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Sorry I Left You Crawling
.
.
Red.
Tom was tired of seeing that color.
Blood.
Plenty of it. Saturating his t-shirt, coagulating in the fabric band of his father's watch and coating his hands… but not Sasha's. Hers remained spotless because she'd frozen. Caught in a moment of indecision between doing what was prudent and standing as passive observer while Jeffrey Michener bled to death in the officers head.
And Tom could understand that. He could. Based on the way those same hands shook when she'd brandished the flights manifest. When he'd seen the color drain from her lips and the pace of her breathing increase. When she'd burst from the sofa, frantic in a way he'd never witnessed and demanded he pull up the data on infections in Michigan.
"You can't still think you're gonna rehabilitate him?" Mike asked under his breath.
Tom drew his eyes away from the scene before him. The two Doctors, Rios, and Scott knelt beside the President's cot monitoring his condition. Sasha, a few feet removed, against some crates massaging her temples, and hunched at the waist.
"Nobody besides the people in this room know this happened." Tom had kept his voice low, hoping he wouldn't be overheard, but he saw Sasha's head jerk left, and she nailed him with a stony stare. The pit in his stomach grew. "That's why I had him brought down here."
Slattery's brows rose. "So, you're gonna hide it from the crew? We made that mistake once before and it almost bit us in the ass."
"Did you not hear those broadcasts?" Tom snapped, trying to keep the irritation under control. "The American people, the people we're trying to help, are not gonna buy what we are selling."
Mike scoffed, "Unless we have this guy? He's gonna save the day?"
"He's the President." Tom glared at his XO. "That's still gonna mean something to people."
Slattery closed his mouth, like he should have done earlier in the evening, and watched Tom move past them, choosing to join Sasha against the storage crates.
Jeter cast a cautionary look. "He's a soldier. He wants someone to salute to."
Lips pressed white and thin, Mike clenched his jaw, feeling outcast in a way but knowing there was little he could do but 'fall in line'. Less than twenty-four hours in, and 'Sasha's' presence was undeniable. "That's what I'm afraid of," he mumbled, before striding past them both without Tom's acknowlegement.
Mike had no choice but to follow his orders, but Sasha? Cautiously, he peered right, noting the hollow thousand-yard-like glaze. For several moments, he studied. No way she was oblivious, which meant she was ignoring him. He breathed her name, "Sasha…"
The quirk of her lip was a warning in and of itself. "No." The flatness of her tone, another. Refusal to make eye contact the third.
Beside the President, Rachel attempted not to overhear, but the steady beat of the heart rate monitor provided the only external audible stimuli to their dialogue, and it certainly didn't drown it out.
Tom exhaled through his nose, remembering the blood seconds before scrubbing a hand down his face. "We don't know yet if we have all the facts…" his attempt at reasoning, gentle, but her quiet scoff chaffed.
Pushing away from the containers, Sasha leaned close to his ear. "He wouldn't have tried to kill himself if he wasn't guilty, Tom." She didn't wait for an answer. She left, and that pit in Tom's gut gnawed. Lowering his chin, he studied the concrete beneath his worn boots, questioning why he found himself at another juncture where his only actionable options would cause her collateral suffering. Several minutes passed before Tom's thoughts were penetrated by the appearance of another set of boots lingering in his peripheral. He lifted his head but didn't speak.
"We've stopped the bleeding and given him a transfusion. He's stable now and should make a full recovery… physically, at least. It'll be a few hours until he's awake."
Tom acknowledged Rachel's comment with a gesture of his head, becoming intensely aware of the blood coating his body again; the viscosity of it itching upon his skin. "This stays inside this room."
Rachel grasped both ends of the stethoscope which hung around her neck. "Right."
"Get some rest." His instruction was more an afterthought as he took his weight away from the crates and suppressed the desire to scratch at the blood. "Master Chief—" Jeter stepped forward, standing to the attention of his Captain. "Stay with him in case he wakes up before I get back—Tex can keep guard and run interference."
"Aye, sir."
