Tanah Merah

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Friday, January 6th, 2006—Changi Bay, Tanah Merah, Eastern Singapore

"Tom Chandler."

He froze, the slow smile starting first from within before adorning his mouth. That voice. It's honey-like lilt washing over him with warming familiarity. Hairs stood on end. Tom prepared himself before pivoting on the barstool, and maybe his mouth went dry when blue gleamed back at him. Bright as it always had been. She stood confidently, expression serene with the hint of a smirk, ignoring the obvious intrigue of his shipmates. Her lip quirked along with her head, dimpling her left cheek—he'd loved that before—still, he supposed.

"Sasha."

Her smirk grew into a smile, warm and radiating, and Tom felt, rather than saw, her eyes sweep his frame. "I think there's a bad joke here?"

Something sparked in Tom's gaze, trying to keep the reverence from his expression. His lip curled, showing his amusement. "I'd offer you a drink—but you've got that covered." He glanced down at the whiskey glass held between nimble fingers.

Sasha's smile widened, bringing it to her mouth and drowning its contents in one smooth motion before setting it on the bar top next to him. Her blink was languid. All that challenge and bravado he'd so loved shining back at him. And maybe his smile was too satisfied, maybe too smug, but for now, he didn't care. Tom pushed himself around again, gesturing to the bartender while his shipmates exchanged questioning looks and played musical chairs to free up the stool next to him.

Tom didn't think he'd ever tire of hearing the waves. The soothing lull as they crashed far on the reef before lapping gently to shore. His skin tingled in the thick air, heavy with unshed rains. It was stiflingly humid. There was no breeze, and though the sun had set hours before, the temperate still hovered just below eighty.

Sasha lay back in the sand, not caring that she'd spend weeks finding it in her hair, and as if from nowhere, a thought hit Tom like a bomb. Could almost visualize the epiphany force itself to the forefront of his mind, disregarding his will not to go there. To ignore it, not assign weight to it. Nevertheless, the realization came just as surely as every implication behind it, and Tom cursed himself a fool. A fool with a healthy dose of guilt who realized there was no place he'd rather be, and frankly, it was wrong. He remained silent, watching while Sasha gazed at stars, lost in her own little world, and deliberately ignored the pang—the one lamenting losing his place in hers.

Drawing the too-warm beer between his lips, Tom turned to the ocean instead, an effort to silence the rampant thoughts. Why the simple act of sitting beside her elicited a particular ache in his soul. Almost four years to the date since he'd last touched her lips. Selfishly. Wrongly. Justified at the time as something that needed to happen so he could finally let go. Was it beautiful or sad that there was no one to blame? It was just how things turned out.

'I think it works for us in another life.'

He blinked and turned. Took him a moment to understand Sasha hadn't spoken at all; the words conjured by his subconscious were just that vivid. More than anything, Tom wondered if they haunted her too. If being next to him was as difficult for her. He'd thought himself past this, but it was becoming evident that Sasha was merely out of sight, and only somewhat out of mind. Tom looked away again, watching the water lap and then vanish into the fine sands. Thoughts drifting to Darien and the kids waiting for him at home, the reminder that he was now married, happily, so he shouldn't be aware of the void. The one presently rejoicing in Sasha's return, however fleeting their moment may be. They'd always possessed this quality; an ability to exist in continuous present. Lurking, defying the bounds of logic and time.

Waiting. For weakness.

"So, how's it going—in this other life of ours?" Tom regretted it mere seconds after speaking out loud. Just couldn't help himself. It lingered in the air between them, and though Tom knew he should take it back, pass it off as a slip of the tongue, something prevented him. The same thing which had his heart racing behind ribs and his palms clammed with nerves over what her response may be. Whether she'd do what he couldn't and redirect the conversation into something benign. Something safe. But more than anything, a selfish part of him needed to know if she still cared. Wanted assurances that he wasn't alone in feeling the energy between them. Still.

Sasha snorted a little, shocked by his directness, and before liquid courage failed—before logic and reason thought better of it, she went down the path. The one kept buried beneath layers of pretending she'd forgotten about Tom.

"Pretty good, actually." Teasing in her tone as she arched an elegant brow and smirked at him. Tom's smile was soft, eyes gentle while he listened, the fear of rejection easing just as smoothly as the way she drew her gaze back to the sky. "You managed to convince me marriage isn't worthless." His smile grew wider, a light chuckle forming deep in his chest. "And there's a sailboat. I don't think we have jobs, we just—drift. Only keep one fixed date on the calendar." She angled her head toward him again, cheeks dimpling with an impish grin. "Christmas with Jed. It's not a holiday unless he's driving you insane and your sister's sharing all your embarrassing secrets."

