, "This is none of my business, but…"

"…You're right. It's none of your business," The commander snapped.

"Tom, we've both lost family. That's the second pretty girl I've watched you turn away. You don't have to grieve forever."

"That's easy to say. What about the guilt, XO? What about the guilt?"

"I was in the hallway when I watched you turn Rachel away. Once I knew you couldn't see me, I closed my door. I was right there. I could have tried to save her…for you… If I'd only invited her to the bar for a drink. Anything. If I'd listened to my cop's instincts and stopped her."

Chandler turned sad eyes to his XO, "How could I not have heard the gunfire?"

"Because you were thinking of other things and the bastard used a silencer."

"I should have invited her in…she practically...she wanted me to invite her in. I couldn't. Goddammit."

Something hard and sharp, knifed through him. The answered question, the one he never allowed himself to ask, sent a shiver of need across this shoulders and down his spine.

"Wait, you mean, you and she never?"

"Leave it alone, Mike. Just leave it alone."

"I wish I could." Tom's head swiveled when Mike tossed the empty glass down. His hand landed on Chandler's arm. "Tom, I get the anger. We can't save everyone…Not even…" Mike glanced away. "our families."

"Leave it, alone! Don't you understand?" I missed you. Chandler threw the glass against the bulkhead and balled his fingers.

With nothing left to breathe in the tiny compartment filled with the scent of Chandler's sweat, Mike took his remaining step back and raised his hands. "If you're pissed off. Take it out on me. No guilt, no worries. Come on. Come the fuck on, sir."

Like a bull teased to its limit with a red cape and banderillas, Captain Chandler lowered his head.

Starched, creased and tailored an officer's uniform created a symbol and a barrier. Gold braid, white, blue, khaki, or a sailors neckerchief sent clear signals of rank, and position. Skippers, under normal conditions never touched or entered the personal space of those they commanded. That's why God created Petty Officers, after all. Ass-chewing and other violations of personal space came under the heading of the delegation of tasks. Tradition granted a First Officer certain permissions concerning the Skipper. But nothing in Slattery's experience, not a crack-head with a loaded weapon, a killer virus, or watching his shipmates die could prepare him for the impact of Chandler's body against his or the primitive need to rut when their straining erections collided.

Mike gasped in surprise, "Shit." Then felt his legs spread and the aching need between his legs search for friction and acknowledgment.

Gold buckles scraped together, scratching polished surfaces and twisting the webbing of a white belt, uniform shirt to uniform shirt, ribbons tore against insignia. polished shoes dug into rubberized deck plating searching for purchase to push harder and grind out a need that had no voice.

Until now.

Until Mike felt Tom's fingers wrap around his neck, carefully groomed nails digging into decades of control, shredding the iron will of a cop's resolve. Until dragged out of throat choked with years of control, the First Officer of the Nathan James felt heated breath against his neck murmur two words.

"Mike. Please."