She'd made a slow pursual of the Nathan James, traversing its levels and decks at leisure before retreating to the wardroom. The few sailors shed encountered were polite and well-disciplined as they'd made way and given her authority over the p-ways. A measure of order still jarring compared to the anarchy on the ground. What was another cup of coffee when her mind wouldn't allow her sleep, anyway? She was surprised, however, to discover the XO reading reports well past o-one hundred and couldn't select which part was more awkward: her stuck hovering in the doorway, or his deer in headlights expression. More uncomfortable still, when he stood and cleared his throat, clenching his broad hands into loose fists as though struggling to speak.
"I, uh—I owe you an apology."
Sasha's brows lifted with a modicum of interest, and she closed the door. Folding her arms against her chest, she came to stand opposite XO Slattery. He was a big man, six-four or five if she had to guess, and after a moment of scrutiny, though she knew comparatively nothing about him, she determined such an admittance had cost him something—something more than pride.
"Look—I get it. My record is spotty. You've been lied to by everyone in command—compromised internally. But you should know, the last thing I would do? Is endanger this ship." She paused, attempting to read his admittedly masked expression. "I'm just trying to get through my days—same as everyone else." Spoken with a degree of vulnerability she hadn't intended.
Mike regarded her in reticence. Committed as he was to being impervious, her sentiment hammered at a wound called Lucas, and he felt something soften in response. He offered a tight nod of acknowledgment. "I'm sorry—for your loss."
Her gaze trailed away, down at the table before she could give contact again. The jerked nod of her own was almost imperceptible. "Everyone lost someone… and if they haven't, it's only because they don't know it yet." She shook her head, a physical manifestation of clearing her own thoughts and refocused on what needed to be established at present. "I'm not asking for your trust, or anyone else's—I don't exactly give it willingly myself, but right now, our goals are aligned. If we'd had that cure, my family would still be alive. That's what matters here."
Mike seemed to consider that before he gave another gesture of acknowledgment. "Fair enough," he said. Lowering himself back into the leather seat.
Satisfied that they'd reached a workable understanding, Sasha dropped her arms and approached the coffee machine. For once, she pondered nothing but the task at hand, retrieving an un-branded mug from the wall rack and listening while the pot gurgled. Only as she came to sit down, opposite, and slightly to the left of Slattery, did she figure out why a bell had rung upon learning his first name.
"So—" Sasha placed her mug down, warming her fingers on either side of it; cautious in her approach to breaking the silence. "How long have you known Tom?"
Mike took a casual sip from his own, eyes scanning the report he was holding for several more seconds before answering. "We were in surface warfare training together."
Motherfucker.
Her head snapped up, fingers tightening around the china, and if his smirk was anything to go by, he knew and had known the entire time, exactly who she was.
Taking another satisfactory sip, mirth gleaming from every pore, Mike lowered his report. "Don't worry—your secret's safe with me."
Fighting the sudden heat behind her cheeks, Sasha hollowed them and attempted to gracefully navigate the unexpected and somewhat ironic coincidence. "He talked a lot about you," she offered, just before taking another sip—distraction while she recovered her scrambling thoughts.
"Likewise—though at times I did wonder if you were real." He'd tilted his head toward the end of that statement. Somehow honest, yet teasing and sarcastic at once, which was a unique combination of tones to pull off, Sasha thought.
A fond if nostalgic grin tugged at her lip while she shifted the mug for something to do. "He wanted to come clean—take our reprimands and just be open about it, but…" she quirked an eyebrow, choosing to drink more coffee instead.
Mike bobbed his head. "Figures. He'd get off light, and you'd be stuck manning some outpost in the middle of nowhere until your contract was up."
"Exactly."
Mike sighed, "Always was an idealist."
Sasha ran her tongue across her bottom lip, soothing the dry skin. "Michener?" Picking up easily, the veiled association laced behind the XO's words.
If he were honest, Mike would admit to being a little perturbed at how well she'd just read him—but then again, he'd seen her file. Or the very few parts of it that weren't heavily redacted. What else could he expect? He shifted in the seat, expression more a regretful grimace than hard. "Somethin' not right about him."
Once again, her gaze cast off, studying now the mugs hanging just beyond Slattery's shoulder—anything to manage her disgust. She ought to say something canned, something affirmative, like, 'the country needs a leader,' but the very act of it, even just to support Tom, tasted sour.
"Not a fan, I take it?" Mike pressed upon her resounding silence.
