The Crossfire

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November 4th, 2001—USS Carl Vinson, Operation Enduring Freedom, North Arabian Sea

"You wanna hear something stupid?"

Tom wanted to hear everything so long as it came from her lips, but he couldn't say that. Not anymore, so he peered down to where her head rested against his shoulder. Waiting. Aching.

She moved away—the bulk of her tears expelled—but her cheeks were still wet. It was more difficult than he'd like not to wipe those for her. His fingers twitched when she let go of his hand, sniffing and scooting until her back was against the hull, and in the absence of her body against his, he felt cold. Told himself he didn't feel it down to his bones.

"It never even crossed my mind that you wouldn't—"

Tom observed while her lips pursed, visibly chewing on the words she appeared to think better of saying. It didn't matter though; he knew what she hadn't disclosed.

Wait.

It was a little crushing, or a lot because Sasha didn't understand that in some ways, he still was—but he couldn't be—and therein lay his dilemma, perhaps even a lesson. And while Tom no more possed the power to reverse time, than stop the way he felt, he had committed to choosing differently… and it hurt.

"I'm sorry, Sasha." It was the only safe message to convey.

She swiped at her nose again, clasping her hands together in her lap, still refusing to focus anywhere but the middle distance before her. "Why are you here, Tom?"

Why? He thought that obvious but sitting here well past zero hundred because he hadn't been able to sleep, or stop thinking about her, worrying because he hadn't seen her eat a full meal in over two weeks, was a conundrum in and of itself. The proper thing to do, would be to notify ship's Chaplain. The last thing she'd want him to do, is notify ship's Chaplain. Then of course there was his wife—whom he couldn't seem to tell about Sasha being on this cruise—so he was effectively lying every time he called home, and the why was the same reason he was sitting here now.

"I'm worried about you—haven't seen you eat much."

She bristled, picking at a nail he knew was already clean. "I'm not hungry."

"—" Tom opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Realizing he didn't know what to say, or what to do, and the weight of it was unbearable. He'd never heard her wearier than when she leveled him with her next words.

"What do you want from me?"

His brow knotted. "You to be okay—"

Sasha scoffed, and it felt like a slap. "Right."

He wished she'd just look at him.

"I'm sorry I can't act the way you want me to, Tom. Trust me. You have no idea what I would give to forget you exist."

The barb that shot irradiated a scorching path that seemed to ricochet like a bullet, his response coming out in a rasp. "That's not what I meant, Sash."

He caught his lapse too late and tried to steel himself against her next caustic remark—but it never came. Instead, she turned, and though it was dim, Tom could still see the redness both at the tip of her nose and in the whites of her eyes. The muscle encasing her mandible bulged when she clenched, somehow magnifying the sheen of her hollow stare. It struck Tom that he'd never been responsible for breaking someone before, much less a person he loved and like the shrill of a boiling kettle, the pressure in his sinuses increased. Pushing him to ponder how much longer he'd continue to choose differently when he needed to make Sasha happy again.

The wheels were turning, could see it—her lips even parted like she was going to say something else, but she dropped eye contact and shook her head, peering to the far side of the storage space while visibly swallowing.

How many hours had he spent trying to prepare himself for this? Lost count after the first dozen times he'd replayed her voicemail—still—this was far worse than he'd imagined. Hadn't accounted for still seeing Sasha as his, and there wasn't a damn soul in which to confide his sinful truths. Ironic that Tom had to stop himself tracking Sasha down to share the mundane happenings of the days, yet now there wasn't a single thing left to say. Not really. He'd apologized, he'd explained, he'd been truthful—and nevertheless, he couldn't let go. Couldn't stop trying to fix something that needed to be broken. His mouth tasted sour, and his throat hurt.

To his right, Sasha took a shaky breath, pushing herself to her feet aided by a cargo bin. Tom held his own. Waiting. Aching.

She adjusted the hem of her sweater, back turned to him. "Goodnight, Tom."

He let the breath out slow once the door closed, the surge of guilt so intense that for a split second he couldn't hold it in anymore. His features twisted, scrubbed a hand across his face, and pinched his eyes closed, choking back the tears.

He had a daughter now. A wife. He'd made commitments. Promises. He'd meant every one of them.

He had to let go.

December 12th, 2013—USS Nathan James, on course to St Andrew's Bay—1417 hours

Tom was partway through pouring himself a drink in the wardroom when his illusion of solitude ended. His thoughts, which focused on the logistics of the forthcoming mission, stalled when he glanced over his shoulder. Disinterest, it seemed, was still unattainable for him where Sasha was concerned. That old internal twisting sensation he so often felt in her presence flared and made itself known. She lingered before coming in, wearing a benign expression that left him guessing, unsure if she was blaming him, pissed at him, or worse. Indifferent.

