Damned

He'd never been to her stateroom.

She'd always seemed to be in her lab, so there hadn't ever been any point in looking for her in her quarters. Just now, though, the helo bay had been quiet, with only the scratching of the mice in their cages to break the silence. Even the surviving monkey had been still, staring at Chandler with eerie, wide eyes as the Captain had approached the thick plastic of the iso unit. It hadn't taken more than a moment to know that she wasn't there.

To be honest, he'd known as soon as he'd passed through the hatchway. He'd felt her absence, just as he could feel whenever she was somewhere near him. He chalked it up to the hyperawareness he'd developed as a CO - it was vital to know where your crew was at all times, after all. It would be ridiculous to attribute it to anything else, wouldn't it?

But now, standing outside her stateroom, he hesitated. She was a stubborn woman. Solitary. Fiercely independent. Focused. She'd never once made it seem that she needed anyone else, let alone wanted a friend in this. 'Prickly'. That was the word that Jeter had used for her. Slattery had preferred the term 'bitchy'.

Tom knew better than to try to shove her into a category at all. He knew better, because he knew her. She was like him - far more so than either of them truly wanted to admit.

Maybe that's why she'd always unnerved him. Kept him a little off-kilter. Put him just slightly off his game.

It was difficult to lead someone who always insisted on standing on even ground with you - impossible to feel like you were in command of an individual who seemed headed towards the same goal, yet angled at it from a diametrically opposing point. She listened to him, acknowledged his opinions and concerns, and then went right ahead and did whatever the hell she wanted. For months, now, Rachel Scott had challenged him in every way possible.

And then she'd shown up on the Vyerni.

And then she'd kissed him.

Chandler closed his eyes and raised a hand to knock at the hatch. The metal felt cool on the back of his sunburned knuckle. Damn, he hurt - hurt all over. He needed rest, craved sleep like a drunk craved whiskey. He'd tried - after showering and changing his clothes, he'd lowered himself to his bunk. He'd squeezed his eyes closed and sought relaxation, but his head had been too full of the mission. Images raced through his mind - images of blood, and fear, and the exhilaration of fight. And her - ballsy enough to stand up to Ruskov, to participate in the ridiculous ruse concocted by Tom's own crew. Strong enough to shoot a man in the head. And yet, she'd faltered in the next beat, turning towards him with the gun in her hand - nearly blinded by terror.

Yes, he needed rest. But first, he needed to make sure she was dealing with it all. He told himself that he needed to check on her to ascertain whether she was still capable of doing her job, just as he would with any other member of his crew who had experienced trauma. He told himself a lot of things, lately. Eventually, some of them would be true.

Silence. He knocked again - harder. Then waited three breaths before the hatch opened.

She hadn't expected him. Her eyes flew wide when she recognized him. "Captain Chandler."

"So formal." He tried for levity, even knowing it wasn't the right time. Tom figured he needed the tension relief, though, even if she didn't. "After all we've shared."

He was right - she didn't even crack a smile, frowning a little instead. "I wasn't expecting you. I thought you might be recuperating after your ordeal."

"Doc Rios checked me out. Apparently, I've already recuperated."

"That was fast."

"I'm a quick healer."

"Your face says differently."

"Mmm." Tom pressed his lips together tightly before angling a nod into the room behind her. "Do you have a moment?'

She ducked her head, but not before he noticed a shadow pass across her features. Wordlessly, Rachel stepped backwards to allow him entrance.

Angling his body expertly across the knife-edge, he maneuvered around, pressing his shoulders up against the cupboard to give her room to shut the hatch. For a moment he merely studied her. She'd showered - her hair was still lying in dark, damp ribbons across her shoulders and back. The gray sweater and jeans she'd been wearing before had been switched out to a long tunic of some sort and tights like Darien wore when she went to yoga class. She was pale - more-so than usual - even though her skin gleamed as if it were freshly-scrubbed.