Tom's smile grew until it bared his teeth, shook his head a little, accepting defeat, though the wave of nostalgia gripped sinister tendrils around his heart, and it scared him. Scared him to death, because he shouldn't feel this much, after this long, for a woman that wasn't his wife. He should've said goodnight, gone back with his shipmates to the Pickney in favor of the beach, and he most definitely shouldn't be alone with her. Could see that in hindsight, yet still his ass stayed planted to the ground. He missed her. God damn it, he missed her like she was a missing limb. Everything he'd tried too hard to bury rushing back as he listened to her speak.

Sasha pulled her lip between her teeth. "We go places—and we argue—because you're too stubborn to admit I'm a better navigator." Tom watched, seeing the way her smile faltered and morphed into something yearning and wistful. Her eyes searched the sky, soft at the corners, and he found it impossible to look away. Just for this moment, he wanted to share in it too—their alternate life.

"And at night we lay together, up on the deck or whatever beach we've made port at… and you tell me about the stars." The words were almost whispered now, the corner of her lip precariously quirking. That weight morphing until it settled in his gut. The curious mixture of present and past and what would never be all culminating into an intense, radiating peak. "And I make fun of you because you sound like every bad rom-com out there." Tom's smile was gone now, expression earnest and knowing because he knew what came next in this story. "But I tell you I never forgot the one you named after me… and you point it out whenever we see it, and remind me as long as it's there, you know how to find home."

Tom's air constricted, hearing the words he'd once told her. Words he knew to be true, in another life, the one where he got to be with the love of his. "Sash," he breathed.

She winced and let out a sound that was close to laugh but bitter instead. "I'm sorry—I had too much to drink—" they both knew it was a lie. She pushed herself up, sand clinging to the back of her shirt.

"Sasha—"

She was refusing to turn, gaze stubbornly cast toward the unknown. "Don't." It was soft but forceful.

Tom fought with himself, debating whether to heed that warning. He knew it was smart, better to let sleeping dogs lay, or whatever the saying was. But there was a part of him, something deep and buried and desperate that wanted to plunge headfirst and set free the words begging to be heard… but what good would they do? None. He knew that. Nothing would come of it—they both knew that. Their paths had diverged. It wouldn't be right to her, to Darien or his kids. No one deserved that.

"It's my fault, I shouldn't ha—"

Coward.

"I think it's just what we do, Tom." She was sitting now. With her back to him. Arms wrapped around her knees, clutching the bottle of beer too hard and wondering how it was possible to feel heartache in her palms. How it could be anatomically viable for an emotional ailment to manifest in such a distinct and physical way. "You should know, I'm not angry with you anymore."

In some ways, that was even worse. Because if Tom were on his deathbed right now, he'd admit he still was. Angry. At himself. Didn't know when that would stop… if it would stop.

"You should forgive yourself—I have."

There she was, still reading his mind like a book. A skill that both unnerved and comforted. His sigh was heavy, as was his confession. "That's easier said than done." And apparently, he still couldn't keep her out—still felt like baring his soul and entrusting it all because she'd seen fit to offer a glimpse of hers.

Fool.

December 10th, 2013—USS Nathan James, 30 NM Offshore, Palm Coast, Florida

Tom closed the door to his cabin, eyeing the bundle of clothes in his hands formerly owned by Maya Gibson. Morbid as it was, they couldn't waste anything, even civilian attire, and he'd chosen them because Gibson was a similar height. Perhaps an inch shorter than Sasha, if Tom were specific. He heard the water shut off and gave it another minute before rasping against the door once with his knuckles.

Her response was muted by the wood panes between them. "I'm decent."

He cracked it open, just enough to fit his left hand through. Heard bare feet drawing closer and seconds later, felt fingers brush his as they took said clothes. "Thanks."

Whatever response Tom thought to give, such as the expected 'You're welcome,' got stuck in his throat. Settled instead for pulling the door closed with a soft click and leaning against the adjacent wall. Hadn't moved an inch when she emerged several minutes later, and only realized how awkward that was when the flitter of surprise passed across her features.

