Chapter 35

Tom walked the hospital corridor slowly, letting the past hours pass before his inner eye.

Two programmers who claimed acquaintance with Valerie Raymond asked to join them on the flight south. Tom agreed after they told the navy guys details that identified them as true members of Alvi's group of aquaintances from Banff. The Professor offered a couple of laptops to help their setup of the new network.

It had only been a short discussion over how to proceed. Tom and Mike could not stay in Norfolk any longer. The internet was down, there was no way to contact St. Louis, and with the equipment packed there was no reason to delay. Leaving an unconscious Alviarin to the Canadians to care for was out of the question and there was the hospital in St. Louis. Her wound taken care of as best as their limited resources allowed, she was wrapped up and made comfortable on a stretcher, the pup at her side – head on her legs.

The helo finally loaded and ready to go, the leave-taking was short and serious. Jed let his grandchildren go with an uncharacteristically gentle smile and quickly walked away.

The children quickly found their places – each two besides their dad. While the girls and Zach fell asleep almost within minutes, Sam sat watching his surroundings with serious eyes that pierced Tom's heart. Those were his dead wife's eyes. To distract them both, he pulled the boy on his lap and asked gently, tapping the little bag of leather that lately hung around his neck with a finger. "Tell me the story behind this?"

"Alvi made them for me and Ashley."

"Ashley and me," Tom corrected absentmindedly. Alviarin again.

"When we went down to the park for the last time, she gave them to us. I think she was a little nervous, because Ashley had been soooo mad the other day. She told us what they meant." He clumsily pulled at the strings that held the thing together and pried it apart. A crude jade rhino appeared, maybe one-third the size of the original ornament, fitting well into a child's hand. When had she had time for this?

"Ashley's got the same?"

"Yes. To keep Mum with us, and to remind us that we are siblings. She said fighting is ok, but we need to take care of each other now that mum is gone. We need to make sure that we don't break apart, because no matter what happens, we will always be brother and sister."

"That's a lovely thing to say." The words came automatic, while his eyes went over to where a slight sheen of sweat covered the pale brow. She had never known family. And he had accused her of light-heartedly putting the children in danger.

Unperturbed, the boy went on. "Ashley's looks a little different, because mum's dust catcher broke into two different pieces. Like we are different. But they are close enough, like the two original pieces fit together. And so we'll always have something mum loved with us, and something of you too, because you gave it to her and because the bags are made from your old gloves."

"Indeed."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, Sammy, I think the Elf had a brilliant idea, there."

He wrapped his arms around his son, kissing the dark hair. Sam leaned into him, the small body still fitting into his embrace seamlessly. After a while, breathing almost slowed down to even sleep, the boy told him earnestly: "I'm glad we're going with you, dad."

Tom tightened his embrace a fracture and leaned his face into the soft hair, breathing in his son's smell. "Me too."

Landing in the shadow of the Arch, they had quickly reconnected with the locals. Mike had taken the children for breakfast, to be met by Tex Nolan and his daughter. Tom had gathered the Canadians and gone to meet Mitchener and his newly formed government. Alviarin had been handed over to the care of the medical team.

The equipment would be handled and delivered where it could be set up, and the private boxes brought to the two designated houses.

Chandler felt calmer after he had observed Valerie Raymond with the two Canadian programmers – they knew each other somewhat – virtually – and connected easily. Within moments a sort of private network was set up and a crude back and forth with the team in Norfolk was established. After preliminaries – Chandler and his group had landed safely, the president had been informed and was grateful for the support up north – were taken care of, Tom went straight to the hospital.

Rachel Scott was surrounded by a group of people, discussing intently what Tom gathered were the steps to mass-reproduce the cure. The admiral stood in the door, watching and listening for a long moment, reassuring himself that not only was the dark-haired woman on the mend and faring as well as the local doctor had assured him, but also that their main mission was on track.

He did not need them to notice him – there would be a moment to talk to Rachel later. Now his heart pulled him on to where another woman was reportedly sleeping peacefully.

Milkowsky had walked two flights of stairs with the Admiral – electricity was rare enough to be reserved for the more important units – and told him how Tex Nolan had come to visit, bearing a promise, clothes and the puppy. The doc had been startled by the request, but being an animal lover himself, had acquiesced quickly and found the husky a bowl of water. Tex had left again with an update on the young woman's recovery.

