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Keep It Subliminal

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Tom knew the word for that piece of equipment. Just couldn't think of it. The round cylindrical thing that Dr. Scott was methodically placing small tubes filled with minuscule, dissected pieces of Neils Sorenson into. Darien was a sucker for TV Shows, crime dramas in particular. In fact, Tom could still picture Horatio Caine on his TV while Darien sat absorbed in yet another episode that began and ended the same way: with an antagonist he'd pegged within ten minutes, and a pillow thrown his way for ruining her suspension. Centrifuge. Yeah, that was it.

Dr. Scott was stuffing pieces of Neils Sorenson into her Centrifuge while avidly refusing to meet his eyes. Even when he'd inquired as to her general well-being in the wake of such an… unexpected event.

"A reaction," Tom clarified; tone provocatively flat.

She moved another little piece into a small tube. "Yes. It would seem we couldn't have anticipated the effect his modified genes would have on his cellular anatomy. I believe when we attempted to extract the tissue sample, the virus entered his bloodstream—if you recall and as I had explained, it was residing exclusively within his lungs. Which is why it was so contagious, and why I was unable to extract the DNA sequence from his blood to compare to my samples—"

"Sure."

"—well, when that happened, the virus… ravaged him, for lack of a better word. And the antibodies from the vaccinated blood donor caused a massive autoimmune response."

Tom remained impassive, refusing to yield his gaze, still waiting for her to do more than cautiously glance no higher than his sternum. "I see." She started dissecting again. "And the muscles? Will this derail your progress?"

"We'll make do. Now that we have a tissue sample, I'll be able to gather the answers he wasn't willing to provide."

Tom inhaled, the action causing her to peer through her peripheral again. "It's late. You should get some rest—body isn't going anywhere." Wondered if she knew by his tone that he wasn't buying any of this yet. Not when it was all so conveniently wrapped up in a shining bow, and she couldn't seem to look at him.

"Time is of the essence. I'd like to preserve whatever I can of Neil's organs—make the most of what he left behind."

Oh, he bet she did. "And the rest of him?"

Her hand hovered between the lung laid out before her, and the scalpel. "We'll burn the corpse before disposing of it. Make certain he doesn't infect anyone else."

When he said nothing, she did it again. That stiff glance as if checking whether he was still there before turning back to the science experiment before her. Reticent, Tom unfolded his arms and walked out, strides perfectly measured, so his boots echoed across the floor in a way that was both formidable as much as foreboding. Once he reached the p-way after stepping the knife's edge, he met his XO's expectant repose.

"I wanna know what Garnett's report says. Make sure she speaks to everyone—once we have the accounts—we'll determine if there's need for a further investigation."

His XO's nod was curt.

Saturday, August 8th, 1998—Newport, Rhode Island

"Hey." Tom tossed his keys on the counter.

Sasha peered up from the book. Mandarin this time, he noted. "Hey—how was it?"

He went to the fridge, retrieved a bottle of water, and drained half of it before answering. "Good. Didn't cramp up this time." He turned and leaned against the counter, watching while she searched for the remote to pause the stereo. After moving a couple pillows, she found it buried in the sofa, book now left open on the coffee table, and then approached. He met her halfway, chuckling against her lips when she tried to squirm out of his grasp.

"You're sweaty."

Tom grinned against her mouth, stealing another kiss before mumbling, "I know—I'm trying to get you dirty." Already, he was backing her toward their bedroom. She broke away, turning and then taking his hand to lead him across the under-generous living space, side-stepping that coffee table and the few pillows she'd tossed down.

"You could just ask me to join you in the shower," she drawled, the flashing smile thrown over her shoulder communicating her projection of annoyance was just that—an act.

The resistance of his weight caused Sasha to jerk back when Tom stopped, and he pretended to think deeply. "You're right. I could."

She rolled her eyes. "Ass." Tugged on his hand to make him move while he wore a shit-eating grin.

