Author's Note: Like my first little fic, this is just the result of a random little scene that cropped up in my head. I'm a music junkie, and this story also takes its title from the lyrics to a song – Gravity by Sara Bareilles (lyric portion is at the end of this chapter). I've heard it hundreds of times, but I heard it the other day on the way home and I suddenly pictured Tom and Rachel while listening. To me, at least, that hallway scene made it pretty clear that Tom wants Rachel, but he doesn't really want to want her. And I get that, I do. Plus, no matter what my shipper heart may want, it usually spells disaster for a show when the two leads get together too quickly (anyone remember Moonlighting?). But this is fanfiction, and we can play without worrying about troublesome things like that, right? That brings me to something else that I left out of my first story. I do not own The Last Ship, its characters, plotlines, or anything at all that is remotely recognizable. I'm only borrowing the characters for a bit while we endure this longer than long hiatus. I promise to return them when I'm done in exactly the same shape that I snagged them in. There will be one more, possibly two more chapters to this, but I wanted to toss the first one out while I'm polishing the rest. Each remaining section will be titled from the lyrics of Gravity, which, coincidentally, I don't own, either. I hope y'all enjoy this.

Thanks,

Kate

Neither Friend nor Foe

When the door to Rachel's makeshift office flew open, it banged against the wall as though it had been forced open by a battering ram. In a manner of speaking, it had. Admiral Thomas Chandler, newly appointed Chief of Naval Operations, stood in Rachel's now open doorway, his face flushed crimson in pure, unadulterated rage.

His clenched fists and glacial glare boring holes into her body told Rachel that she was to be the unfortunate recipient of all that rage. She'd known when President Michener had come to her two days ago with his revised plan for her that said plan would not sit well with Tom. Time to face the music, Rachel thought. Squaring her shoulders – an action that was still somewhat painful due to the damage inflicted by her would-be assassin's bullet – Rachel crossed her arms in front of her chest and prepared for battle.

"Good morning, Tom. To what do I owe the pleasure?" No reason at all that she couldn't keep a level head and extend civility, in spite of the pitch and roil of her suddenly nervous stomach.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" He roared and Rachel rolled her eyes in exasperation. So much for level-headedness and civility…

"Really, Tom, I'm doing my job. I should think that you, of all people, are familiar with the concept."

"Oh, I'm 'familiar' with the concept, Rachel. I'm also 'familiar' with the fact that not three weeks ago, you staggered to my hotel room door with a bullet hole in your shoulder!"

"For heaven's sake," Rachel muttered. "It was a flesh wound, nothing more! The little idiot who shot me was too blinded by his fanaticism to do any real damage."

"Real damage," Tom repeated in a perfect imitation of Rachel's clipped British accent. "When I opened my door, you could barely stand. You fell into my arms, and then you passed out. By the time I got you downstairs to Doc Rios, I was covered in your blood, Rachel. It was all over my clothes. My hands were red with your blood!"

What Tom didn't mention was that when he'd laid her out on a hastily cleared table in front of Rios, and the ship's doctor and Milowsky had gone to work on her, it had been the sight of her blood on his hands, the sticky feel of it already congealing between his fingers that had nearly done him in. Her blood had also been the catalyst that seconds later had spurred him into action, rapid-firing orders at his crew to secure the President, lock down the hotel and send for the helo to get Rachel, Rios and Milowsky to the James.

But Tom wasn't planning on telling Rachel any of that, not now; perhaps, not ever. He preferred not to even think about that hellish night, if at all possible. He didn't want to remember how her bright red blood smeared on his hands and caked in the length of her hair had gutted him. She'd lain there on that table, deathly pale, the only proof of her continued survival the slow beat of the pulse in her neck. He didn't want to remember how he'd been ready to open up one of his own veins and pour his life's blood directly into her, on the off chance that he'd be able to save her, that he'd be able to call her back from the brink of death; that he'd not fail Rachel the way he'd failed Darien. And he most certainly did not want to think about how, in so many ways over the past few weeks, when he'd thought of his precious wife, more often than not, his traitorous mind had begun to summon Rachel's image instead.

It was that last situation that was gasoline on the fire of his anger, that only a few months after his wife's death, he was already thinking of another woman, and not just any woman, but this woman. Rachel Scott both fascinated and infuriated him, in equal measure. She'd gotten under his skin, almost without his noticing, and he didn't have the first logical clue as to what to do about it. He only knew that he could neither pull away from her nor yet could he pull her closer, and he vacillated between the two urges – shove her away, from his body, mind and heart or yank her to him with every bit of his considerable strength and keep her with him, safe, tucked against his side. Somewhere along the way – between hunting monkeys for her and promising her a Bengal tiger if she wanted one - he'd appointed himself her personal guardian, but damned if she didn't fight him tooth and nail, defying him at every turn. Case in point, the piece of paper he now held in his hand. An Executive Order from President Michener, informing Tom that the Nathan James would be leaving port tomorrow and taking Dr. Rachel Scott along with her. Their destination was the Port of St. Paul, the northernmost port on the Mississippi River, and they'd be making stops along the way to distribute the cure and establish points of contact to begin the painstaking process of rebuilding the United States of America.