Sasha's eyes shifted back, and she gestured with them casually, something between a side-eye and a roll. "He's the President of the United States—so—my opinion doesn't really matter."
Mike lifted an eyebrow and gave a small, sarcastic smirk. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure."
Sasha lowered her chin. His implication was resounding, and they were talking about something she unequivocally wouldn't broach. "Can you ever be a fan of a politician?"
Mike tipped his head, raising his mug in a gesture of surrender, conceding to her logic, and skillfully navigated shut down. "Duly noted." He drained the rest in a single gulp. "But I think if anyone's gonna convince the Captain otherwise—it's you."
She had no answer for that. Instead, Sasha observed as Slattery returned his cup to the dirty pile and gathered the file. Dropping her gaze again, she trailed the rim of her own with a finger, absently watching the tiny frothed bubbles swirl in the center of her drink.
"Goodnight."
She offered a polite if reserved attempt at a smile, head once again lifted to echo the convention. "Goodnight." It still felt wrong—hollow—and she slumped into the depths of her chair once the door signaled Slattery's departure.
November 4th, 2001—USS Carl Vinson, Operation Enduring Freedom, North Arabian Sea
It had been seventeen days. Seventeen days since they'd last spoken and Tom was married.
Married.
For twelve of those seventeen.
Sleep was scarce. Hunger meaningless. It hurt to breathe. Deprivation a near-constant state. Confusion, anger, and shame had all but infiltrated her bones, mind rapidly alternating between playing victim and perpetrator. It was her fault, after all, was it not? She'd left. But then he shouldn't have called her, not when he was seeing someone else. Not when they'd agreed to make a clean break… and he'd told her that she could home.
If only he'd kept the door closed, she wouldn't have allowed hope to twist her brain. Wouldn't have nurtured a thought, and a future and embraced the love which soared beneath her chest. How foolish she'd been to let her heart overcome. To trust another so completely. A never-ending cycle of self-punishment fueled by seeking answers to the point of exhausting rationality. In an instant, she'd grow tall—wild and reckless. Full of self-righteous and scornful assurances which bolstered her fractured state. Fleeting minutes of relief until the anchor of uncertainty and self-doubt shriveled her soul, and she shrank back into her hollow body—lost, lacking, defeated.
She'd been spared, Sasha realized, to make it to twenty-five having never felt this kind of all-consuming loss.
She was twisted blind and saturated in apathy.
Dead but alive.
And Tom couldn't stand it.
His own nights were sleepless with worry and branded by the radiating ache behind his ribs. Torn in two by conflicting loyalties. Questioning how it could be right that he was supposed to ignore and act like he couldn't see. Like he didn't know.
Didn't care.
And under the quiet blanket of night, that damn part of herself that couldn't accept stayed terrified and stunned that this was it. There was nothing else to be said, their brief interlude in the workout room the last time they'd touch. The last time they'd speak.
How could it be right that the culmination of four years spent loving a man could be so abrupt?
It stood to reason then, that part of herself almost wept in relief when Tom settled in her bolt hole of choice well after darken ship. Like a drug addict who needed a hit—she despised it with equal measure. She wondered briefly how he'd found her but didn't trust herself to speak. And he stayed silent too, under the weight of knowing everything he wanted to say was wrong.
Instead, after a minute of watching from the corner of his eye while Sasha kept her focus downcast, he reached out. Pulling her left hand into his and holding it tight. She should have pulled away, she knew that, but the larger part was exhausted and drowning, and his hand was the anchor allowing her to breathe. Lifting the vice just enough, though the torrent surged, and her vision swam.
"C'mere."
Tom extended his arm, drawing her closer until her head lay against his shoulder and her weight pressed into his side, and he pretended not to know when the silent tears finally came. Knew she'd prefer it that way.
A dull thud resonated when his head rested upon the hull—clenched his eyes and left them closed—the engines, quiet sniffs, and uneven breaths were the only sounds to accompany his reticent vigil.
And there wasn't anything he wouldn't give to be able to stop her pain.
December 11th, 2013—USS Nathan James, 30NM Offshore, Palm Coast, FL—0307 hours
Tom wished he could say he was surprised to find Sasha waiting upon returning to his quarters, but he wasn't. What he was, was exhausted and toeing a very raw line on the back of Jeffrey Michener's confession. A line which left him exposed and chafed and ill-equipped to deal with what he suspected was coming. She loomed in the corner, the shadowy orange light emanating from his table lamp somehow perfectly befitting.