He could do this forever. Stand beneath the spray with his hands buried in the silk of her hair, ignoring the concept that there was life outside these walls… and while shower sex would not be a thing—not after pushing his leg so hard—bed sex definitely would be. He broke away from her mouth and helped rinse the remaining conditioner.

"Mike wants to see Saving Private Ryan tonight. He said you're welcome to come."

Stepping forward, Sasha wiped the water from her eyes. "Mike, as in your friend—who is also in the Navy—and even better, in the same class that's in the building I also attend?"

Well… yeah. He'd considered all that and known this would be her response and tried anyway. "I don't think he'd say anything if I asked him not to."

Her sigh was soft but enough to put a damper on his idealistic hopes. Stupid, in hindsight, when he considered Sasha was so thorough, she was currently using his sister's mailing address in favor of their place. All to account for the small probability that someone in command noticed that Chandler and Kunić's mail went not just to the same complex, but apartment. Likely a very smart choice.

"It's not him telling on us that I'm worried about. It's when he slips up and puts us together, and the wrong person overhears. It wouldn't take much to figure out the timeline—especially for you. They find out you involved two Admirals just to stay in Annapolis for me?"

Sasha didn't need to continue. He knew. Not just a formal mark on his record—he'd be out on his ass with a court-martial and the entire book thrown at him.

She ran her fingers across his brows. Fixing their direction before she pushed herself onto tiptoes. Kissed the corner of his mouth, lips soft and warm, then along his jaw, before finding the spot on his neck where his pulse flew. "You guys go have fun, and I'll be here when you get back—" her hand was trailing down, leaving a path of exhilaration in its wake that hadn't changed a bit. A fact that often perplexed Tom. Popular theory called it the honeymoon phase, and the honeymoon phase was supposed to wear off once you'd moved in together and surpassed the first year. They'd been inseparable for more than that, and he still couldn't get enough "—and then we can have fun—" he'd already lost the fight. Knew she was avoiding, but when her fingers wrapped around him, Tom just didn't care.

December 14th, 2013—USS Nathan James, On Course to New Orleans, Gulf Coast—1140 hours

Something was going on, that much was clear. The hum running through scuttlebutt was loud enough that even she could hear. She who was essentially the biggest outsider on Nathan James—barring their prisoners—of which one had just died. And whatever was going on was so clandestine that even Tom hadn't clued her in, not that she'd asked. Sasha preferred the approach of minding her own business until the business became her own. Exactly why she felt awkward approaching the wardroom where she knew Slattery, Tom and Garnett were meeting, despite her assured knock.

"Come in."

It seemed her timing was almost perfect—for once. Garnett was already returning her chair, notebook gathered under arm, and it appeared their conversation had finished. Slattery was standing, and Tom was perched half-assed against the table with an elbow resting on his thigh. He glanced over his shoulder, and Sasha swore he lost a modicum of hardness once he registered who required their attention. Rectifying posture, Tom stood. It was already getting to her, the old-school level of decorum and the whole damn thing. Making it impossible to keep memories in their painstakingly constructed tomb. Garnett offered a polite small smile which Sasha returned, and uttered a quiet, "Excuse me" when she passed close.

"I'll—uh—leave you to it." Mike made to exit right after Garnett, but Sasha prevented that.

"Actually, I'm here to see you. I think I may have found something on one of the prisoners—I wanted to run it by you. Could help convince him to talk."

For a beat, there was an awkward lack of movement on all their parts, and Sasha watched Slattery glance at Tom, before returning to her. "Very well."

Tom, who was unreadable, let his gaze linger and Sasha hoped her cheeks were still pale. "I'll be in CIC—" he redirected to Slattery "—let me know once you have more on our other problem."

Slattery's acknowledgment was subtle, and Tom moved, holding eye contact with her again until he'd passed, and she tried to ignore the smell of his soap lingering in the displaced air.

Slattery inhaled before he spoke. "What do you have?"

