Disclaimer: I don't own The Last Ship, et al.
Author's Note: This piece is meant to make sense of Tom's state of mind, to delve deeper into his grief after his losses. It is not meant to reduce his apparent adoration of Rachel Scott, rather, the opposite. I love the idea of what could have been for him and the great doctor ... and I too, miss seeing her on the show, hence my determination to finish Heart's Desires. I hope, if you are a fan of Tom's and want to root for him ... you'll read this and enjoy it for what it is ... just a simple piece of fiction.
Fault Mines
They were free-floating. Propulsion motors hovering in place – the tower of the Nathan James in all of her glory, presently idle, given his shelter-in-place command – all hands anticipating his next move. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu encroached upon him then as he stood still and wagered a bet against himself. His loss of control, palpable and evident everywhere he looked. The sound of his erratic heartbeat was all he heard – his fight or flight mechanism fully engaged now – as copious amounts of adrenaline advanced throughout his body in an effort to keep up with his racing mind.
With wide eyes, he looked out over the horizon – the water calm and fluid, a deep blue, the sky above them clear – a perfect day at sea, a gorgeous backdrop considering the intensity of the mission and their predicament. He blinked – the sonar map engaged deep within his mind's eye – the location of each mine already imprinted. He inhaled sharply and cleansed his lungs with the familiar essence of the brine of the deep sea … this ocean … this home away from home, he coveted so.
Fixing his eyes, he focused now on their objective – the ultimate freedom of his people and the island fortress in front of them – this jungle of a place where his crew lived in persecution … tortured … beaten and belittled. True heroes to the world and now this … mere pawns in a game of life and death orchestrated by that fucker Takehaya.
He saw red. His blood boiled. He clenched his fists.
He thought of Mason and silently mourned that kid's death. Mason. His heart sank. He thought of Val and how much she matured since their tumultuous beginning and how she loved Wolf Taylor in way that was so uniquely 'them'. Valkyrie. His pulse quickened. He thought of that oil rig and how it blasted into the atmosphere. He thought of Chung … and of Ravit … lives cut too short, too soon.
His sentiments reached his eyes and clogged in his throat now as he hit that inevitable wall made of grief and pain and improbable probabilities: 'Rachel'.
He swallowed hard and turned away from Granderson's scrutiny and allowed his eyes rest on the deck far below him. The engines were quiet, eerily so, and all time and space came to a slow, grinding halt. 'Rachel'. He thought of her now and he knew if he let himself … he'd get lost in her memory and everything that never was between them. And for a moment, a split-second – he wanted to – for mourning her did that to him, from time to time. And therein he felt justified in the donning of that 'mourning' coat – for he felt she deserved and warranted that from him – this replica of himself who let her walk away that night.
'Rachel,' he exhaled her name to himself, whispering that mantra now while he listened to the quiet all around him, the team on the bridge doing their best to allow him this moment. And then, there it was again: a wave of déjà vu.
For the truth was, he'd been here before – lived through a moment such as this – the Nathan James stalled in the middle of the ocean … the most valuable commodity known to man, anchored deep into the freezing water below. One brilliant scientist clutched to her life's work, perched there against the railing while Master Chief's words resonated to him, "Our journey does not end here."
'Rachel', he called her name and blinked upon the realization that he could count his absolute strengths on less than two hands (Burk, Green, Wolf, Granderson, Gator, the fine crew of the Nathan James and the ship herself … and of course, Sasha Cooper). Her name resonated now … her presence in his life again … another improbable probability.
With no vital damage to the James, Tom found himself desperate for a moment alone amidst the chaos of his mind. "I'll be back," he barked then, his eyes flicked to Granderson and she nodded in assent. Sasha watched him go.
The door closed behind him and he stepped out and into the light – where he paused on the small deck and inhaled sharply – the air organic and clean, his mind a relative mess. He looked up, squinting at the American flag where he lost himself within the freedom of its motion as it reacted to the wind. He thought of that motionless, desperate day they spent without power and water, their only hopes – the wind and the wave of that flag – the combination, just enough of a sign … a signal from the heavens … a turn of the tides … to breathe new life into their mission to save the world.
He closed his eyes and thought of Rachel that day and how she'd pinned everything she ever stood for or believed in to those vials of the primordial strain. He thought of her now and realized how he might not have truly understood the importance of those vials until that very moment … that indelible moment as they stood there and Chung lowered their only hope into the depths far below them.
