an. I've been neglecting this one a little, but got around to writing a few chapters in advance for it this weekend!
Happy Easter if you celebrate it!
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Friday, May 30th, 1997—Lake Redwing Surrounding Woodlands, Naval Base Dam Neck, Virginia
It was going well.
He'd been avoiding. Successfully, in Tom's opinion. Had embodied the definition of detached, professional, and aloof—despite the errant thoughts that ran through his mind. It would have continued that way, or so he convinced himself, had this field exercise not required they pick teams. Fraternization issue aside, Sasha was one of the best in the class, and above all else, Tom wanted to win. That's why for this little game of capture the flag—three-day-all-out warfare style—he'd ensured Sasha was with him, not Norman. The class was down to twenty-one, a further seven having washed since completing 'hell week' and Sasha was only regretful over one of those losses. A minor slip during an obstacle course and one broken ankle later, her favorite, Baca, had been forced to medically tap until the next wave. She missed their comradery.
They'd lost the coin toss on operators, Norman had won the extra body for his, but they would not be so easily deterred. One less chance for the opponent to discover their plans, in Sasha's opinion. One that Tom wholeheartedly agreed with. Each team started miles apart, the name of the game to covertly scope, map, and traverse the play area without getting caught. If you were seen, you were 'dead' and had to sit the rest of the exercise out.
Sasha didn't want to analyze why he'd chosen to pair them when their team had split into four scouting parties. But she did. She was also trying to ignore and stop stealing looks as they silently swept the trees. But seeing him in full combat gear was… nice, to say the least.
His arm came up with a closed fist and she stopped abruptly, weapon primed as he gestured with two fingers directly at his ten. Her eyes followed the command, darting through the thickets of trees until she spotted them. Two members of the opposing team who had no idea they were there. Most likely scouting the play area just the same as them. Silently, Sasha drew her gaze back to Tom's—meeting the blue and riding the wash of adrenaline she found there. He nodded tightly at her, trusting that she knew what their best move was, and she took that as a cue to execute.
Like a well-oiled machine, they split—fast, stealthy, and in tandem until they'd positioned themselves at the flank of their targets. Each hidden by large trunks. She shifted the tip of her weapon out while he did the same, waiting patiently for their unsuspecting targets to cross their sights.
Listened to the sound of near-silent footsteps on the damp earth, and the light breeze which rustled the trees. Occasionally, the song of a bird penetrated, and the distant hum of the base jets taking off downwind, past the woodlands. More than enough sound to conceal her elevated breaths. Her heart pounded with excitement at the thrill of a chase.
The seconds passed as if in slow motion until the recruits crossed their sights and they sprung from the trees—shot their blanks. Clay and Lewis both scrunched their eyes in frustration, Clay letting out a terse expletive as Tom and Sasha took their Velcro name tags and pocketed them.
Tom gestured with the tip of his weapon in the general direction of base. "Tap out guys, leave your gear with Delgado. We'll see you on Monday."
"Yes, Sir," they both responded in unison.
Sasha caught Tom's gaze as her classmates went back to the staging area. Something was gleaming in it, shining in a way that sent her heart galloping. Watched the tiny curve of his lip into a satisfied smirk and found herself doing the same. In hindsight, Sasha told herself the only reason it stuck with her through the rest of that day and well into the night was because it had been so long since he'd looked at her like that. That was all—it's not that she missed it. Or him. The more she thought about it, there was nothing to miss… except that she did.
Tom shifted on his ass a little, vest biting against bark where he leaned against a trunk. It was cool, looked like it might rain, and he hoped it wouldn't. Nothing he hated more than being wet, cold, and almost hypothermic. Especially not when the cold bothered his knee so much. Without thinking, he extended the offending leg and began massaging the scar. Only catching his lapse when he felt eyes on him. Sasha snapped hers down quickly when caught, pulled her lip between her teeth, and chewed on it as she tried to focus on something else.
Dixon and Marullo were out of earshot, sitting at their six around 100 yards from their watch position. The rest of the team catching sleep in their temporary camp. Nothing more than a couple tarp Lean-To's gathered close together. No fire. Couldn't risk that kind of beacon. They'd lost two of their own earlier that day to the other team, down to nine players.