Alviarin had woken up shortly after her transfer to the hospital was complete – but only to answer the most basic questions. She had been badly disoriented and panicked until a familiar face could be found and had fallen asleep after Milkowsky's dry assurances. Her wound was healing, her orders were not to lift anything heavy for the next weeks, otherwise move carefully and pace herself. She could be released into home-care as soon as she wished it.

"How did you meet Mademoiselle Rykers?"

"She stumbled onto my ship in Baltimore. How did she persuade you to meet me?"

"She is eloquent. Parts of her story were corroborated by her peers. Enough to make me curious. You sent her because she has Canadian background?"

"Something like that." Tom would not give this man more than necessary, much as he would like to trust him fully. Professor Lacroix was a small, wiry man of advanced age with a weather-beaten face and sharply bent nose. His dark eyes had taken in the officer with calm alert, but either Alviarin's story or Tom's presence were enough to open his mind.

"We heard conflicting stories, the information to be found on the net and networks were contradictory, too. Mitchener was a nobody, and so quickly rose from supporting the English to American president? Then an airborne cure? Forgive our scepticism."

Tom had to grimace at the words dripping disarming sarcasm. He had tried to sketch out the missing dots for the other. At some point he had stopped: "Why do I get the feeling you're only half listening?" Was this a trap?

"Captain Chandler, your name is known, your father's too, and Valerie Raymond also carries some weight with the young people I am proud to call part of my team. So, answer me a few questions concerning the future and we are allies."

That had been the end of it. Something about the quick turnaround smelled off to Chandler, so before calling this first meeting over, he asked negligibly: "So, our Miss Rykers – do you know each other? She wasn't certain. The name is fairly common."

Something gave in the Canadian's face. "Funny, she reminded me of that only after she had already won my trust. Take good care of the young woman."

And this was now where Tom Chandler found himself, reaching for the door's handle.

Was it true what Mike had said, that he, Tom, could not accept this young woman happening to him, because he felt guilty over Darien, over the losses on the Nathan James, over things he could have done differently? His XO's words had been barbed, even if the other man had not necessarily meant them to be. "You hurt her – we hurt her: first trusting her with the children, then accusing her of doing a bad job without even letting her explain. She proved she can think and act quickly, analytically, and puts everyone else before herself. So, think who is getting the worst of this…"

He leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a moment. It had been less than a week since they had talked about Darien for the first time. But of course, with the children in the picture, this thing between them – would either intensify, or be torn apart. For her part, she'd been doing well with the children, with all four of them. The way Mhari described her calm, matter-of-fact way to deal with danger – including them reasonably, but neither scaring them nor making light of the situation – she had instinctively found the right tone. That girl had had it right – let her tell her side.

For his part, there was no hesitation. The question might be how much had he destroyed with his actions?

With a decisive move he opened the door, only to startle from his thoughts. The bed was empty, the blankets rumpled. The emotions cursing through him reminded him of standing in the eye of a storm.

Consequently he was surprised by a small yip, and the puppy came up from behind him – the closet at the back of the room! - guarding the young woman with his half-comical, half-tragic look and wagging ears.

Tom turned, highly alert.

Alviarin stood behind him, leaning against the wall with one hand, eyes wide. She had been dressing – jeans and a plaid flannel shirt almost made his brows rise.

There was precious little colour in her face, her hair had not yet been rebraided and hung loosely like a coat around her shoulders and down her back.

She regarded him with the wary reticence he remembered from the first times they met on the Nathan James.

"Should you be walking around?"

"Tom." Anxiety rose into her eyes. "Everything ok?"

He couldn't help it. "No."

She did not catch the self-directed sarcasm. "The children? Mike? Rachel?" Her voice was rough.

Tom could smile a little at what the order betrayed. "Everyone's ok."

The realization and relief was written clearly on the pale face, but then her features changed, drew inward. With a shaky breath the young woman straightened, relaxing her shoulders consciously and muttered quietly: "You mean you and me."

Something in her tone made the tall man hesitate. It kept a distance between them, raising cold up his back. He stayed silent. Slowly she walked over to the bed and sat down, closing her eyes trying to hide the pain in her abdomen – one hand pressed to the injured spot.

"You could have trusted me." Her voice was toneless, even deeper than usual. "And I don't mean… I mean when you sent me off to read to the children and discussed the flyers – which Jed didn't trust me with. I lived in Canada, there are few enough universities that I would have known how to verify this Professor. If we had sought them out or I had gone to spy on them instead of throwing them in the same category as the mercenaries the whole episode might have been avoided."