Were Tom still the Captain of the James, he'd not have such a problem with this scenario, but as CNO, he was landlocked. The James was now captained by Tom's best friend and former XO, Mike Slattery. So Rachel was leaving him, leaving Tom behind, on what he still considered privately to be his ship, and he had no doubt whatsoever that she'd be flinging herself headlong into every dangerous situation she encountered.

Even now, while he was fighting within himself, Rachel stood stoic across from him, arms still crossed protectively over her chest, regarding him with those cool, whiskey eyes of hers. She tilted her head slightly to the side, pondering him, and he was beginning to feel like one of her many slides he'd often seen her examining through her microscope. He gritted his teeth, blanking his features, carefully concealing his emotions, afraid he might have already revealed too much, tipped his hand too far, when the flame of fury caught in Rachel's eyes.

"Just who in bloody hell do you think you are?" She shouted so loudly that the small crowd which had gathered outside of her open door to watch the developing fireworks immediately disbursed, scampering away to find anything else to do and anywhere else in which to do it. She pushed past Tom and slammed her door so that the walls of her office, little more than a glorified cubicle located off of her lab, shook with the force of it. She turned back to Tom, pinning him to the spot with her eyes, and having locked him in her sights, she fired, holding back nothing.

"What gives you the right to come into my office, shouting down the rooftop about something that happened three weeks ago? I was shot. There's no need to remind me, Tom, I was there after all. The bullet passed clean through, leaving no bone damage. Immediate surgery was performed to repair a nicked artery, and I was given a transfusion. Two days later, I was on my feet, and beyond the need for the occasional dose of ibuprofen, I've been given a clean bill of health. Perhaps you'd like to review my medical file?" She'd crossed the distance of the little room so that she was standing nearly toe to toe with him, and Tom drew himself up to his full height. He was secretly pleased when she leaned away from him just a fraction of a centimeter. Good, he thought. It's about damn time that I made her uncomfortable.

"Yes, you were shot, Rachel, and that is precisely my point. Rios told me he had to give you three pints of blood. You've got no business running all over the country. Your duty is here in St. Louis, working on the cure where you belong. It is far too dangerous for you to undertake a journey like this, and that is why you're going to call President Michener and tell him that you're very sorry, but he's just going to have to find another scientist to work in the war zones because you are going to stay here where it's safe, is that clear?"

Rachel blinked once in complete astonishment, scarcely able to believe the rubbish that Tom was spouting. She wasted no time in telling him so. "Again, Tom, I ask who you think you are to march into my office, trying to tell me what I can and cannot do? You're not my boss, we're no longer on board your ship, and you have absolutely no authority over me whatsoever. That paper you're holding came directly from your president, your boss, last I checked. You already knew what he'd asked me to do before I was shot. It should come as no surprise to you that now that I've been cleared medically I'm going to do the job that was asked of me. But perhaps I overestimated your opinion of me. Perhaps you think that I'm the kind of person to just tuck and run when things get difficult. If that is the case, then please try and remember what I told you once before when I was still searching for the cure – I will do what has been asked of me, and I will not stop until I've succeeded. Is that clear?"

Tom growled in frustration, barely able to restrain the urge to grab the pigheaded woman in front of him and shake her. Or kiss her. Or throw her to the floor and …stop it, Chandler. That is the pathway to madness. Instead, he turned his back on her and willed himself to be silent for a moment. When he next spoke, he was so quiet that Rachel had to step forward to hear him. Her front was almost flush with his back, and Rachel's fingers itched to stroke across the tension lines clearly visible in the set of his shoulders. To circumvent the disaster that would likely follow such an action, Rachel thrust her hands into the front pockets of her jeans and waited for him to continue.

"I'm just worried about you, Rachel, that's all."

"Tom," Rachel began, but she was interrupted when Tom went on speaking, his voice growing stronger and louder with each word.

"You can get into trouble faster than anyone I've ever met, and you're not exactly fluent in the art of self-defense. I set up boundaries on the ship for you, and you bowled right over them, without regard to what the consequences of your actions would be. You willfully endangered yourself on board the Vyerni, you could've killed yourself when you injected yourself with the airborne cure, and God only knows what will happen to you when you leave St. Louis tomorrow. You can't even walk down the hallway of a hotel crawling with military personnel without getting yourself shot!"

