White Flag

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Saturday, June 21st, 1997—Annapolis, MA

She wasn't sure what woke her; it wasn't sudden nor jarring. Just a natural spreading awareness of her surroundings. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything was perfectly right. The sheets she slept in, soft against her skin, the heat radiating next to her like a cocoon of contentment she never wanted to leave. Still, something had woken her. She cracked a drowsy eye, finding his own staring back at her, soft as they were deep.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was hoarse from sleep.

He took a finger and brushed some wayward strands from her temple, tucking them behind her ear, and then trailed the elegant line of her jaw. Thumbing the dimple of her cheek as an innocent smile curved at her lips. "Looking at you."

She inhaled, stifling a yawn, and hid her blush by turning her face into the shoulder she'd slept upon. The hair he'd so gently tucked back came loose again, swooshing down to blanket her face.

"You know," she began, voice muffled by his body, "most people would find that creepy." She turned back to him a little, stealing a glance at the affable grin he wore through the curtain of her hair.

"You're not most people."

Sasha thought about that for a moment. "True." Yet the 'but' could be heard in her tone. She stretched next to him, her limbs heavy in the most satisfying way, and shifted back a little, so she could see him better. She rested her hand on his bicep, along with her head, where she resettled it.

"What do you see?"

The way she'd said it was casual, but the sheen of her eyes was anything but, and Tom had been having a hard time trying to understand exactly how she controlled him this way with a single look. Instead, he'd come up with the why.

And that was very simple. He was in love with her.

"You."

Her mouth curved again, skin tingling with a giddy sensation that made her think she was pathetic. Like she was embodying every pre-defined narrative that a young woman should follow—meet a man, fall in love, build a future with a white picket fence around a house in the suburbs. Everything she endeavored not to be. Despite that, every time she looked at him, it didn't seem so bad. Well, the suburbs and a house sounded terrible… but everything else? Just them, and forever, and being a team against the world. Well… it almost sounded nice.

"Very descriptive," she teased.

But his eyes didn't crinkle the way she'd expected, nor his cheek dimple. His thumb touched the line of her lower lip while his stomach twisted in knots and his pulse flew. Because laying here now, in this bed with her by his side, was the only thing Tom wanted to do. Problem was, his time was done here. He had to move on—to Newport—and she was tied to Annapolis for another year.

"What if I stayed?"

Her brow wrinkled, uncertain, though her heart already jumped. She clasped her fingers around his, drawing his thumb away from her mouth. "How? You're 29 this year."

He knew that, of course, he'd been thinking about this for weeks. Wondering whether he was really in that deep only to decide this morning, that yes. He was in that deep, and he was going to bury himself deeper. The SWO PROREC board had selection requirements, one of which required applicants to be less than 29 at time of commissioning, but on occasion, they made exceptions for 'otherwise exceptional candidates'. And Tom was confident he could solicit a commander or two who'd endorse him. "I could ask for a waiver, defer for one more year—" the rest of his words were sighed. "Worst they can do is say no."

Sasha's lips parted gently. "Is that what you want?"

Tom disentangled his fingers from hers and buried his hand in the mass of hair at the base of her skull. "Yeah. It is—" he paused. Mouth going dry. "If that's what you want." He was out on a limb here, taking chances and risks that months before seemed impossible.

The blush was full and painting her cheeks, making the prominent ice blue brighter. "That sounds like a commitment." Something they'd agreed was not on the table before engaging in this rather ill-advised affair.

Tom could feel the blood pumping in his throat. "It is."

The few seconds where she studied him quietly were some of the longest he'd experienced to date. And he didn't breathe again until a slow, wide smile adorned her face.

"Okay."

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

"Dr. Scott?"

Rachel looked up from the vial she was producing, setting down the small plastic pipette on the surface before turning her wheels toward the zipped entrance of her lab. She lifted her chin a little, indicating she was listening, while a woman she didn't recognize stepped through.

"Sorry to interrupt—" she stepped closer, eyes taking a moment to span the space briefly. "Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence."

Rachel's lids fluttered a little, and she rose from her seat. "Ah, yes. Captain Chandler told me you were one of the analysts responsible for pushing my proposal through." She removed the gloves from her hands, disposing of them in a small trashcan next to her desk, before extending one toward Sasha earnestly. "Thank you—for taking it seriously." Sincerity ringing true in her hazel brown eyes.

Sasha was a little taken aback, so used to dealing in shadow in what was a thankless job. She'd never been in it for that, but the contrast was jarring, and frankly welcomed on the back of the exchange she'd just had. She took Rachel's hand and shook it—firmer than she'd expected. "I think I'm the one that should be thanking you?"

They separated, and Rachel pushed her hands into the bottoms of her lab coat pockets. She made a small flippant gesture with her mouth that told Sasha she was just as uncomfortable with recognition as she. "Yes, well. I'm not quite there yet, there's still the matter of spreading it—nebulizing, finding the stability sequence—" Sasha listened politely but couldn't say those words meant anything to her, and Rachel seemed to catch herself, or perhaps the glazed look in her eyes and redirected quickly, "—anyway, what can I do for you?"

