an.Guest & Luna:So glad you guys like this one too. I have to be honest, I reaaaaaallly enjoy writing this one. To the point that I limit myself because I could spend the next six months going down this rabbit hole to the exclusion of all else. Sorry, the chapter is a little overdue. It was a bit of a slog to write with so many characters, and I flipped back and forth so many times on direction before committing to something, but I hope it comes off as acceptable.

I Ignore You, so I Don't Fall for You

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April 8th, 2009—FARC Territory, Portones, Cundinamarca, Columbia

Sasha flinched awake, the action immediately resulting in sharp searing pain and despite her efforts, she couldn't stifle her gasp.

"You're awake."

It took a moment to register that the person was referring to her, and though she didn't open her eyes, Sasha sensed they were standing beside her, and she was laying on what felt like a cot.

"You have three broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a mild concussion, and somehow I don't think that's your biggest problem."

Whoever the hell was talking, a) sounded arrogant, and b) seemed almost entertained by her predicament. She managed to crack an eye, though the pain was still irradiating despite taking shallow breaths. The man standing beside what she'd correctly identified as a cot was evidently a doctor. Admittedly an attractive one, with gray-green eyes, stubble, and short brown hair, but his bedside manner was… interesting, to say the least, appearing intrigued, but also annoyed by her presence.

"Why is that?" Her voice came pinched.

The doctor leaned closer. "Because there's a team of military types outside this tent looking for you. I don't think they're rebels, they're American, but they aren't wearing uniforms."

Thank God.

"Great, I'm with them, so. I will be out of your hair, and you can go back to giving—Malaria shots or—whatever it is you do here." She shifted, finding that was a mistake, and no position offered any relief from the pain.

The man reclined, his brows shooting up. "Wow. Usually, people thank me for saving their lives."

"Thank you. And now I need to leave—" Sasha tried to sit up, and quickly realized she was in worse shape than she'd understood—as in, she couldn't walk out of this tent.

The flap opened, and a woman stepped through. "I picked her up with the other evacuees. She was already unconscious. I can get you guys to Medellín but that's as far as I go." She was Australian, Sasha noted, leading two men toward her, and Sasha was both bemused and relieved to recognize one of them. She sagged back—now sure that her close call would be exactly that. A close call.

"The hell'd you get yourself into this time girl?"

Sasha could only offer an open-mouthed smile while she shook her head. "Trust me. You do not wanna know."

Shemanski chuckled and squeezed her shoulder, addressing the doctor, who was now more intrigued than annoyed. "We got it from here—" Paul extended his hand, his tone communicating that he was awaiting an introduction.

The man took it. "Doctor Cooper—Andrew. I'm the lead physician here." Returning a firm shake before dropping the soldier's hand.

"Right—Pablo," Paul said. "Listen, appreciate you patchin' her up and all, but we'll be on our way now. Think it goes without saying we were never here."

Dr. Cooper opened his mouth, as though to protest—doctors tended to do that when you discharged yourself from their care so unceremoniously. Either way, after giving it thought, he appeared to change his mind and made a gesture of surrender with his hands.

"Sure, I get it, but keep an eye on the tube. That lung will need surgery." He shifted his focus to address Sasha. "It was nice meeting you—I think. Good luck with… whatever it is you do here."

Sasha may have rolled her eyes in response to Dr. Cooper regurgitating her own moderately eviscerating comment, but the pain prevented that. Instead, she offered a polite non-smile intended to placate, wondering when the hell Pablo would give her the good stuff. Pablo, who was enjoying this way too much.

Once Dr. Cooper had exited the tent, Sasha cast a wary look in his direction. "What?"

"Show me a man who isn't a sucker for that damn face of yours."

This time, Sasha rolled her eyes. "Jesus Christ—just give me the goddamn morphine and put me on the chopper."

Pablo was laughing now, while the other guy started preparing her for transport, and he pulled open one of the Velcro pockets on his TAC vest, effortlessly sarcastic when he stuck the morphine in her thigh.

"Yes, ma'am."