"I'm sorry." She took several steps backwards, until her hip bumped up against the desk across from her bunk. Only then did she chance a look up at him, catching his eye for the barest of moments before dropping her gaze down to his feet.

"What do you have to be sorry for?"

"For the kiss." A hint of pink rose in her throat, creeping up her jaw into her cheek. Crossing her arms in front of her body, she continued. "We couldn't figure out another way to do it. To pass you the note."

"We?"

"Commander Slattery and Lieutenant Green." One shoulder rose in a shrug. "Neither were too keen on the idea."

"Ah." Tom hadn't had a chance yet to discuss the matter with Mike. Besides, the XO had another task at the moment. He and Jeter had taken charge of arrangements for Cossetti. "Anyway. You've got nothing to apologize for."

Disbelief scrambled across her face. "Somehow, that surprises me. I was rather expecting a dressing down."

"For what?"

"You ordered me not to insert myself into missions again." She reached out and fiddled with a pen on the desk. "After Guantanamo."

Tom felt himself smile. "Well, seeing how you're technically not part of my crew, I can hardly keelhaul you."

"Still." Lifting her chin, she caught his gaze full-on. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"Not really."

Rachel's brows rose. "Okay, then."

She was pallid. Drawn. There was a new level of tautness to her bearing, her normally starchy demeanor stiffer than he'd ever seen her. And her eyes - following him - carried a indescribable darkness, a haunted, uneasy awareness that shrouded her like a shawl, making her seem smaller than normal. Less, somehow, than the gutsy, fierce woman he'd come to know.

Chandler cut to the chase. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Her lids drifted shut for the barest of beats before those unnerving eyes rose again to meet his. "I wasn't injured."

"There are other ways not to be 'okay', Doctor Scott."

"I can cope."

"Maybe." But he knew his tone belied his answer. "You took a life this morning. I'm pretty sure that's outside the realm of your normal routine."

Her words were barely a whisper. "Do you blame me?"

"Not a bit. Not for a second." He canted his head to one side, watching her. "But I know you well enough to know that you're processing it differently than I would."

"You're military." One brow rose. "I'd assume that you're more accustomed to it than I am."

"In some ways." Moving towards her, he draped an arm across the bars of the rack above her bed. "It's not something I like to dwell on. But yes, it's part of my job."

Rachel openly studied his face for a long, meaningful time before finally turning and sitting on her bunk. "I believe in a higher power. I'm not religious - but I believe in things. Spirituality, I suppose, without a specific dogma. I've seen too many people die - watched their passing - to not know that something exists beyond ourselves."

Tom watched as she reached behind her neck, pulling her hair over one shoulder. The strands, now largely dry, had dampened a large spot on the back of her blouse. Absently, she combed her fingertips through the tangled ends.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. "There's a moment in death - in a natural death, from disease or age - when the body simply ceases to be more than a shell. The soul, or a spirit - or life force or whatever one wants to call it - leaves, and the body is simply less, somehow. I've seen hundreds - possibly thousands - of people die. It's the same in all cases. Almost a gentle slide from one state to another. Breath ceases, the heart stops, and whatever makes the person human leaves the flesh. It's a beautiful process, somehow, and those watching - although grieving - know that their loved one is just gone."

Chandler waited quietly, giving her space to find her way through the maelstrom of thoughts in her head.

"I've seen violent death - at least, death as a result of violent means. I've seen the broken people, their bones and organs and blood. I've tried to repair them. To heal them - to save them. Seen their pain. Seen agony in all its forms. I've witnessed its horrors." She'd flattened her hands against her thighs, chafing her palms against the fine nap of her tights. "I've never made it happen, until today. I'd never been part of it before now."

His response was immediate, and probably more fervent than it needed to be. "You had no choice."

"There's always a choice, Captain Chandler."

He inclined his head, agreeing. "But if it's between you and someone else surviving, I'd choose you."

"At what point is it acceptable to simply kill someone?" She looked up at the ceiling. "At what point is it okay to decide that your life is more important than theirs?"