"Coffee?" he said, gesturing the pot toward her.

"I can get it." She reached for a mug; her response dismissive but not impolite.

Indifferent then.

With no external reaction, Tom set the pot midway between them and moved to pull up a chair, the leather padded one embellished with the acronym, CO. That knuckle he'd dislocated gave a small twinge when his palm curled over the back, thoughts drifting while he waited for her to stay or leave. She was underweight, he'd noticed that before, but when he considered that by his rough math, she'd been around five months pregnant in August, now it concerned him. The question was rampant in Tom's mind, but above his desire to know was the simple request she'd made for him to leave it alone.

He wasn't aware of his lingering scrutiny until Sasha turned and rose a brow. In the past, she'd known him well. Well, enough that Tom wondered if she could still read him—knew what he'd been thinking about. Still, there was little use pretending he hadn't been caught, so he held the eye contact and waited for a reaction. After another drawn-out moment, Sasha pushed herself away from the counter. Her movements were fluid and maddeningly graceful when she drew up her own seat. Only then did Tom finish taking his own.

She was the first to break the silence. "Your Doc cleared me for active, but the Master at Arms won't release any gear without orders." She was giving nothing away, her entire being unreadable.

Tom took a sip of his drink before answering. "I'll take care of it."

His response seemed satisfactory, and she leaned back in her seat. "And I'm assuming you'll be joining the ground team? Even though I'm perfectly capable of leading the opp."

He didn't answer, not verbally at least, rather lifted his chin and deflected. The reaction she'd expected if her side-eye was anything to go by. Tom took another slow sip, completely dry when he responded. "You're the queen of unconventional. If anything, I thought you'd be proud."

She'd walked into that one, and her reluctant smirk told him she knew it. Having hammered a small crack, Tom changed gears, choosing to tackle at least one of his curiosities. "You moved to Florida?"

Sasha blinked, apparently thrown off by the turn in subject, but recovered quickly. "No. I was based out of Maryland, but we had a second home—close to Savannah."

"At ONI?"

She nodded and palmed either side of her cup, hooking her fingers through the handle and drawing it closer. "You went back to Norfolk." It didn't sound much like a question, rather a confirmation of something she'd already known.

"When Mom got sick." Tom took another sip.

Her features softened. "I was sorry to hear about that."

He didn't bother asking how. Sasha wasn't the type to sever all ties, a fact he'd established in Singapore when she'd referenced Sam and Ashley using their names. Names he'd never disclosed.

"For the record, I thought about sending condolences—" she trailed off, catching herself. Already, they were veering into topics better left closed. Sasha threw an apologetic glance and then looked beyond him. Studying the contents of the shelves directly behind the table.

It was funny, two years ago, watching his mother succumb to cancer, and his father's profound grief had been one of the hardest experiences Tom could fathom. Now, it almost paled in comparison. After considering it, Tom extended an olive branch. "For the record, it would have been nice to hear from you."

She resumed eye contact then, soft but still unreadable, and Tom had to admit she'd gotten better at that. It served as a reminder that a decade of life lay between them now. Expecting any different was foolish as much as naïve. Still, the feeling of past connection became muddled when faced with how little he knew about Sasha after him.

"I didn't want to make anything more difficult for you."

He could appreciate that. Darien, though not jealous, had never been comfortable. Understanding to an extent but clear on the boundaries. A fact which Tom couldn't fault her for given the circumstance, though, without him, and had Darien and Sasha ever met, he was often convinced they'd be friends.

"She was part of your life too. I would've handled it." His voice was soft in response to the glimpse of regret he detected in Sasha's. Deducing now that her distance was more likely a coping mechanism than lingering resentments. Or so he hoped. "How d'you find out?"

Her smile was fond but small. "Your dad—turns out we have a contact or two in common through the Pentagon."

Something about the way she averted her eyes and fiddled with the china prompted an irrational idea that Sasha was the one to break protocol in forwarding Darien's message, but he pushed it aside. For one, he didn't know when it was recorded, nor what was going on in the US, or where Sasha was when it was transmitted, and once again, it led him to the original question. When did she lose the baby, and how?

"Figures," he said, drawing another gulp from his near-empty drink. Sasha moved her head, showing she wasn't following. "He loved you, and he never did forgive me." A little shocked by his own honesty, and the ease with which it slipped out.