Arms folded, Sasha approached the table. "I checked the databases that are still up—the immune that tried to capture Tom? Patrick Donaldson? His wife and daughter were registered at a safe zone in St. Petersburg—Eckerd College. They were divorced, wife won custody. And given his driver's license is registered in Alabama, I'm going to assume he was there when it hit. Maybe he tried to find them which is how he ended up in Florida? No way for me to tell if he knew where they were or not—but—I figured a former detective would know how to feel that out and see if it's leverage."

Hands clasped, Slattery wore a smirk that was both amused and, dare she say, impressed. "Now who's read whose file?"

"Just returning the favor."

The XO took that jab in jest, his head ducking, evidently still embarrassed by that display. "Startin' to see what it was about you—"

Sasha blinked and lifted a brow. Slattery had a very specific brand of humor that would do wonders with Tom. Keep his ego in check where it was sometimes allowed to bolster by too many 'yes' men. Or rather, people whom Tom could outwit through sheer force of will.

"Let me know how it goes." She unfolded her arms, intending to leave and return to her stateroom—and the laptop she'd been granted access to—after perhaps eating.

Slattery made an expression that was kind of like a shrug. "It's your intel—why don't you sit in with me?"

Sasha hadn't expected that. Not from him, and her marginal pause lingered. "Alright."

2253 hours

His boots were off, kicked under the desk while he sat in his chair, staring at the picture of his wife. It was hard today. Every day was hard, but today in particular because the shit just wouldn't stop pummeling. The investigation had proven nothing, eliminating only Bertrise from reasonable suspicion, and there was a moral war sweeping his decks that had immense implications and threatened the fundamental order and discipline essential to command. It stood to reason then that his frustration piqued upon hearing the knock. Also, why he did little more than bark 'come in' without moving. He glanced over his shoulder, finding Sasha determined in his doorway.

"Come to air your grievances?" The words were sardonic, and Tom cringed internally after speaking them. His intention had not been to sound so arrogant, but he recognized it. The way Sasha curled her lips and looked him up and down screamed 'get over yourself'.

She stepped into his quarters, closing the door behind her, and he pivoted the chair. Before him, she stood in that perfectly serene way that still drove him insane. "No. I heard about your secret stash. I could use a drink, and it sounds like you could too. Might help get that stick out of your ass."

For a moment, Tom's only reaction was to stare. Taken aback by her blatant disregard until he remembered this was Sasha he was talking to. Sasha. A scoff close to a laugh pulled from his chest. Didn't know why he'd expect her to give a damn about his mood, or rank, much less amend her tone, but it was exactly the slap he needed. Tom lowered Ashley's bracelet to his desk and rose in a smooth movement. Used the armrests to push himself up while she stood there emitting an air of subtle triumph. Something close to a smile, but not. With an inhale, he moved into the cabin that housed his bed, pulled open the nightstand, and produced the bottle she sought along with two glasses.

In silence, Sasha sat on the sofa. Observed as Tom placed the glasses down, pouring for her first before himself. She swirled the amber liquid a few times while he pulled over his desk chair. Drank the entire thing in three gulps before tapping the glass back upon the surface.

"Expensive bottle," she chimed, vocal cords strained under its burning effects.

Tom considered her over the rim of his own, the glass hovering at his lips while his eyes vaguely smoldered in her direction without intention. He chose to sip rather than mirror Sasha's method. He was still acting CO, and the edge he felt right now could quickly spiral beyond his control—if he let it. A combination of burgeoning frustrations and anger threatening to spill free in an explosive episode of what he wasn't sure. Only that Sasha didn't deserve to be on the receiving end.

Stretching forward, he relinquished the drink before answering, his own voice husky. "Gift from Mike."

A brow quirked. Slim, nimble fingers fiddling with the glass. "Speaking of—you didn't tell me that Mike Slattery is Mike."

Tom smirked. "I was waiting to see how long it would take you to figure out." Without invitation, he poured her another, a healthy amount by any measurable standard.