"It depends on the situation." Chandler looked down at his hands, where blood been slick and viscous so few hours before. It hadn't taken but a moment for him to decide that Bad English's life was expendable. He didn't regret his actions, hadn't thought twice before he'd held the Russian while Tex had severed his carotid artery. "You know what your motivation is, what your life is worth. You're trying to save the world, while Ruskov and his men were seeking to rule it."

"Still - it was - " She shook her head, lost for words, her eyes wide. "I can still see it. That soldier. His head jerking backwards as the bullet hit. His face as he fell. He looked so surprised. So damned surprised."

There was nothing to say to that. He'd seen it before, too. In death, most people looked like innocents. That's why you made the shot and moved on. Dwelling only made one doubt the mission. Shoot or be shot. Kill or be killed. Win. Succeed.

"I was just trying to wound him. But I was so frightened. I just raised the gun again and shot it. And - " Rachel faltered, lifting her fingers to press at her lips.

You got lucky. But she wouldn't see it that way. She'd see it as something far, far opposite of lucky. He'd known that fact as soon as he'd seen her face - as he'd passed through the hatch on the Vyerni and seen her turn the gun on them. His men had instinctively ascertained that Tom was the only one she'd respond to - that he could drag her out of the terror that had enveloped her. He'd felt the strength which with she'd gripped the weapon, and then the trembling in her body as he'd grasped her hand to lead her to safety. There hadn't been time to comfort her. He hadn't even been sure how to try. But now, in her quarters, far from the chaos and the metallic smell of blood and fear, he went straight for the truth, even knowing it wouldn't quell her inner turmoil. "You did the right thing."

"Did I?" She was drifting again, remembering.

Tom moved around the bunk until he was in front of her. Lowering himself to perch on the edge of her desk, he extended a foot to nudge at her toe. "Rachel."

It took a moment for her to acknowledge him. "What?"

It needed repeating. "You did the right thing."

"Then why - " Her voice stalled, choked off by emotion, or memories, or both. "It feels wrong."

"Because you're human." He spoke softly, realizing as he did so that he was speaking to himself as much as her. "Because we commiserate with other humans. Because people like us - decent people - want to help those we come in contact with."

Her chin rose, and those sharp hazel eyes fixed on him. "And so far, I have helped precisely no one."

"What about Cruz back at Gitmo?"

She made a strange, strangled laugh. "For which I was reprimanded, as I recall."

Tom tilted a look at her. "Only because you're too valuable an asset to jeopardize."

"Cruz is valuable, too."

"You're right." Chandler ceded the point. "And in that case, we were fortunate. You both survived."

"It seems to me that all I've done lately is put other people in danger."

"You've made the vaccine."

"Which I'm not sure will work, and will have to test on actual humans before I know for sure that I've got it right."

"You've conducted human trials before, haven't you?"

"Yes. In carefully monitored and precisely controlled conditions. With suitable medical staff and equipment at the ready. Never like this. Never under these circumstances. Never with the world at stake." Her jaw pulsed a few times before she looked back up at him. "And I don't know how to ask these people to do this. They don't like me. They don't believe. They trust me only because they trust you - "

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is."

"Hey." He spoke softly. "You were willing to sacrifice yourself for me. You were brave enough to give yourself to Ruskov, and then give me the means to get free. In the eyes of my crew at this point, you're a bona fide hero."

"I have a hard time believing that."

"Only because you're having a hard time believing in yourself." His voice was gentle. "You're scared. You're scared you'll fail."

And there it was. He watched as her eyes flew wide - as she internalized the fact that he knew more about her than she'd wanted to share. That he could read her so closely. He should look away - give her some privacy, some anonymity, but he found that he couldn't. Her pain gleamed raw and naked on her face - evident in the quick beat of her pulse in her throat. She was trembling, her eyes too bright, her mouth too tight. She'd folded her arms across her body again, as if trying to hold herself together.

"How do you do it, Captain?" A tremor marred her words. Something between a sob and a sigh. Suddenly, she stood, chafing her upper arms with her palms. "How do you do this? How do you live in this constant state of turmoil?"