Rueful, she shot back, "He's stubborn. Maybe the only man on the planet more so than you." She was goading him, and he watched her take another deliberate sip while peering over the rim.

A faint if lopsided smile warmed his features before masking itself again when the door opened. XO Slattery appeared, hesitating for a beat in the threshold. In her seat, Sasha shifted, and Tom swiveled as Slattery offered a cursory nod in her direction before re-focusing attention upon him.

"The President wants to see you. Says he has some more intel on the immunes."

Tom corrected his posture, preparing to leave his seat. "I'm on my way."

Slattery acknowledged the directive with a facial gesture and exited the room.

Sparing another glance while he stood, Tom watched Sasha shifting the mug again, holding it near her body this time. She was back to being aloof, eyes down in such a way that Tom knew whatever openness she'd allowed was gone. With an inaudible sigh, he returned his cup to the wall rack and re-aligned the sugar packs, unable to stop the intrusive nostalgia when he noticed it—he'd forgotten her habit of leaving them askew.

Without turning, he spoke casually, "There should be a jacket or sweater in the storage bin in bay two. Maybe some long sleeves. It's communal, so you can help yourself."

Behind him, Sasha snapped her focus up, effectively pulled from her thoughts while Tom made to exit the room, deliberate in his choice not to glance over his shoulder. He was reasonably sure she hadn't expected him to notice and had he turned, her expression would've confirmed it. Still, it was impossible to ignore the feeling when she tracked his departure.

St. Andrew Bay, Florida Panhandle—1735 hours

It was amazing the difference a mission could make. A purpose. The half-life in which Sasha existed felt suspended in time; like a parallel universe visited only in sleep. Even when posed as a diplomat, Sasha had yearned for the simplicity of a gun, and although she'd been running solo for close to five years, being back on a team felt reminiscent of her days spent with the DIA, working deployments across the globe with special forces. If given a guess, Sasha ventured Tom missed it too, his chosen career path cut short by an untimely injury. Caught herself watching a little too closely, determining he must have had that surgery because he moved with the ease of a man half his age, and no longer favored his left side.

"So uh, Sasha—what kinda intelligence you say you were again?"

Sasha shifted her focus toward Tex, reading the mischief glinting behind his sunglasses. "I didn't."

"Huh—thought you folk were meant to blend in with the crowd. I don't know about you, but I ain't really seein' it."

Green gave an exaggerated eye roll, a reaction Sasha caught in her peripheral. Lifting her brows, she answered, "Actually, you'd be surprised."

"Oh yeah?" Tex peered over the rim of his glasses; a boyish grin apparent despite his unruly beard.

"It's exactly why I get overlooked—they either think I'm dumb, or too pretty to put a bullet in their face." Flashing a smile that boarded sarcastic as much as frosty.

Tex chuckled. "I bet you're a riot at parties."

"Depends who's hosting," Sasha drawled, choosing not to look at Tom who was fighting his lopsided grin while keeping pace to her right.

Danny leaned closer to Tex's shoulder, exaggerating his whisper so the words would carry. "I thought you were into the Doc."

Without missing a beat, Tex answered in the same conspiratorial manner. "You mean like you're into Foster?"

That piqued Sasha's interest—how Danny flushed and snapped back to formation like he'd been burned, but more so Tom's complete non-reaction. Admittedly, she'd scanned some parts of the ship's logs, her goal to understand the broader concepts rather than minor occurrences, though she did recall Foster as Nathan James' recently promoted TAO—very interesting.

"Capn' Chandler." Lieutenant Bruk's voice chirped over the radio.

Tom pressed the black button hooked to his vest. "What do you got Lieutenant?"

"Two towers south, southeast of the warehouse, Sir—so far it's the only thing we've seen that could work."

"Alright, head to the rally point, we'll meet you there." Tom pivoted to Sasha. "You still good for a thousand yards?"

Sasha tilted her head by way of response, the smile genuine this time and with a particular glint of charming confidence.

It was well past dark; the vibrant hues customary of a Floridian panhandle sunset had faded into intense inky blue hours ago—the feeling in her elbows with it too. Still no sign of Ramsey's men. Sasha relaxed her stance, watch beeping on the thirty-minute timer set to ensure minimum fatigue and maximum longevity, lifting her eye away from the scope and rolling her neck before settling into position again. There was no breeze, and the stillness only added to the chorus of insects in the night. In all, it was closer to zero-three hundred before Sasha spotted headlights approaching, radioed the warning to the teams below, and prepared for what was sure to be a burst of exhilarating chaos. A chaos she'd dedicated years to perfecting—that kid though? Cody—that was the wild card, and so was the way Tom went after him with zero cover across a field of view that was now hindered by thick, tarry smoke.