Tom uncurled his arms and pushed away from the wall, letting them hang by his sides, lips parted as if to explain himself but remained mute. Unprepared, he'd digest later, to see her resemble his memories so keenly. She'd washed her hair, ridding it of the uncharacteristic tangles and braided it neatly, and he'd thought to comment on how she'd achieved that before recalling the Shampoo and Conditioner Ashley found—yet more of Maya Gibson's former possessions—were still in his bathroom.

Sasha drew her own lip between her teeth and sidestepped, walking further into his cabin toward his desk, putting a respectable distance between them. With her back turned, she casually lingered over his personal effects, surveying the pictures. A woman she assumed to be Darien, and another man whom she recognized as Jed, though grayer and older than before. She lingered on one of Tom with the kids and a dog. Huh. Somehow, she couldn't picture him with a dog.

Feeling his gaze at her back, Sasha turned, lacing her fingers together loosely and allowing them to rest in her lap as she perched against the desk. The backpack slung over her right shoulder hit the surface, bowing the strap from her collarbone, and falling down a little. It was only then that Tom noticed the welt on her left cheek, swollen compared to the other.

"You should get some ice." Sasha merely blinked in response, prompting Tom to elaborate. "For your cheek."

Unconsciously, her hand came up. Probing the skin and eliciting the barest wince over a tender spot. He was right, of course, but there were more pressing matters, like answers to the litany of questions she had. "I've had worse, though I think you need it more—for your hand."

Tom's lip tugged before falling into a neutral state again just as quickly. Didn't surprise him one bit that she'd noticed his inability to close his grip. He inclined his head a fraction in acknowledgment and ignored the subject in favor of that shower, pulling a set of BDUs from his bed's cabin. Felt her eyes tracking him until a sharp knock refocused both of their attention. Tom glanced toward her, already lamenting the optics of how this might appear to whomever stood beyond. The idea of asking Sasha to make herself scarce felt juvenile, however, so Tom set his uniform down. Moving in such a way that betrayed none of his reservations, and opened the door.

"Sir, forgive me for the interruption."

"Master Chief," Tom acknowledged. Stepping aside so he could enter.

If Master Chief Russell Jeter had a reaction, he'd done well to suppress it. Instead, he politely nodded at the woman, hands clasped behind his back. "Ma'am." Before turning back to his Captain. "Sir, our… guest is demanding to see you."

Tom appreciated the unnecessary attempt at clandestine. "You can speak freely; she has higher clearance than me. Slattery can bring you up to speed—for now, make sure he's fed, see if he needs medical attention, and let him know I'm otherwise engaged. I wanna see how this plays out. Talk to him, find out what he knows, what he was doing with the Ramsey's—and have Granderson set up a feed."

"Aye, Sir." Russ gave a curt nod in her direction — "Ma'am"—and turned on his heel.

Sasha's lips curled with a little disbelief and veiled amusement. "Spying on the President?" A comment made the second they were alone. Tom turned, glancing first over his shoulder before turning his body toward her. "Who are you and what have you done with Tom Chandler?" Goaded with a tilt of her chin.

Tom peered for several seconds before responding casually. "I've adapted."

Sasha allowed her head to lilt on its opposite side, brows quirking in an expectant gesture, but Tom detected the uncertainty masked beneath her exterior. "You wanna clue me in on what the hell is going on?"

Tom's lips pursed, gesturing with his head toward the desktop behind her. Sasha moved, pushing herself aside and watching while dexterous fingers input several passwords with plasticky clicks until he'd opened several folders and pulled various reports.

Tom pulled out his chair, gesturing toward it with his right hand, unable to fully extend his palm without sharp pain shooting from his middle knuckle to his elbow. "Make yourself comfortable."

Sasha slipped the backpack from her shoulder, setting it with care on the floor before sinking into the chair and began reading, transfixed. After lingering for a moment longer, Tom retrieved the uniform beside her and retreated into the washroom.

Only then, under the temporary respite of spray raining down upon his head, did he allow his thoughts to rage. Punctuated by the visual of copper-stained water swirling against cold tile. It was just enough to lessen the pressure, two minutes for the surge of undefinable mess to engulf before forcing it beneath clarity of focus. Ruminating over his next moves—how to navigate the rapidly evolving situation between the President, the Ramsey's, disseminating the cure, garnering the situation on the ground, and suppressing the dark and sordid fear coiling at the pit of his gut. A little alarm bell ringing in warning which belonged exclusively to the women sitting in the adjacent room.

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an. Sorry for dropping off the face of the planet. Lots of life things happening, including an unexpected new job, some litigation, and overall crappy stress.