Red Sky Morning
{Episode 2.10, Rules of Engagement}
i.
Somewhere between the Communicator calling and the XO taking over he'd allowed the words to sink in.
Mike had been hit. Mike needed to be airlifted to base. Mike might not make it.
Bloody papers.
Amidst the flurry of words and voices, the calls of the officers behind him as Samaru exploded in a mass of firearms and hostile situations. Amongst the frantic voice of Hammersley's XO demanding a helicopter that wasn't coming to save her captain, only one thought allowed itself to penetrate his addled brain.
Mike had been hit, hurt so badly he might not make it; and he hadn't signed the bloody papers.
ii.
His hand froze.
Shit, shit….Shit!
The captain was going to kill him.
With a swift movement of hand he brushed a cloth across the control, rubbing it hard on the cool metal; blood stained into the grooves.
The captain was going to kill him;
He stopped, heart pounding as the image of the man being loaded into the RHIB beat through his mind; a rag dolled body held in their arms as blood seeped through to each of their greys; still running down his hands as he resumed his work on the bridge; smearing the captain's blood across the controls.
Shit, shit….
The captain couldn't kill him.
iii.
Her hands slowed above the bowl, hovering the space where steam slithered through air; liquefying against her skin. She cursed gently, glancing at the smaller one set aside.
His bowl.
Her first week aboard she'd noticed he ate it differently, adding the mushrooms to a sauce she'd perfected years beforehand. No one else took it that way; no one else was willing to try, complaining when he tried to coax them into his habits.
She stopped a second, gaze settling on the mushrooms readily chopped by the sauce, standing by to be placed in his smaller bowl. She picked the tray up gently, fingers brushing their moist grey surface as the slices fell to rest amongst the sauce, mingling with the red hot liquid the others would enjoy later.
That night they ate without complaint.
iv.
Commander Marshall through to XO, Medic awaiting Swain, Message arriving from Samaru: Attention - URGENT;
And breathe.
He sighed loudly, stopping a moment to drop the ear phones from his head. The low buzz of voices settled within him, allowing him a second to inhale, an instant to hold his breath and pretend that each time the light flashed red it wasn't a warning that Samaru had worsened, that medical assistance wasn't on its way.
Wasn't Swain calling from below that the captain wasn't going to make it.
Attention: URGENT – Commander Marshall
His head snapped too, ear phones wrapped tightly around him as he answered, grabbing the pencil nearby to scribble down the latest in a long line of messages; he hardly noticed his hand shake terribly across the page.
v.
He stood amongst the hustle of the corridor, watching in horror as Swain rushed past, grabbing fresh gauze as he went.
"ET?"
He felt himself stumble to the side, letting the X brush past – a ghost in a white uniform – and he was sure that if he reached out to touch her she would shatter.
His gaze followed hers to where the faint outline of the captain lay.
He looked so still, so cold. Dead
His stomach dropped and he felt the awful remnants of breakfast lurch, the urge to be sick overwhelming his buzzing mind as he stumbled away, unable to handle the sight of the captain's deathly pale skin.
He'd been so caught up in his own world, Zuraya and the kiss – Nikki – that his mind hadn't let itself entertain the thought that Mike might not make it to base.
"No!"
He hammered a fist against the metal door to the wash room, jumping as a sob escaped from within; startling them both.
Nikki
vi.
She sucked in a gasping breath, fingers white with tension as bitter cold streams of water splashed across her raw, numb skin.
No feeling, no sense, no ability to react to the stains of red washing down the cream basin.
There was so much, so damn much soaked through the blankets she had thrown in the bin, stained in the cuticles as she scrubbed her fingers raw, gripping tight as the pain spread through her aching hands - through her heart.
She let out a sob as the last of the painted red dropped away, running through the water; dancing boldly around the rim before disappearing forever.
She coughed once, collapsing against the sink as her hands dripped cold, dead water onto her lap.
She wanted the red back, wanted him back, his smile, his orders, his life.
A hand fell against her shoulder and she jumped, yelled so loudly that she was sure he would turn and run from her, after her outburst of earlier she was surprised he had come looking at all.
"He's going" she whispered, sobbing as his shoulder met her face; arms met her waist as she pulled against him.
He didn't dispute.
vii.
He frowned, glancing at the fishing rod lying idly by his bunk.