Tom took a breath, taken by surprise. It was true, Jed had sent the young woman upstairs and only after had brought out the papers. The days had been so full and chaotic and draining, he, Tom, had forgotten – or hesitated? – to include the young woman in the detailed planning. Would he have considered putting her in that kind of ambivalent danger?

"Alviarin…"

With measured movements the young woman changed position, drawing her legs toward her. "As to the other thing – Tom, I never had a family. Being entrusted with the four elves, Gods, you have no idea what you and Mike did there!" Her voice grew quiet, the calm hard fought-for.

Chandler walked over to the window, gripping the sill for balance. He had to let her finish.

"I would have died before I let anything happen to them. I had every single possible scenario running circles in my head. You were coming from one side, too slow, four enemy combatants from the other. I have no tactical training, I do not know how you would have acted. I stand by my decision to draw them away. Guns in that small, enclosed space… the children in the middle of possible conflict…" she shook, wrapping her arms around her knees. Tom had turned around, staring down at her, his heart in his mouth.

Alviarin lifted her head then, looked up at him, blinking against the light, and stated matter-of-factly: "I would have argued when you confronted me. If there is nothing else to be said between us, then…"

"Stop." The word wrenched free from the iron grip the Admiral had held on himself.

The grey eyes held an unreadable expression, hurting him with the knowledge that he had destroyed something between them. Choosing his words carefully, Chandler felt like he was balancing on ice. "You said I act with foresight and thought of my family and crew? Where you are involved, I let myself be blinded and hampered by guilt and small-mindedness."

This was obviously not what the young woman had expected. Her eyes widened – questions, pain, misgiving spoke to him. Relief threaded its way into Tom's consciousness – he could read her face again. Something wanted to break through in those grey pools that often reminded him of the calm, steely surface of the Pacific on a morning just before sunrise.

"The situation with the Canadians, my children, Mike's girl and the little boy – you in the middle of it – brought me to the very edge of my comfort zone. I acted irrationally."

For a split second she held his gaze, then quickly dropped her eyes - but he had caught the expression. His heart beat in his ears.

"Alviarin."

Ever so slowly the pale, narrow face rose again. She tried to school her features into tranquillity, and would have achieved that, if not for the burning eyes. "I can't see your face." Her voice, also, betrayed the plaintive shiver hidden under the smooth surface.

Relief and ironic misgiving rushed Tom. Old tactician that he was, he had stood with his back to the low afternoon sun for the whole time, giving him the clear advantage – he could see her face shining in the warm light, while his was a shadow against the glaring window. He knew that his body language did not betray much, not if she only saw the outline.

Three measured steps brought him to the narrow bed, and he slowly sat down at its edge. Tom met her glance openly, found himself taking in every detail of her countenance hungrily.

Alviarin searched his face, the hardness in her features softening until she seemed so heartbreakingly fragile to him that he longed to cup her face in his hands and…

"I hurt you. Forgive me." He had never been good with words, not in situations like this.

The young woman swallowed, unable to find an answer.

So Tom kept speaking: "I don't think I could have solved that situation better than you did. Mike agrees." Her expression prompted him to add: "And I'm not just saying that. As to the Canadians, you are right. You were before." He shrugged minutely.

That brought a lightening to the serious face before him. She had voiced how hard it was for him to trust in people after Baltimore and the Achilles and the oil rig.

Tom relaxed his shoulders, torn between impatiently pressing her for an answer and trying to understand what was going on behind those stormy grey eyes. He wanted so much to touch her, to re-establish the instinctive, trusting accord they had shared since those first few moments on the ship. His glance distracted by the flopping ear of the grey puppy chewing on a rag reminded him of the moment they had found the young woman, and he took a breath once more.

"You have to stop with the turn and flight, Alviarin. If not this thing between us – you with the children, your place in this community, the friendships you built - it's worth fighting for. You're worth fighting for. Come home with me."

Something new entered her face, her eyes cleared. A certain amount of steel burned in her voice as she now quietly returned: "Tom, I'm not one of your sailors, or marines. I will not follow blindly – anyone. If you give me responsibilities, I need to be fully in the picture, and I need to know that you trust me. I understand the necessity of earning trust and sometimes keeping secrets, but…"

Tom almost reached out and touched a long-fingered hand. "I trust you, Alviarin. I don't trust you to look after yourself, but otherwise, I would leave my children - or Mike or the James - in your hands again without hesitation."

His words effected the adorable little snort he had aimed for and he did reach for her hand.