Sasha hammered the button on her vest. "Negative, Team Lead, no clear fire-support—I repeat, no clear fire support."

Nothing. Silence save for the ricochet of bullets below fired between Cobra and the immunes.

"All teams be advised, Captain is out of pocket, be on the lookout."

"Shit." Sasha adjusted the scope, taking out several targets in her pursuit to track Tom. In her ear the radio chirped with chatter between the TAO and Cobra, preparing them for inbound from the five-inch. The ordnance whizzed through the air, and less than forty seconds later hit and upturned a vehicle, which sent a fireball at least thirty feet into the air. High enough that it illuminated the litany of cargo drums, abandoned vehicles, and equipment that littered the land for Sasha to spot Tom heading toward one of the warehouses.

"Tex, you got eyes on the field?"

There was a two-second delay before his voice crackled back, "Affirmative."

"Copy that, I'm Oscar Mike." With a finesse honed over years, Sasha packed up the rifle double-time, looping the strap over her back before descending the steel ladder two rungs at a time. A little over six feet from the ground, she jumped down, pulling a sidearm from her holster.

"You're clear, Sasha," Wolf said.

She ran in the direction of that warehouse, jumping behind cover where possible as bullets continued to fly and the five-inch landed another round, the heat from its impact intense like the burning midday sun. Upon reaching, and then entering, the derelict building, it became apparent to Sasha that this place had been abandoned long before the Red Flu graced their shores. Judging by the smell, stains, and degradation of materials—huge chunks of plaster crumbling from walls—likely a victim of Katrina. She narrowly missed the immune, who was searching the ground floor, ripping herself behind a door and pressing her body against the wall hard to remain in shadow when he stalked past. Counted a full five seconds before slipping out and following, footsteps silent and measured while she avoided the litany of littered papers underfoot.

They rounded a corridor, and her insides lurched in recognition of Tom looming in a doorway, his focus drawn before him, oblivious to the man approaching with a loaded gun. Sasha held her breath, finger twitching over the trigger of her own weapon—the immune had a clear shot. If he was there to kill, it would be done by now. Instead, he cocked the barrel, the clicking sound ringing in Sasha's ears.

"Gotcha—" Tom turned his head, slow, calm, and disinterested "—bosses want you alive unless you put up a fight—"

Her heart thudded against her ribcage, inching closer, and closer, and closer without notice.

"—Please? Put up a fight—"

"Drop it." Sasha pushed her sidearm into the ginger man's temple, whose features contorted, eyes seeking her through his peripheral. When he didn't comply, she pushed harder, moving closer and out of the shadows into a sliver of moonlight shining through a hole in the ceiling. "I said drop it."

The man sucked air through his teeth while he grimaced, weighing the non-options before letting the MK clatter to the ground.

Tom let out a soft breath, the one he'd been holding, and blinked once before moving to help Sasha secure his would-be captor. He fished the zip ties in her lower front vest pocket, both of her hands still occupied by keeping the pistol rigid against the immune's forehead, and only after he'd wrestled the guy's arms behind his back, securing his wrists extra tight, did Sasha bring her focus to him. Remonstrate as much as it was spectacular, and boy was it obvious that he was standing on the wrong side of about a dozen lectures he'd given in the past. Very similar ones where he'd told Sasha she was too reckless, would get herself killed, or worse—someone else too. In fact, there was a body of a thirteen-year-old boy on the floor to prove it. A body that Ray Diaz, who'd just appeared, was now staring at.

The harpoon in his hands sagged as his arms fell to his sides, lip quivering while fighting for indifference. The kind of indifference stoically displayed upon Captain Chandler and Sasha Cooper's faces despite the oppressive weight of the kid who'd become their collateral.

Radio static crackled. "Tangos neutralized—" Sasha hadn't even noticed the gunfire had stopped "—we have prisoners as requested. Repeat, Tango is neutralized."

"Move," Tom commanded. Gruff to the point of almost being a growl when he yanked the immune into motion. They'd progressed no more than a few feet before the radio chimed again.

"Did you find Cody?" Ravit's voice this time, and Sasha watched the set of Tom's jaw bulge and then tighten.

"He's dead. Took a bullet in the crossfire."

Ray Diaz clenched his fist tight around the harpoon that was beginning to echo the tremor in his body.

"I'll bring a bag, Sir," Wolf said.