He spun around to face her as he finished his rant, and Rachel stepped back immediately. She didn't want to be near him after the things he'd just said to her. But her brain didn't quite get the message to her legs, and she'd have wound up sprawled on the floor at Tom's feet, had he not reflexively reached out and grabbed hold of her upper arms. When he touched her, it was like touching a live wire, and for a split second, he contemplated yanking her against him and covering her mouth with his. It was only when she gasped and wrenched herself from his grasp that he understood he'd caused her pain. She was across the room in a flash, clutching at her shoulder, tears blurring her vision.

"Get out," Rachel spat. "Leave now. Please," she practically begged him. Oh, God, you stupid nitwit, Rachel scolded herself. You will not cry in front of him. But the tears were threatening, and Rachel wasn't sure that she could keep them at bay. Tom lowered his hands, but he made no other move to leave.

"Why are you treating me like this, Tom?" she asked and then the tears did spill down her cheeks, glistening like diamond drops in the fluorescent light of her office. Helpless, Tom started towards her, but she shook her head furiously and repeated her order for him to leave. "You've just told me that I'm a selfish twit who's caused you no small amount of problems since the day we met." She paused to swat at her falling tears. "So by all means, get the fuck out of my office, leave me alone to do my job, and you have my word that I'll never trouble you again."

Tom felt like a fool. This hadn't been his true intention. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, not emotionally and certainly not physically. He'd just been so worried when he found out that she'd be leaving, and that worry had made him angry, and when he'd gotten angry, he'd flown off the handle and gone straight to the source of his worry. But now he'd royally messed up. Rachel was crying, and the sight was tearing out his heart. He had to find a way to make it right.

"Rachel, please," he began. "I'm sorry, all right? I just…this caught me off guard. I thought that after you were shot…I thought that you understood that it was just too dangerous for you to be out there on your own. There are still Immunes out there, and any of them could be lying in wait to try and take another shot at you."

Rachel laughed derisively. "And what, you thought you'd drop by and use your boyish charm to convince me to see things your way? You are the most arrogant, stubborn, boorish man that I've ever met, Thomas Chandler! The great Captain – excuse me, Admiral – issues his orders and everyone should just salute and fall in line, eh? You know what's best for everyone, and we mere mortals should just be thankful that you deigned to bestow upon us your infinite grace and wisdom."

She'd stopped crying and was advancing on him, a fact for which Tom was both grateful and wary. He was glad her tears had stopped, but he wasn't altogether sure what he'd do if she were to get too close to him.

"Let me tell you a few things. I am neither helpless nor weak. I can take care of myself when the occasion calls for it, a point which I believe was proven when I successfully managed to pass that damnable note and blade to you on the Vyerni and again when I managed to get to your door after I'd been shot. If I'd stayed put outside my own door like some damsel in distress waiting on her knight in shining armor to come to her rescue, I imagine I'd bloody well have bled to death waiting on you to pull your head out of your ass and come looking for me!"

"And while we're being so honest and forthright with one another," she continued with barely a pause to draw breath. "Let's talk about whatever that was outside of your hotel room, shall we?"

Tom crossed his arms over his chest and stood stock still at her words. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Rachel huffed, expecting that result, but hoping that she'd made him mad enough at last to provoke some honesty between them. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, and it terrifies you." She was right in front of him now. He could feel her warm breath ghost across his face, could smell the lavender scent of her hair; he was suddenly, painfully aware of how close she was and he just didn't know what to do. "Tell me, Tom, is it your fear that sent you running here today? Or was it something else?"

Tom, for his part, wouldn't meet her gaze. He fixed his eyes on some distant point of interest over her shoulders. Rachel pressed onward. She was leaving tomorrow morning, after all, and wouldn't be back for months. She had nothing to lose. "I think that you're very afraid, not of what might happen to me, but of what might happen to you because of me. You're afraid to let me out of your sight, yet you don't exactly know what to do with me, either. How am I doing so far?"

Finally, Tom brought his gaze to hers, in control once more. "I was concerned, Rachel. I was worried for someone whom I consider to be part of my team. You're very important to me, and I don't want anything to happen to you. I apologize if I offended you. That was not my intention." His words were stiff, staged, even to his own ears, and he knew Rachel would never buy it.

"Tom, tell me something, please. Why were you by my side, when I came to in sick bay?"

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, where else would I be?"

"A thousand other places, one would surmise. Why on earth would you be the one watching me wake from a morphine induced sleep? Bertrice told me that you stood outside the door of the surgery during my operation and that you didn't leave my side until I woke up two days later. She said that you held my hand; that you talked to me. I just want to know why, Tom. You say that I'm important to you, that you're concerned for my safety. But as soon as I was released from sick bay, you disappeared. I've not seen you for two weeks. I've sent messages to you, I've gone to your office, I've even gone to your house, but I always seem to be a step behind. You've been avoiding me like the plague, and yet here you are, all put out because I'm leaving. It doesn't make any sense!"

