A post 02x13 ficlet, written from the Captain's POV.
She knew it was too soon for him. He knew it too.
Might be continued if my muse wants to come back and play.
Unbeta-ed, so any mistakes are all mine.
Bit of a surprise, but I own nothing which has to do with the Last Ship, nor its affiliates.
Just taking one of its characters for a bit of fanfic writing. I will put him back nicely when I'm done.
A shower cubicle hasn't looked this tempting to him in ages. Switching on the water, he walks back to his room and stand there for a while, staring at a particularly non-descript wall with an even so non-descript painting.
He should not be thinking about her. But he does so anyway. He cannot ignore them any longer.
His thoughts are a jumble going a million miles a second and he cannot seem to calm them down.
Those few minutes ago when she was at his door looking sultry and gleeful and oh so attractive. All he had to do was take one step, just one. Neither his heart nor his head would have been in any less of a maze but at least….
He shakes himself out of his stupor. There's no point in sinking any further in that treacherous pool of desire and hope and loathing. She knew it was too soon for him.
He knew it too. The ring is its witness as he twists it slowly.
The golden envelope is taunting him, the way it lies too innocently on the desk. And the duvet on the bed and the fluffed pillows are tempting him and his traitorous thoughts once more. Life isn't fair, and he knows it. He has seen it his whole life.
For every good act that he's seen, he has seen just as many brutal ones. Each and every time the world became a bit more convoluted and grey. Blurred lines which had to be straightened somehow for the sake of morale and duty and honour. Leadership.
Suddenly it's as though a wave of bleakness falls over him and the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. Something's off. He just knows it. His instincts have been too unfailingly right over the years to disregard them now.
Quickly shutting down the shower in what now resembles more a hammam than a bathroom, he closes the door. Some far off noise lingers in the hall; it would not be out of place in any of the Irish pubs he has visited.
Further down the hall he spots movement, someone's there. Regular clothing, no Navy uniform or suit. Not hotel personnel either. What is he doing here?
He had expected there to be an issue with security; a hotel this big posed too many possible issues for the small team of guards available. He sends up a small prayer, hoping that he is wrong.
Slightly moving closer, he sees how the man moves. It's somehow…. unnerving. Almost loftily, gleeful. Out of place.
And then the madman speaks, to one no there, loud enough to be partially overheard. Something about that good doctor, and the triumphant reign of the Immunes. And then suddenly there's a gun being almost reverently caressed.
And Tom knows that something is very wrong indeed.