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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 but a natural spreading awareness of surrounding. 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 a cocoon of contentment she never wanted to leave. Still, something had roused her. Cracking a drowsy eye Sasha found his own, soft as they were deep.

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

Tom 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. He thumbed the dimple of her cheek when an innocent smile curved her lips. "Looking at you."

Stifling a yawn, Sasha hid the 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 like a blanket across her face.

"You know—" she began, voice muffled by his body "—most people would find that creepy." She stole 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. Next, she stretched, limbs heavy in the most satisfying way, and shifted back to see him better. With her head now resting in the broad crook of Tom's elbow, her hand curled around his generous bicep. "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 with that. His need to understand how she controlled him this way with a single look. Instead, he'd come up with the why.

The why 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. All that she endeavored to hate. Despite that, every time she looked at Tom, 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 did his cheek dimple.

Instead, his thumb touched the line of her lower lip; stomach twisted in knots, while his pulse flew. Laying here now, in this bed with her by his side, was the only thing that 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?" he murmured.

Uncertain, Sasha's brow wrinkled though her heart jumped. She interlaced their fingers, drawing his thumb away from her mouth. "How? You're twenty-nine this year."

He knew that, of course. An issue he'd debated 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 to the core. The SWO PROREC board had selection requirements, one of which determined applicants must be less than twenty-nine at the time of commissioning. 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?"

Disentangling his fingers from hers, Tom buried his hand in the mass of silky hair at the base of her skull. "Yeah. It is—" he paused, mouth bone 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 of her eyes 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 until a slow, wide smile adorned her face.

"Alright."

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

"Dr. Scott?"

Rachel looked up from the vial she was producing and set down the small plastic pipette before turning her wheels toward the zipped entrance of her lab. She lifted her head when a woman she didn't recognize stepped through. Whoever she was, Rachel's first observation was that she lacked a uniform, yet didn't conduct herself like a civilian.

"Sorry to interrupt—" the woman approached, observing the space briefly, before refocusing. "Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence."

Rachel's lids fluttered in recognition, 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 the desk, before extending one toward Sasha earnestly. "Thank you—for taking it seriously." Sincerity shone in her hazel brown eyes.

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

They separated, and Rachel pushed hers into her lab coat pockets. Made a small flippant gesture with her mouth that told Sasha the Doctor 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 expression helped, 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 medicine chest. "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 aid 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."

Looking around casually at the three available stools strewn throughout the space, Sasha selected one at random while Rachel gathered supplies and donned a fresh pair of gloves. The Doctor's movements were methodical when 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. She noticed the bear Green had taken what seemed like days, rather than hours ago sitting on Rachel's desk. Through her peripheral, Sasha registered 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, Sasha 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."

Tom's focus ticked away from Sasha, realizing that Dr. Scott was expecting him to provide a response, clarify the reason for his visit—probably for an update, Rachel assumed, or perhaps to deliver further news about President Michener. Yet if it were 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 instead, finding her particularly tense. Ah, he wasn't there for her at all. Rachel switched out the third vial of blood, halfway through her stream of six, and focused on the task while awkward silence reigned.

It became apparent that he'd failed to think; rather found himself driven down here after hearing this was the direction Sasha took. His intent was to immediately apologize, but he'd failed to consider that he might be intruding—overstepping his bounds, again—and Sasha wasn't about to throw a bone. That was clear, and he cast no blame for that choice. Shit. But he couldn't just stand awkwardly in the threshold either, and walking away would make plainly obvious that he'd been thrown way off his game by that explosive epiphany moments before. Not something a Captain should portray in the presence of a scientist who challenged his authority daily.

He inclined his chin in acknowledgment of Dr. Scott before refocusing upon Sasha. "Come find me when you're done? I need to talk to you."

Sasha's jaw twitched while Rachel switched out to the fifth vial. How carefully he'd chosen both his words and tone preempted her planned response of 'no we don't' had he said 'we need to talk' or tonetically implied that this was a command, not a request.

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

Rachel was on the sixth vial now, its chamber three-quarters of the way filled, thoroughly intrigued, yet sensing Sasha 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 following abruptly thereafter.

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 chose to lean against the wall opposite his desk. Tom placed the folder down, perching against the table's edge and braced 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 expression. She looked away, reading the insignia of the Navy blanket adorning the settee, words flat when they came. "I don't need an apology, Tom."

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

Her brows moved 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. Rolling her eyes, she chewed down her own affected smirk and pushed away from the wall. "Let's just… look at the files."

Without a word, Tom retrieved the one beside him and extended it with a slight flare. Like he'd presented her with a gift, a hint of amusement gleamed 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 to circumvent him opening doors by avoiding any heartfelt words while meandering 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 their tips while she stared at his knuckles, intensely concentrating on the one that was swollen. Pretending, she thought, or hoping—perhaps both—that he wouldn't notice her struggle. Over the prominent rounded bone in the joint, his thumb caressed and the simple movement at once deepened 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—feeling the displacement of air when the paper hit the surface—and with her fingers now empty, Sasha realized how much she needed to hold on. He stood and drew her in, slow like a caress, until there was little space between them, and she was folded against his chest.

Finally. It was as he'd wanted from the moment he'd seen her.

Sasha's resistance lasted mere 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. Breath tickling his throat. Beneath her, Tom was solid and so very warm. The sound and steady rhythm of his lungs comforting and she allowed herself this indulgence of respite. Closed her eyes and 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 at top of her head, his nose buried in crown, savoring the stillness and softness of her body against his.

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

He squeezed, rubbing a broad palm up her back, and his lips shifted, ghosting to rest upon her forehead in an almost kiss. He couldn't stop himself from breathing her in, eyes 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.

Though she stepped away, her hand lingered on his forearm, fingers twisted in the fabric of his uniform while his own brushed the goosebumps on her skin. There was color in her cheeks, dusted with freckles that were more prominent from the sun.

"Files," she breathed.

Right.

Michener. Sean Ramsey. The cure.

And Sasha could see the reality settling back upon his shoulders. One last time, he swept his thumb across the slender width of her arm before letting go. She dropped his sleeve, taking an audible breath while he turned to collect an assortment of piles. With his back turned, Tom tried not to dwell on the cool spot at his shoulder, damp from her hair. The way her scent seemed to linger close.

"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. Prepared to dig in for yet more hours of this never-ending day. She started spreading them, scanning headings, and making a series of groups in some kind of system that eluded Tom.

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