Sasha tried to offer a small smile, but it felt hollow. "Just need something for a headache. Tom said I could come to you while ships' Doc is busy?"

The corner of Rachel's lip seemed to quirk. "Yes, of course." She moved over to a different desk, rifling through the top drawer to produce a familiar opaque orange, white security capped bottle. A bottle Rachel had been using herself but saved her from making a trip to Ship's infirmary. "I hope you don't mind sharing. I had a few but there's plenty left—I'm happy to top it up when you need."

Sasha took the bottle and gave it a small shake—more for something to do than anything else. "Thanks", she stated before pocketing it in the back of her jeans. "I'll let you back to your work." She was already angling her body to turn, but Rachel stopped her.

"Actually, now that you're here—if you wouldn't mind—the Captain mentioned you're immune? I was wondering if I could take a sample of your blood for my analysis. I've only had the opportunity to study two profiles."

Sasha swallowed down the bile in her throat. The last time she'd given a blood sample, she'd discovered she was pregnant, days from dispatching to Asia. "If it helps."

Rachel gave another tight-lipped smile. "It will certainly help in creating a more accurate estimation of the level of immunity in the global population. Should only take a few minutes—help yourself to a seat."

Sasha looked around casually at the three available stools strewn throughout the space, selecting one at random to perch upon, while Rachel gathered supplies and donned a fresh pair of gloves. Her movements were methodical as she tied the silicone tourniquet around Sasha's bicep. Used some alcohol wipes to sterilize the area and prepared the needle.

"Small pinch," Rachel warned.

Sasha wasn't really listening, pursuing the space instead to occupy her mind, noting the bear Green had taken what seemed like days, rather than hours ago, sitting on a table. She saw a figure clad in blue, blurred thanks to the thick plastic but unmistakable in his gait and stature and a few seconds later, he stepped through the open zipper flap, stooping for head clearance on habit rather than necessity. She'd seen that guilty look before—on another ship—though he'd gotten better at masking his features into stoicism, she noted. Just not his eyes, and she could tell he was holding his breath from the tension in his neck alone.

Rachel looked up. "Captain."

His eyes ticked away from Sasha, realizing that Dr. Scott was expecting him to provide a response, a reason for why he was there—probably for an update, she assumed, or perhaps to deliver further news about President Michener. Yet if it was either of those things, he wouldn't seem to be having such difficulty deciding what to say. Rachel shifted her gaze to subtly observe Sasha's instead, finding it particularly tense. Ah, he wasn't there for her at all. She switched out the third vial of blood, halfway through her stream of six, focusing on her task while the awkward silence filled the room.

Tom hadn't really thought this through, rather found himself driven down here after hearing this was the direction she'd come. Intent to immediately apologize without considering that he might be intruding—overstepping his bounds, again. And Sasha wasn't about to throw a bone, not that he could blame her for that. Shit. But he couldn't just stand awkwardly in the threshold either and walking away would make it plainly obvious that he'd been thrown way off his game by that explosive epiphany moments before. Not something a Captain should portray.

He inclined his chin a fraction in acknowledgment of Rachel, before focusing his gaze upon Sasha. "Come find me when you're done—I need to talk to you."

Sasha shifted her jaw a little while Rachel switched out to the fifth vial. Not missing how carefully he'd chosen both his words and his tone. Preempting her defiant response of 'no we don't' had he said 'we' or tonetically implied that this was a command, not a request.

"Fine," Sasha answered dismissively, and Tom took his cue. Shifting his hands into his pockets and stepping out of the lab.

Rachel was on the sixth vial now, its chamber three-quarters of the way filled, thoroughly intrigued, yet sensing Sasha definitely wasn't the type to offer details nor context.

"There—" Rachel removed the needle, pressing and holding a cotton ball to Sasha's arm instead. "All set."

Sasha moved to hold the cotton herself, allowing Rachel to untie the tourniquet and return with a small Band-Aid, which she applied in a practiced manner.

"Thanks again—for the painkillers," Sasha supplied, though Rachel could tell she was already mentally out of the door, her body leaving the stool abruptly.

Rachel removed the gloves, murmuring to the spot Sasha had vacated. "Anytime."

Tom was halfway between his desk and the small seating area in his cabin when she let herself in. He hovered mid-movement, a dossier clutched loose in his left hand while Sasha stood in his doorway. For a moment, neither spoke nor made the first move until Sasha tucked her chin and closed the door with a soft click. Casually, though her insides were churning, she stepped into the room. Choosing to lean against the wall opposite his desk. Tom placed the folder down, perching against the table's edge and bracing both hands on either side of him. She didn't miss the whiteness of his knuckles under his grip, and he saw that she'd noticed that little detail by the tracking of her gaze. Maintaining a poker face had never been a strong suit for him where she was concerned, and it seemed he was still no better at it.