"You learn to deal with it."

"But how?" She moved past him, towards the hatch, then stopped near her sink. Turning, she cast a sideways look at him. "How is that even possible when all I see is blood and death?"

Wordlessly, Tom angled to face her.

She held out her hands, palms down, fingers spread. "And why can't I stop shaking?"

"You're in shock, Rachel." He took two - three steps to her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Try to breathe."

But she barreled on as if she hadn't heard him, stepping backwards, away from his touch. "I've never tried to hurt anyone. My life has been about curing and healing. And now I've killed two people on purpose."

His expression asked his question.

"The other Russian officer. I didn't give him the actual vaccine. I gave him a placebo. We - Green, Slattery and I - decided that we couldn't take the chance that Ruskov's scientist could duplicate my research if the plan went sideways."

"Oh." He nodded. "That."

"What did you think I was talking about?"

He scowled down at his feet. He could vacillate, but knew she'd see through that. Again, he chose truth. "On the cruise ship."

"The what?" Her eyes flashed back to his, startled.

"Near France. On that cruise ship. The Italian survivor. He was sick, and you took his blood." Chandler's voice was soft, and kind. "And then you gave him a shot of morphine."

"That man was suffering, Captain." She broke a little, remembering. "He was so sick, and in such pain. There was nothing I could do for him."

"Except help him die." He nearly whispered it.

She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it with a strangled sound.

Without breaking eye contact, he spoke again. "I would have done the same thing."

After a long, long moment, she ducked her chin, swiping the back of her hand across her cheek. "So, that brings my tally to three."

"Three - "

"Deaths in my ledger."

"Rachel."

"And when you take into account the people who have died because I haven't figured out this damned virus - well. That number counts in the millions, doesn't it?"

"You can't think about it like that."

"Oh?" Her eyes shined unnaturally brightly, wetness limning her lashes in the harsh florescent light of her quarters. A sudden flush rushed pinkness into her cheeks and down her throat. Shame - or anger. He couldn't tell which. "Then how should I think about it?"

She wasn't going to listen to him. Tom knew she couldn't be logical at the moment - she was too far gone for thoughtful analysis. He reached out and pulled her towards him, bringing her tightly against his body. She was so slight in his arms - waif-like - that he gathered her even closer, tucking her head under his chin, giving her his warmth and his strength. Offering whatever comfort he could in a world gone to hell.

It felt good having her there, despite everything about the situation being wrong. In spite of the pain coursing through every muscle in his body, and the hate flooding through his blood. In spite of the shards of guilt that stabbed him in his heart and ate into his soul. He'd been too long at sea, too long away from Darien. Too much enveloped by the madness that had become his entire existence. And suddenly, he remembered. Remembered the feel of her lips on his on the Vyerni, her nimble tongue darting against his own as she'd accomplished her task. Remembered the taste of her - so cool and fresh against his mouth, her slight form so lithe against his body. She'd kept tasting him long after the note had been safely stowed away - long enough that the surprise had worn off and the Russians had separated them by force. He still wasn't sure what to make of that.

But now, now he couldn't let go, couldn't push her away. Now that he knew her feel, her touch, he found himself lowering his head to nuzzle into the graceful curve of her shoulder, to inhale the clean, crispness of the woman whom he believed would bring the world salvation.

He just had to protect her long enough to let her find it.

But damned if he hadn't just realized that this was the first time in nearly two decades that he'd entertained - even for a moment - thoughts of a woman other than his wife. That he'd been tempted to turn his back on vows to which he still clung, which he cherished beyond all reason. Damned if the feel of this woman in his arms might just catapult his thoughts into the dark parts of his soul - places he'd never once allowed his mind, his heart, to go.

Damned if making it back to Darien, saving his family, meant being close enough to her to screw him up this badly.