And with the simple touch of three fingers against wrist, the static flared to life. The long curls falling over her shoulders moved with the hitch in her breath, her fingers curled a little so they touched his hand in return. Their eyes met. Tom swallowed unobtrusively – the intensity of her gaze was smouldering.

Whatever she read in his face was enough, it seemed. One slender hand reached up as if to touch the lines over his brows, but she hesitated. "I hated being separated from you. When the explosion occurred, my first thought was…"

Tom gripped the fragile hand tighter in his. "Me too. Those were horrible moments."

"Do we know yet who was responsible?"

The Admiral considered her – was she trying to keep the conversation clinical on purpose? "Your friends think it might even have been a reaction without human interference. There were chemicals involved that, if electricity failed once too often or a cable burned through, might ignite by themselves."

"Nothing vital was destroyed?"

"No."

"And the children?"

His impression reasserted himself. She was apprehensive about something and kept the conversation upright on purpose.

"The children are fine. Asking after you, all four of them, so did Tex Nolan and Andrea Garnett – as far as I know. Mike will have met more of our crew." Tom smiled. "They thought of the evening as more of an adventure. Mhari is the oldest. She was once in a car accident with her aunt, who is an experienced police officer, and said you kept the children calm while including them the same way her aunt did. They came out of it proud of their involvement. You did good."

To both their surprise, Alviarin chuckled. He wanted to trace the dimples appearing in her cheeks, enjoyed the melodious sound.

"I'm surprised she analysed me so easily. Half of it was instinct or necessity, the other half conscious aim. They responded well."

Distracted by a yip from the half-grown animal they both glanced down.

"Yes… I found a half-wolf."

"He's welcome. He helped us find you after my inopportune welcome."

"He… he did?"

Tom gripped her hands with both of his. Enough of this. "Alvi, I need to get back, see to the furnishing of the house, the rest of the crew and maybe look in at Dr. Scott again. Milkowsky said you could be released into home care, your wound is healing well."

There was that held breath again.

"Tom… you brought me to St. Louis. Why?"

"Because it needed your friend Marton and the children in one room to finally hear the whole story." His voice had turned gravelly, he had to relax his jaw consciously.

Alviarin tilted her head, brows drawing together.

"Neither Mike nor I had managed to make the kids explain what exactly had made you leave them. The circumstances… and they could have made us see, fully, had we managed to look past the initial fury."

He put a knuckle under her chin, asking her to read his utter misgiving in his eyes. "Forgive me. Let me take you home."

Her lower lip shook. "Home?"

Ah – they had never actually talked about this. He squared his shoulders, hiding a smile.

"I've been offered a four bedroom house in a slightly outlying, but fairly lively part of town. Most of the crew have moved into the neighbourhood. There's a park with a natural pond and playground. We've got a large garden we'll share with Mike, who's moving in next door. The boxes are mostly there already, just furniture is sparse." Now he allowed the smile to touch his eyes. She followed his words so seriously, something almost tragic in her expression. "There is a fair bedroom on the ground floor with a bathroom attached. It may have been meant as a guest room, but the children and I agreed it would be perfect for you. Your backpack is waiting there, including your staff."

Head tilted, the young woman gazed up at him with a pensive expression bordering on sceptical. He wanted nothing more than to lean forward and kiss the slightly pursed lips.

"You're serious about this?"

"Absolutely." His words were measured.

"You thought this through? After… after everything? Me… living with you, your children?"

"I would rather keep an eye on you."

First she searched his face, one corner of her mouth twitching at his last words. Then her eyes fell on their joined hands, and ever so slowly she nodded. Impulsively she brought his hand up to her cheek, leaning her face into it. Their eyes met. Tom saw the heat that flared through him reflected in kind in the wide, somewhat surprised grey eyes. The pulse beating at the side of her neck… As he had longed to do he cupped her face in both his hands and found her lips with his mouth, threading his fingers against her warm scalp. The young woman responded with instant urgency, leaning against him, hands gripping his arms. Mindful of her injury, Tom half lifted, half pulled at the warm, slender body until she was pressed flush against him, her hand snaking into his hair.

He kissed her hungrily, making up for the lost time, erasing the left-over bitterness in a wash of heat and tenderness. Touch... Taste... Feel...

AN: yes, a few holes left open, i know, I'm not done yet... :-). I appreciate feedback of any form. Hope you'll forgive me for the long wait. (Still no season 3 for me - i can't touch the new episodes while "my" story is still taking form. I'm scared of beeing scared away from these scribbles... if that makes sense. Love and Peace to ya all!)