Already her indifference was suffering under the weight of his earnest gaze. She looked away, reading the insignia of the Navy blanket adorning the settee. Her words flat when they came. "I don't need an apology, Tom."

Undeterred, he countered. "Well, I'm giving you one. I shouldn't have let it get that far."

She bounced her brows softly in acknowledgment, couldn't say she disagreed. Under any normal circumstance, disciplinary action would be in order. But that was the crux of it. None of this was normal, or ordinary, or okay. And she wasn't jaded enough not to recognize that. With a small sigh, she made eye contact again. "The only thing I need from you is to leave it alone." Her request simple, and honest.

"Okay." He'd agreed softly, barely a beat of thought before he'd said it.

Sasha tipped her head to the side, fixing him with a cautionary glare. That was too easy. "I'm serious—no asking if I'm okay, or how I'm doing."

Tom nodded, and his lips pressed tight together before he answered. "You got it." Too gentle by Sasha's standards and she wasn't so sure if the nerves weren't butterflies. Very familiar ones which seemed to plague her. Especially when he did that thing with his eyes…

"And stop looking at me like that."

The corner of Tom's lip quirked. "Like what?"

She tilted her head again, communicating her desire for him to cut the shit and stop playing coy. "That."

He was grinning then, and Sasha was failing and fighting to continue projecting dissonance as she rolled her eyes and chewed down on her own affected smirk. Pushing away from the wall, she unfolded her arms. "Let's just… look at the files."

Without a word, Tom retrieved the one he'd set next to him, extending it with a slight flare of his wrist. Like he'd presented her with a gift, a hint of amusement gleaming from blue, and a wave of sentiment engulfed her. She knew this trick. The one Tom employed to make her smile when he knew she was desperately sad.

Damnit.

She'd prepared for everything else. Worked through how she'd circumvent him opening doors by avoiding his heartfelt words when she'd meandered her way from the Lab back to Officer's country. And now, her vision was blurred. Her teeth worrying her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She reached out to take the Manila, only he didn't relinquish it. Instead, he used his free hand to encircle her wrist. Her nostrils flared, turning red at the tips while she stared at his knuckles, intensely concentrating on the one that was swollen. Pretending, or hoping—perhaps both—that he wouldn't notice her struggle. His thumb caressed over the prominent, rounded bone in the joint. The simple movement at once deepening her breathing though the pulse in her throat jumped.

Tom didn't know what he was doing—reacting. Just knew that nothing wasn't a choice in the face of her suffering. Their suffering. With a sigh, he extracted the folder from her hand—feeling the displacement of air when the paper hit the surface of his desk, and with her fingers now empty, Sasha realized how much she needed to hold on. Tom rose from the edge and drew her in, slow like a caress, until there was little space between them, and folded her against his chest—finally. In the way that he'd wanted from the moment he'd seen her.

Sasha's resistance lasted only seconds before unraveling, arms uncurling from being wedged to wrap around his torso. Her body sank into him like a drawn-out exhale, her cheek resting heavy against his shoulder, her breath tickling against his throat as she closed her eyes. Beneath her, Tom was solid and so very warm. The sound of his breathing against her ear comforting, and she let herself indulge in a moment of respite. Let him keep her safe so she could exist for a few stolen minutes in the closest to peace she'd felt in months. Tom rested his cheek against the top of her head, his nose at her crown while he savored the stillness and softness of her body against his.

"Tom." He didn't verbally respond, but she felt him shift his chin and pictured him peering down at her. "I'm really glad you're alive."

He squeezed a little harder, rubbing a broad palm up her back, and his lips shifted. Ghosting and resting against her forehead. Couldn't stop himself from breathing her in, eyelids clenched shut. The gratitude over his good fortune was humbling at its peak. He still had his kids, his father, his best friend, and now Sasha. He felt, and heard her deep inhale, the weight she'd rested upon him easing as she took it back into her own frame.

Sasha stepped away, but her hand lingered on his forearm, fingers grasping the fabric of his uniform while his own brushed over the goosebumps on her skin. There was color in her cheeks, dusted with freckles that were more prominent thanks to the months she'd spent in the sun.

"Files."

Right.

Michener. Sean Ramsey. The cure. And Sasha could see the reality settling back upon his shoulders. His thumb gave a final caress before he let go. She dropped his sleeve, taking an audible breath while he turned to collect an assortment of piles.

With his back turned to Sasha, Tom tried not to dwell on the cool spot upon his shoulder, damp from her hair.

"Take your pick." He brought the files over to the coffee table. Stacks of them and watched the way she rolled her neck to release the tension. Bring about focus. Prepare to dig in for yet more hours of this never-ending day. She started spreading them, scanning headings and making a series of piles in some kind of system that eluded Tom.

After a minute of sorting, she pushed a particular stack toward him. "Start here."