The slump of his shoulders was all the confirmation she needed. "It was him."
He inhaled heavily, taking slow strides until he'd reached his desk. Threw down the photograph he'd rolled into a scroll and sank down, assuming the position he'd taken hours before. "Yeah—it was him."
Sasha pushed her tongue between her teeth and gums, and Tom watched. Watched as she processed and tried to keep her features neutral, all the while sinking deeper into that pit.
"Sasha—"
"You can't seriously expect me to cover up the fact that that man killed twenty thousand people." Cutting him off and avoiding the gaping topic of her personal loss.
He'd expected anger. This wasn't it—he quickly decided it was worse. "We need him," he rasped.
She recoiled her head a little. "No—no we don't."
"Sasha—"
She'd pushed away from the wall, some of that apathy slipping under cold burgeoning fury. "He took an oath!" she hissed. "The President put him in charge of protecting those people. Do you have any idea how many families couldn't make it out in time? How many had to be split up? Say goodbye from a thousand miles away on a video call!? But not his… his was too special for that. He didn't need to follow the rules." The flush of her cheeks was matched by his bloodshot eyes.
Tom's lips curled into a formidable line, terse and regretful when he spoke. "We need a central authority. The people aren't gonna believe we're here to help without it. He's the President, they need a leader, Sasha."
She breathed out a scoff before nailing him with a single provoking question. "They? Or you?"
For a moment, Tom hesitated. Her simple provocative statement cut deeper than he wanted. "Both," he breathed.
The wall was down, and though she wanted to cling to her anger, it slipped in response to the redness of his eyes. "You don't need a leader, Tom." She was softer now, made a vague gesture with her hand. "Look around you—these people are still alive because of you."
He dropped his chin, uncomfortable with claiming credit for something he believed attributed to sheer dumb luck. Not when his decisions had cost lives. "You don't know that—anyone could have made the call."
"But they didn't." He allowed his eyes to flicker upward again. She was standing closer now, assertive in a way that surfaced a perplexing mix of comfort and familiarity. "You did—and I have no idea what he told you in there… but if you somehow think you would have made the same choice? You're wrong. For the same reasons you're sitting here right now."
Tom wished he shared her conviction, but the lines were muddled and blurry. His heart still sitting in his living room in Virginia. He scrubbed a hand across his chin before straightening. "I know this is personal for you." Her entire body stiffened. "I understand—I do—but I wouldn't be asking if there was another way."
Her jaw twitched, gaze lingering somewhere beyond him for moments that dragged, the silence thick and weighted. "You're asking?" The tilt of her head conveying her contention on that point. From where she was standing, it sounded like she was being told.
"I'm asking."
She swallowed; words tighter than she'd like, undeniable heat behind her eyes. "Those people deserve justice."
Tom's brow knotted, features softening. "I never said they wouldn't get it." Stooping a fraction to hold her gaze and ensure there could be no mistaking his conviction. "We need him for now. But if we make it out of this, and the country re-builds—has a court of law? He'll answer. You have my word."
Sasha's silence lingered while he looked a little deeper than he'd previously indulged. Started cataloging minute details. How she'd changed, or where she hadn't… like her eyes, exactly as he'd remembered right down to the way her lashes made their frame. Her ability to make him crawl when she looked at him with that dissident gaze; to crave for her forgiveness like a man starved.
Her lip curled; features pinched in a way that left no doubt of her disgust. Fought with herself visibly before huffing out a small scoff, like she couldn't believe she was going along with this. Finally, she lifted her chin again. Had found a new mask, a quiet blaze behind that blue that he felt responsible for. "Fine—but I don't take orders from him."
He felt the displacement of air, heard the friction of her jeans when she strode out. Stared straight ahead for several minutes after she'd left. There was a dull throb behind that knuckle, nerves alternating between tingling and numb up and down the tendon's line, and he sighed, uncurling his grip from the edge of the desk. Flexing his hand, his eye wandered, the files still scattered across his coffee table, his mug where she'd left it, until landing eventually on a photograph of Darien. That pit, which had turned chasm under the subject of Sasha's watery gaze split clean in two.