The look on Rachel's face was something he'd never forget now. He thought of her intensity and everything she did to push him before everything that came next – El Toro, Ruskov, the Trials, Baltimore – yes, he thought of her time and time again and how impassioned she was … and how he mourned her in a way he never would have expected. But alas, she was his savior. She saved him. And in the end, he could not return the favor. A fault that was his own.
Fat tears came and he blinked them back. All he had wanted was more time, he lamented now. More time to sort his feelings out. More time to truly grieve Darien. More time … before he pledged himself to her – this woman he'd grown so attached to – this force of nature he'd grown so used to protecting … from the world and from herself … and from him.
And so, he ached for her now. Longed for her more than he ever imagined he would, he could admit that much. For he had a small hole in his heart that left a scar there and it belonged solely to her. For how else could he explain it – the twinge he sometimes felt when Ashley or Sam hugged him – or when he shared a cup of coffee with his father? For those precious moments existed in their purest form … because of Rachel. Yes, he mourned Darien and he loved her still … very much. But he simply ached for Rachel.
And so he held that heartache, sometimes in the palm of his hand. And on his sleeve for all to see. Because by God, he would have made a different decision that night if he had an idea of how precarious their lives really were. Another fault. If only he'd invited her into his room! If only he'd listened to his heart! The outcome might have been different. For her. For him. For them.
Steadying himself, he set his hand upon the cool metal railing and trained his eyes on his wedding band as it shimmered against the natural light – still a perfect fit – still a reminder of the man he was at the core of his being: devoted son … father … husband … shipmate. And for that reason – he found he most certainly could not remove it – because, truth be told, he needed that reminder … for there were times when he felt like a lesser version of himself.
And therein, he thought of Russ Jeter – a man he admired – one whom also wore his wedding band, even now … even still … after everything. He thought of Russ and wondered what sage advice his dear friend and confidant would have for him at this juncture. For there were many times since they met that Russ was his sounding board – always the level-headed one – he made his decisions with precisely the right amount of head and heart. And there was no one like him on this earth, aside from from his father.
The door opened behind him and he looked back. Sasha emerged. Her dark hair flew up and around her face. She smoothed it back and stood there with him for a long quiet moment. The flag whipping against the wind above them. He stole a glance at her then, this woman he knew a long time ago, and marveled at her tenacity and how she hadn't changed all that much … and how he found oddly comforting.
"It's not your fault, you know," she intuited then; her words were carried into the wind, her words slow and deliberate.
His heart shimmied, for she always did have a keen sense when it came to him. "Not out here," he muttered and turned on his heel. He opened the door in front of them and took several large paces to the Captain's at-sea cabin. Stepping inside, she followed him in and closed the door behind her. "It is my fault," he admonished as he turned to her.
"No … it's circumstances, my friend …," she insisted, holding her ground, her steel blue eyes intense and focused.
He turned away from her and paced the length of the space – thinking now about all the time he'd spent within these walls – the time he'd slept in here over the years, especially after Baltimore … with his father and kids on the ship with him … having just lost Darien forever. Another improbable probability. His mind went rogue and he thought of her now … and then of Rachel. Were their deaths just 'circumstances' too? He pressed his lips into a grim line and thought of Mike … his tireless friend, the Captain of this vessel. Anger pooled in his core … fuck circumstances!
Rage percolated. His heart raced and he turned back to Sasha. "Life … it has to mean more than a series of circumstances –"
She moved closer to him, her eyes vacillating now. "No, it doesn't," she insisted. She set her hand upon his forearm and squeezed. "Look at us! Here. Now. After all of these years … that's no one's fault …," she appealed to him, her eyes so close he watched them shimmer against the filtered light.
And so he stared at her then – eye to eye – and for a moment, another split-second in time he wished he was somewhere else. On some other plane of existence where things ended differently for … them. And even though he wanted to deny it, he knew she was right … whatever had happened – had landed him here – back on the Nathan James in a desperate fight to save those who'd saved him time and time again. Unruly emotion clogged in his throat and he felt his heart plummet, the hole getting bigger now. He turned away from her to save face and sat down on the edge of the desk, balancing himself on one leg.
But she didn't retreat. She was right behind him. Her hand on his shoulder now, her hot breath breezing across his tip of his ear. "There is a reason for all of this," she whispered then. "And the man I know you are …... will figure that out …," she went on. He exhaled, releasing a measure of his stress. He felt her hesitate. He reached up and set his hand over hers, the hair on his neck bristled. "I … I don't want to replace anyone you've lost …," she said quickly then. "But Tom …. I'm also not going anywhere, anytime soon … not this time … I give you my word …," she exhaled, turning her palm up, she laced her fingers through his.