Her head tilted left. "And did I meet your expectations?" Impeccably smooth, and she hadn't intended for it to sound so salacious, but that old burgeoning friction arose and entwined itself within her drawl. Same one that charged air particles whenever he found himself in her sphere.

There was danger here, Tom thought. Could already feel the nonproductive thought patterns emerge. A sentiment Sasha seemed to reciprocate if the speed of her redirection was anything to go by.

"It's nice that you guys stayed friends." Her lip quirked in a wistful grin.

Done with screwing the cap, Tom picked up his drink and settled back. "He's easy to get along with once you get through. You both seem to be on better terms—enough for him to tell you where the stash is, at least."

Sasha's cheek creased. "We're effective interrogators—when on the same side. I just figured you told him to be nice to me." The brow was lifted. A little suggestive, and she was back to goading. Prodding for the sake of prodding because that's what Sasha liked to do. Also how she buried her pain. Tom had clocked that old habit in less than a day.

"You're capable of winning people over yourself." He took another small sip, studying and noticing that today was the first time she'd worn her hair down. Found a hairdryer. It was smooth and sleek and every bit as distracting as it had always been.

She did the thing where she tried to hide that he'd flattered her. Used the act of taking another gulp to control her lips. "I assume he gave you a report, on the intel we got from Donaldson?"

Tom lowered his chin in one soft nod and, after several moments of comfortable silence, he shifted his weight. Leaning more heavily on the elbow braced against his armrest. "What would you have done?" Sasha canted her head softly in question. "With Michener. If I hadn't been there."

Her brows bounced in understanding, and she too shifted, crossing her legs and leaning her shoulder against the sofa's back. "Well—he wanted to kill himself." She made eye contact; cold as it was detached. "I would have let him."

Tom's stoicism was punctuated only by a slow blink. Her statement rested between them while Sasha continued to hold his gaze. He'd known that. It wasn't the answer that mattered. It was whether she'd be honest with him. "And Neils? Would you have killed him—if you'd had the chance?"

Her expression was less cold then, clouded by something more. "No." It was honest, and her gaze never wavered. "I've killed enough people to know it won't make me feel better."

The air felt denser in the wake of her candor, and it was the first time Tom truly perceived that she was older now. In spirit rather than physicality. On that front, there wasn't much difference, and Tom supposed that if asked, he'd say she'd only grown more beautiful. Age afforded her formidable allure and assurance that was both intimidating as it was gripping and sometimes, he found it hard to look away.

"But—now you've confirmed it." She pinned him with a look as though she'd uncovered a secret. Glass held loose in her fingers near her lap.

Tom drew his eyes across her face in a way that was close to slow motion. "Confirmed what?"

"That you think she did it."

Tom was neither surprised that she was in the know, nor that she'd been watching enough to read him. "I do." He took another sip, longer this time. Deeper.

"And the investigation?"

Didn't surprise him either that she knew that's what he'd been wrapped in all day. From the sidelines. Using Garnett as his hand to dig for pieces of information. "Inconclusive."

Intrigue was alight in the set of her features. "And yet you're convinced… why?"

He let her question linger, sipping again, savoring the taste before answering with every piece of conviction he possessed. "Because she can't look me in the eye."

Sasha tilted her head left and blinked slowly. "I'll bite."

"She asked me to trust her, and I did. After she and Tophet lied to this entire crew—jeopardized every single soul aboard this ship—I trusted her, and I believed in her, and now she can't look me in the eye. Why do you think that is?" The question at the end of his statement was rhetorical. There was only one explanation that fit—guilt.

Sasha's lips quirked down in a mark of agreement. But there was something else too. "Which explains why you got defensive, at least." He narrowed his eyes, confused by the turn. "With Michener, when he called her a quack."

Tom inclined his chin a fraction, showing he was now following, but said nothing else. Waiting to see what else was lurking behind Sasha's words... wondered if she realized yet how much she'd just disclosed. "You also have women's hair products in your bathroom."

Got his answer fast. This time he didn't react at all, rather held her gaze with a steady and open calm. "Ashley."