Tom was in complete and total agreement with Rachel on this. Nothing made sense to him, not his behavior towards Rachel, not his feelings about her. It was all out of control, and if there was one thing that Tom relished about his personal character, it was his ability to maintain cool under pressure and take control of any situation. But since the day Rachel had finally revealed the truth to him about her mission, about their mission, the beautiful lady doctor had been the one pulling the strings while Tom danced to the tune she played.

She was so close to him now. He could have her in his arms in a split second, could cover her mouth with his, bend her backwards over his arm and thoroughly palm and plunder her the way he'd been fantasizing about for longer than he'd care to admit. God, he was so tempted to do just that. He'd toyed with the idea, that night they stood outside his hotel room. He'd wanted to ask her in, been so close to asking her to his bed, but he'd held back, not ready to let loose his grief over Darien. It hadn't been long enough, he'd told himself, and he'd stepped back at the last. When Rachel had walked down the hallway, away from him, the swing of her hips had held him enthralled, and he'd called out to her to come and find him when she returned.

When he'd heard her muffled knocking half an hour later, heard her mumbling his name, he'd thought she'd come back to him, he'd thought it was a sign that maybe it was time, that maybe, in this harsh new world they were trying to live in, it was all right to take the happiness he might find in a life with Rachel. But then he'd opened the door to his own personal hell because Rachel was panting, not in passion, but in pain, clutching her right shoulder, and blood had been everywhere.

Rachel sighed heavily, stepping back from Tom, and her actions drew him from his ruminations.

"Tom, I'm sorry, but I really need for you to leave. I can't do this with you. I can't fight with you when I'm not even sure what we're fighting over. I've got quite a lot to do in preparation for tomorrow, and clearly, we're at an impasse."

"Impasse, what, Rachel, no," Tom protested, but Rachel had made it to the door and was now holding it open. "Rachel, listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you; I didn't mean to make you think I was mad at you or that I don't care for you. I do. I do care for you." You have no idea how much I care, Rachel.

Rachel sighed again. "Tom, please stop. I've not got the strength, frankly."

"But, Rachel, I thought," he trailed off helplessly still unable to just tell her the truth. Even now, when she was throwing him out on his ass, when he was afraid he might not get another chance, he just couldn't tell her how he felt. He, Thomas Chandler, American hero, was scared shitless about his feelings for the petite woman in front of him. He was scared to take her, but he was terrified to let her go, when the pitiful truth was that she wasn't really his to do either with.

"What, Tom, what did you think?" Rachel asked bone-weary of whatever it was they were doing to one another.

He didn't answer at first, and when he finally did, it was to ask pitifully, "Are we all right?" At her bewildered expression, Tom rushed ahead. "I mean, you're leaving tomorrow. I don't know when you'll be back, when I'll see you again. I just, I don't want to…Christ almighty, why am I stumbling all over this? Look, Rachel, what I mean is, you're my friend, and I don't want us to say goodbye while we're fighting. We are friends, right?" He sounded desperate, even to his own ears, and he was. Rachel could see it etched in every line on his face. But as much as she'd like to reassure him, she couldn't. She knew what she wanted, and she'd thought that she'd known what Tom had wanted. Now, she only knew that she had to protect herself, even if it was from him.

Rachel smiled, but it was a bitter thing, and it created sharp lines on her face and even sharper lines on his heart. "We aren't friends, Tom. I don't know how I'd label us exactly, but we're not friends. Now, please, leave."

Unable to do anything else, Tom complied. Rachel stood watching him, willing him to turn around, just once. She'd eviscerated him with her declaration, but he'd broken her to pieces with his, and now she didn't think anything could put them together again. But if he turned around, she'd be able to leave tomorrow with something akin to hope in her demolished heart, that maybe with enough time and space between them, they would heal from their respective wounds and that when she did come back, she'd find him, as he had urged her to do on that now fateful night outside his hotel room.

But Tom didn't turn around.

He didn't even slow down.

And Rachel closed the door to her office, sank to the floor and cried.

End part one...

Gravity by Sara Bareilles

Something always brings me back to you.
It never takes too long.
No matter what I say or do I'll still feel you here 'til the moment I'm gone.

You hold me without touch.
You keep me without chains.
I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love and not feel your reign.

You loved me 'cause I'm fragile.
When I thought that I was strong.
But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone.

I live here on my knees as I try to make you see that you're everything I think I need here on the ground.
But you're neither friend nor foe though I can't seem to let you go.
The one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me down.

Set me free, leave me be. I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.