Gradually, her body stilled, her breathing calmed. He knew she was out of danger, that he should disentangle himself and get the hell out. Rachel didn't need him anymore - not like she had before. But then, she sighed, nestling closer, her body pressed tightly to his, thighs to thighs, hip to hip. Somehow, her hands had crept up his back, her fingers tangling themselves in the fabric of his shirt. He tried not to notice certain - softnesses - where she met him fully. He tried - and failed - not to wonder if he she wanted to be there, rather than needed it. She shifted against him, pressing her forehead against his sternum. Her breath was warm against his chest as she spoke. "I'm sorry."

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, his jaw tight. "Sorry for what?"

"For not being strong. For needing - so much."

"Don't apologize for being human, Rachel." Squeezing his eyes shut for the barest of moments, he steeled himself and then pushed her gently away from him. "Don't ever be sorry for that."

She nodded, calmer now. "I just wish I - could be more."

"Rachel." He stupidly wanted to touch her again, but took another step backwards instead. "You'll be fine. Get some rest. Try not to think too much. Then get back to work."

"Thank you." She swallowed, lifting a hand to shove her hair back behind her ear. "Again, you've brought me 'round. I've come to depend on you."

"That's my job, Doctor Scott." He extended a hand and found the hatch's lever. "You find the cure. I'll take care of you while you do it."

Oh, if only it were that simple. But it wasn't, and Tom knew it. Wrenching down on the lever, he pushed the hatch open, ducking slightly to maneuver himself through the opening.

"Captain Chandler."

He turned, catching her too-blunt gaze with his own.

"At what point does any of this become normal? At what point does it not bother you to take a life?"

There was no answer to that. No answer that didn't make him a monster. He tried to sidestep the truth, but found that he couldn't. Not with her clear-hazel eyes seeing through him. "You have to survive. You finish the mission. You take out those who would stop you."

Barely a whisper, Rachel's voice somehow still made its way across the distance to him. "And you don't feel anything?"

"You feel everything." His words came out grittier than he'd intended, but true, none-the-less. He clenched his jaw before continuing. "That's how you know you're still human. When it stops haunting you, you've become the nightmare."

She internalized his words, her expression changing slightly as she stored that knowledge away.

Color had returned to her face, her trembling had stopped. She stood on her own feet, now. Stronger, more resolved. She'd made a subtle shift from the terrified, conflicted woman she'd been on the Vyerni to the one she needed to become in this new world they'd forged. Still stubborn, still obstinate, but with a clearer focus on what it might take to do what needed to be done. He'd felt that change take place, as she'd hovered in his embrace. His fingers itched to touch her again.

Damn. Damn it.

He needed space. "Get some rest, Doctor Scott."

"I will."

With a final look at her, he stepped out, closing the hatch quietly behind him. The P-way lay deserted and quiet before him, a fact for what he was profoundly grateful. Leaning himself heavily against the wall, he scrubbed his face with hands that still smelled of her, fingers that could still feel the silk of her hair against their tips. Dragging in a ragged breath, Tom blew it out between clenched teeth. Harsh. Undisciplined. Agonizing. Painful - his muscles - his entire body - still on fire from the past few days.

And his soul - well, hell, What was left of his soul screamed at him, too. If they managed to survive - if the Nathan James somehow succeeded in this impossible mission, the world might actually be saved. But Tom somehow knew that he was already damned.

At least there was hope, now. Hope in the form of a surviving monkey and the promise of a vaccine. Hope within the overactive brain of the woman he'd just held, comforted, and steadied. Hope that he could still find his family. That they were still holding on, surviving - keeping safe until he could make it to them.

Hope that when he did, they'd forgive him for what he'd had to do to make it there.

Pushing himself away from the P-Way wall, Tom grimaced anew. He needed to go check in on Slattery and Jeter. Debrief his teams and make sure Tex wasn't driving Rios crazy. Solidify arrangements for Cossetti. Talk with Green. He needed to eat. Shower again. He needed to sleep.

Needed to remember that she was the mission, and not the objective.

Needed to remember that somewhere, in the hellish place the world had gone, there was a difference.