She took another drink, lowering her gaze when she drew the glass down, and studying it while her thumb wiped the side.

"I never strayed from Darien, Sasha."

Her cheeks became a little hollow, the quirk of her brow almost imperceptible. "And yet there's me." Breathed it.

He blinked once, more hooded than it should have been. "That's different."

She made contact with him again, her features displaying a myriad of things that were both soft, and regretful, and hard, and nostalgic at once. And Tom could feel it, the overwhelming urge to keep pushing things where Sasha was concerned. To speak, instead of redirect. Un-bury rather than push deeper into its crypt.

"I care. She's been someone I can talk to outside of this crew and given the circumstances, I think that's normal—human—" he corrected "—but there was never anything more. She was on this ship for four months and we barely exchanged a hello. All I wanted to do was get home to Darien." Tom inhaled and paused, fingers tight against his glass. He'd failed at that too. Failed to go home. Failed to save her. "But if anything, I've figured out why she gets under my skin."

Her lashes flittered but did not close. Pinning him. "Why?"

"Because she does things that remind me of you."

Well played Thomas Chandler.

Her blush was back, delicate and complimenting the blue, and her mouth had parted when she breathed this time. "Well, you know you always tried to understand my position on things."

Tom downed what little remained in his glass and put it on the coffee table between them. "It's not the same—you breaking protocol never involved committing murder—and I still reprimanded you."

"True. But if you want to be pedantic, what if I had? You asked me what I would have done—with Michener—if you weren't there."

"Still not the same—it's not illegal for one—morally questionable, yes. But it's not murder."

Sasha's smile was knowing as much as it was cunning, and she uncrossed her leg, shifting to lean forward. "But he is the President, and I took an oath, which means you would have to court-martial me, and then preside over my judgement as the highest-ranking member of the United States aboard this ship."

Tom became very quiet and very still.

Sasha blinked slow. Everything about her screaming 'checkmate'. "So, what would you have done with me?"

Rolling his jaw, Tom leaned his elbow against the armrest again. "Did you lie to me to do it?"

"No—I don't lie to you."

"Exactly."

She was zeroed in again. "So this is about lying? Or about murder?"

"Both. And I would still punish you."

She smiled again. Triumphant, like he'd said precisely what she'd wanted. "You'd never just sweep it under the rug, but on the scale of appropriate sentences, somehow I think you'd find the lightest one."

Once more Tom considered her. Cheek against his forefinger, and thumb below his jaw while his eyes emitted a gentle amusement. "You're not a good comparison, Sasha. You're you."

"I am—and we're covering for Michener when I don't want to."

Ah. There it was. The thing he'd been waiting for. "For now—and I gave you my word. He'll answer for what he did, but you know as well as I do, I don't have the authority for that. Not on this ship and not until we have a system again to process it."

A dimple creased her cheek. "You haven't changed a bit, have you? Still unbelievably stubborn and noble to a fault."

He could feel his eyes gleaming. "And you're as much of a smart ass as you've always been."

"Guilty." She bounced her brows up, teasing now and thoroughly enjoying it. "Foster and Green though? That's cute—and even you can't deny you have a soft spot for them."

Tom made a vague expression of exasperation and Sasha beamed. There was that danger. Simmering and bubbling at the rim, threatening to boil over in a way that made sitting there, continuing to maintain eye contact a level of intimate that was both inappropriate as it was reckless. Sasha dropped her gaze back to the now empty glass and accepted that this visit needed to end. Smoothing her hands down her jeans, she cleared her throat and stood. The action, prompting Tom to politely mirror.

"Thanks for the drink."

She moved toward the door, and he followed. Stopping next to it.

"You're welcome."

There was that look again, the challenge dancing beneath her eyes and the self-satisfied non-smirk that still seemed to hold power over him. "Goodnight, Tom."

He could feel the warmth at the corner of his mouth as he turned the handle, holding the door open for her while she slipped past.