Her mouth came open as if to ask but closed. Thinking better of it. Settled for scanning the pitch-black darkness before her instead, while trying to ignore the heat of his eyes on her skin. Attempting not to put weight to the notion that somehow, the darkness didn't seem so bad with him sat close to her. Pondered if her little confession after Delgado's dive simulation gone wrong was in part responsible for him pairing them on watch. Then she couldn't decide if that annoyed her or touched. Or maybe both, but at the same time, she hated it. Hated the fact that, for some unquantifiable reason, she felt safer when he was around.
Tom sighed more heavily than he should have. Why that noise put her nerves on edge, she didn't know, but the silence was deafening. And he'd almost caved, the words hanging at the tip of his tongue—intent to tell her what she so clearly wanted to know. But then the feeling of her lips against his flittered across his mind, and he clenched his jaw in response. Cursed himself a fool a dozen different ways. Reminded himself that engaging in conversation that was not strictly necessary had already cracked the lid on a box that didn't need to be opened. Couldn't be opened.
He tried his best not to notice the change in her breathing pattern, but he could hear it. See it in the tension coiled tightly at her shoulders. Saw how the tendons in her neck, so elegant and long—stop—tore his eyes away to look at something else. Anything. Anything but her.
The remaining hour stretched in much the same manner. In tension so thick, the very air seemed burdened. And when Maine and Sizemore came to relieve them, and they'd each settled into the only open spots in the Lean-To—next to each other—Sasha almost scoffed.
Damn it.
Laying next to Tom Chandler, with barely two inches of space separating them, was an exercise in insanity, Sasha decided. Exhausted yet unable to sleep. Incensed that every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was blue. All she could feel was the memory of his hand at her thigh, how he'd pressed her against the door of her hotel room—flush. The skill of his lips and tongue against hers. She shifted unconsciously, in such a way that their legs brushed, and Tom had to swallow the way he wanted to groan in dismay. She'd stopped shivering minutes ago, something he shouldn't have noticed, yet he had. Something which told him she was having just as much difficulty concentrating as he, because the Lean-To was no warmer than the trees they'd been sitting against, but his blood was on fire.
By the second night, Sasha could withstand the silence no more. Found herself dismayed. Almost angry with him now. Didn't know why, there was no reason for it. After all, this was her fault. Her doing. But his perfectly cool exterior was igniting an ire that had started as a smoldering burn and steadily progressed into raging flames. Wasn't the most rational. He was merely treating her as he did everyone else, and maybe that's the part that bothered her so much. Or perhaps that she seemed to want him to treat her differently—which was a problem. Sasha was tired of having problems that related to Tom Chandler.
Tom saw from his peripheral as she chewed on her lip, stewing again—just as she had last night, though this time he could feel the heat pouring from her. Was almost at the point of counting down in his head—just to see how much longer she'd hold out before spilling whatever was on her mind—but he found he didn't have to wait longer.
"Look—" she started, keeping her tone hushed so they couldn't be overheard. "I'm sorry I kissed you. I shouldn't have done it."
Tom didn't react, not externally—instead, he hesitated. Knowing without seeing that she was looking at him. Waiting. Expecting him to agree. And that was the darndest thing about it—he couldn't. He didn't agree, and he wasn't sorry. Not at all.
And it was eating him alive.
Finally, he turned slowly. Cautious with a level of sincerity in those beautiful, expressive eyes that had Sasha holding her breath.
"I'm not."
It was simple, spoken so gently it made Sasha's heart do somersaults in her chest. Just like that, the carefully planned argument died on her lips. For several long seconds, she could do little but stare into his eyes, in a way that somehow felt more intimate than anything she'd experienced in her life. There'd been plenty of looks, hundreds of them—but she'd never seen this one. It was different. Honest, raw—devoid of baser chemistry like attraction or lust, or any of the dozen other things she'd seen lurking before. And something struck her, that perhaps for the first time she was looking at him. Tom. Just the man.
The sound of rustling pierced the connection. They both snapped their heads and weapons in the disturbance's direction.
Marullo. Taking a piss.
They both relaxed and lowered their weapons, settling back against their respective trees again. In silence.
Again.
He should have lied to her—he knew that. He'd just undone the past month of perfect distance he'd projected in an effort to fix the regretable soft-spot. Yet somehow, the idea of lying to her seemed more wrong than admitting his truth. Tom didn't want to know what that meant.
Sasha glanced at him then, studying the strong profile of his face. The contour of his jaw, and the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. There was a distinct thought—one formed in the absence of anger, and in the company of melancholic regret—it was the first time Sasha wished they were different people.