"No luck mate" he told it, running a weathered hand up the slim plastic. His thumb lingered the space above the hook, pressing down gently until the pain started to throb; echoing in waves up his hand.
He pulled his thumb back quickly, staring at the tiny drop forming where the hook had caught the skin.
"Trip's off"
He collapsed back on his bunk, feeling the mattress groan as his head hit the pillow, hand falling gently to his side.
Ever so softly the first drop of blood fell from his thumb, budding in ripples against the white fabric sheet he was rested against.
He sucked in a breath, thinking over the fishing trip with his captain that would no longer occur; the hours they planned to spend relaxing in the sun that had been washed away the moment his body hit the ground - the shrapnel hit his leg, erupting in a mass of blood and tissue that was slowing draining the life from him.
He watched as the last blood drop plummeted to the bed, squeezing his eyes shut to ward of the image.
He could no longer tell the captain's blood from his own.
viii.
He wondered if the captain had family awaiting him at home.
A mother, father. Siblings. Hell, even girlfriend he'd managed to hide from the crew.
As his hands worked on auto, scrubbing at the table, rinsing out the blood soaked cloths that had kept the man alive, his mind wandered to the ones left behind that would never see their work.
Maybe the captain did have a mother who awoke each morning and prayed for her son's safe passage through the day. Maybe his father had also been in the Navy, a veteran now playing bowls at the club and talking about his boy's latest adventure. Maybe he had a brother or a sister, leading their own busy lives but stopping as a tune reminded them of a trip up the coast, or an afternoon spent splashing in the pool.
Family. Blood line. Home
The words lingered long into the afternoon as he collapsed on his bunk, pulling out the photograph of his little girl in pink. He thought of Sally and Chloe, of home and his captain lying in wait.
"Godspeed" he whispered.
ix.
"Buffer has the ship" he repeated ominously, pausing as the words sunk in.
His hand rested dangerously close to the confines of the captain's chair.
He stopped.
He'd almost sat there, where the fresh sent of new leather had once lingered – reminder that they were on a newer, 'better' Hammersley already washing away as his presence stole into the seams of the ship.
It was his words that lingered down her hallways, his hands that had touched each control time and time again – ensuring when his crew went out they returned, that each hurdle they discovered was defeated.
It was he, who had sat in that chair, remnants of a smile curling at his lips the first time they had stepped foot on her; shuffling round the larger space of the bridge to reacquaint himself – say hello to his new girl.
"Buffer has the ship" he repeated quietly; and walked past the captain's chair.
x.
6 years ago he'd kissed her, let his soft lips linger across her own. His hands had possessed her, touched her, set her on fire till the light of morning awoke them both.
She stroked the rough fabric of his cap, still soaked through and dripping salty orbs of sea water down her overalls, staining them a darker shade of grey.
Her feet shuffled, her fingers clenched and she was amongst his familiar surroundings – his cabin – the epitome of Mike Flynn.
There was the Odyssey with its faded cover, the pictures of his loves splashed in grey across the wall. She recognised Hammersley, new and old, past and present and suddenly the simple essence of breathing became a struggle.
Her hand dug into the plastic chair at his desk, swinging suddenly under the influx of weight and crashing her against the wooden corner of his bunk.
She sucked in a breath, sobbing inconsolably as his scent filled her mind, face pressed against the sheets he slept in each night.
With strength she didn't feel the right to possess she tugged at them, pulling her self to shaky feet before kneeling on the bed, feeling the mattress protest at the sudden pressure point.
With the cap in one hand– given to her by Buffer upon their return – she laid herself down, gripping his pillow tightly; five pale fingers holding on for dear life – his life.
Her head pounded with the blood rushing forth, stinging her eyes as he filled her senses.
She wanted him back, believed he would be back, wanted his presence next to her; his hands that never seemed to follow orders and strayed – her skin flaming beneath his touch.
She didn't want angels or gospel choirs singing his funeral glory, didn't want officers and Marshall telling her his chances were slim – didn't want the site of his stone face before her as she closed her eyes.
She wanted life and blood and smiles and dazzling bright blues that danced too keenly and felt too much.
And she wanted sleep.
His sleepy girl; all wrapped up in blankets and pillows that told of his presence; blindly believing the day that he would join her once more.