Tom closed his eyes on her sentiments and reluctantly leaned back and into her – this tower of a woman he'd known so well in his past – this woman he never really forgot … this woman who sometimes understood where he was coming from before he did. A woman he also knew would never back down from a fight if she thought she was right and could win.
He breathed, his heart shook. "You could put too much faith in me, you know …," he admitted then. "You might not like the man you see now … fault or not … I got us here … I've done things … seen things …," he rambled on, his eyes pinned on the doorway in front of them. He should get up and walk out … he should spare her.
But she moved instead and came to stand in front of him where they studied one another for a long silent minute – blue eyes meeting blue eyes – the damage they'd done to one another buried now under years of military service … beneath layers and layers of the hard things they had seen and even harder things to forget. And yet, under all of those layers was a foundation that began with them … all of those years ago. A foundation that had somehow stood the test of time. A foundation that felt a lot like home. He pressed his lips together and resisted the urge to reach for her, to covet her as he used to when they were young and far more innocent.
"And so have I …," she answered then, tugging him from his reverie. "Seen things … done things and no … I'm not just talking about … since the virus," she unburdened.
Tom tilted his head and regarded her, still somewhat awestruck by her beauty. "I know …," he replied. "And I know what I see … and what I see is … what I want to see …," he said then, his eyes still searching hers.
She smiled weakly and he swore her cheeks became rosy. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?" she asked of him then as she raised her hand and set it upon he plane of his cheek, her fingers skimming along the neckline of his uniform. His heart raced and he shook his head, 'no'. He blinked and fastened his eyes to hers. "I see a man … very much revered by those who report to him …," she smiled. "A man loved and admired by a great many people," she breathed. "A hero to the free world …," she exhaled. "A man loved and adored by not one … but two … amazing women …," she blinked, her eyes glassy now.
Tom's heart arrested and he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Only two?" he whispered then, a veiled attempt at lightening the mood – his eyes tenaciously searching hers as he reached for her hand – testing his own resolve now as his heart ached for all that was lost … and more.
She leaned forward and met him halfway. "Okay … you win …," she whispered. "Three …," she acquiesced gracefully, her eyes pinned to his.
Tom stood then and pushed his palm against hers – re-establishing that familiar line of give and take he used to know so well – she pushed back, holding her own of course. He didn't say anything more to her and he didn't have to – for Sasha was nothing if not a realist – she knew he held candles for both Darien and Rachel. She knew that. He also knew that she would never expect him to tamp those candles out … certainly not if they they guided him along the path in front of him … his fault or not … their ever-burning wicks belonged to him.
He inhaled sharply, the stale air of the cabin, tufting between them. "So … circumstances …," he said then, his voice low, his palm still pressed against hers. "Surrounded by mines … miles off the coast of a hostage situation headed up by a madman, doing God knows what to my people …," he whispered gruffly. "Did I miss anything?" he added with reproach.
Sasha said nothing and instead raised her hand and traced her fingertips along his hairline. Tom's breathing hitched and he closed his eyes if only for a moment before she boldly pressed her lips to his, her rhythm: soft, quick, familiar. His heart raced and he let his guard down, deepening his oral hold upon her … if only briefly … if only to feel … alive … again. To feel … something … anything … aside from numb.
"Those are the circumstances … yes …," Sasha whispered against his mouth before pulling back. Eyes wide open again, Tom noticed her pink cheeks and bated breath. She licked her lips and blinked, staring at him still. "Takehaya's … circumstances …," she began. "Just became dire …," she pledged, tilting her head. "For one thing I'm sure of … he's never met the likes of you…," she determined.
"Nor you," Tom answered. He exhaled, releasing the last of his lingering stress, "There's a way out of this mess – I know there is – because it's not gonna end here."
"I didn't think so … I never had my doubts …," she replied evenly.
And then she smiled, just as she always had when they were on the same page. And as he looked upon her now – he easily found the woman she'd always been staring back at him – the version of herself hidden beneath all the layers of her tough exterior. That protective sheen she added for everyone else. Except for him.
For there was no doubt, she was the same woman who got away… and the one that let him go. The woman he would have followed into the depths of hell … and back. The woman who would have done the same for him.
And yet despite it all, despite their many years of separation – as fate or destiny would have it – they had arrived at this juncture simultaneously. And maybe now, together on the precipice of the unknown … despite it all … their circumstances were finally aligned … and just in time for what was sure to be a harrowing mission of search and rescue … and avoidance of those pesky 'fault' mines.
END