December 14th, 2013—USS Nathan James, on course to New Orleans, Gulf of Mexico—1155 hours

The fervent determination with which Rachel stalked toward the senior officers' deck, and subsequently wardroom, was drawing undue attention. A fact which only added to her ire over the childminders Captain Chandler had seen fit to assign watch over their every move. She did not opt to knock, an action that was perhaps a mistake, but, in the moment, Rachel Scott felt it prudent.

The Captain held up a single finger, the scowl of his brow deep upon interrupting this ridiculous display of—what—Rachel couldn't define from O'Connor. The young man stood rigid as a pole in full salute, rattling off some sort of verbiage that sounded like a bad script. Impatient, Rachel shifted weight from foot to foot while Captain Chandler skewered his lunch with a kind of precision that was both robotic and annoying at once and addressed his sailor in a baritone that could only be defined as proud. Rachel had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, though when O'Connor pivoted, after rutting his feet together, fixing her with a glare that was neither pleasant nor polite, she couldn't help the caustic remark.

"Your crew needs your permission to tell the time?" There was a noun perfectly befitting of her tone—distaste.

"It's a tradition." He seemed to dissect his egg with particular vigor. "One of the many that keep a ship running safely and maintaining good order and discipline."

Rachel did roll her eyes then. Not that he'd seen, because he was studiously staring at his plate. "Well, then perhaps you can elaborate on why you've directed your crew to continue scrutinizing our work in the lab, which you should know is not conducive to Dr. Milowsky and I 'maintaining good order' and progress on the cure."

The slight narrowing of his cheeks before he chewed aggressively elicited the satisfaction she'd desired from weaponizing his own words. "Because I know you killed him, Rachel."

Her mouth came open, blinking rapidly because she hadn't expected such a blunt accusation, and just as the day before, the pit of anxiety that she'd be caught blossomed and then exploded within her gut. After stumbling for a response, she scoffed. The action finally prompted him to look up, very slowly, with an expression that ought to be carved of stone for its level of vexation.

"As I said—and as your doctors and officers have concluded—Neils died because of a reaction that we could not have anticipated when performing the Transthoracic Biopsy—"

"And yet both Milowsky and Rios have no way to explain how rapid and drastic said reaction was, which translates to inconclusive." She couldn't hold his gaze, trailing her focus to a point just beyond his shoulder. "But I'm willing to bet you know—exactly—how that happened."

She hollowed her mouth and sniffed, folding her arms casually across her stomach. "I'm sure if I took the appropriate amount of time to thoroughly test and study a series of hypotheses—which could take weeks and would certainly consume a burdensome number of supplies—I could very well give you an answer." The muscle of his mandible bulged when he clenched, and she continued. "Though, hypothetically speaking if someone had murdered Neils, and thus resulted in unlocking the stability sequence which I will now use, to develop a contagious cure for the virus that he so willingly spread throughout the global population, I'm not entirely sure why you wouldn't find that to be poetically just."

Tom's nostrils flared, and he dropped the utensils in his hands, pushing back from the table in one fluid motion, and depositing his napkin on its surface. "Murder—Rachel. Premeditated—"

"Yes, I am familiar with the definition—" she shot back.

"Oh, I bet you are," he spat, eyes narrowed and heavy with sarcasm. "And what exactly is that you think I should do when I have a crew of two-hundred and five sailors currently speculating over how Neil's died, and some that even believe I condoned it."

Her demeanor was less assured while she watched him drag his gaze up and then down her form in something close to a sneer before turning to pour himself a cup of coffee. "I should think if you told them the facts and reiterated that the untimely reaction could not have been anticipated, that would suffice."

When he turned again, Tom's smirk was stoney and cold. "They already know 'the facts'—Rachel—exactly as you've presented them, and they aren't buying it, which leaves me in a predicament." Slowly, he placed the mug on the table, fingers splayed and lingering around the rim, before raising his head again. "But I don't suppose you thought about that. Hypothetically speaking."

Flustered, Rachel drew her arms down, pacing in effort to dispel the chasing scrutiny of the Captain's wrath. "Are you seriously equivalating the man who killed five billion people to a victim!? You're truly more concerned with your codes than doing what's right!?"

"We don't get to decide what's right! That's why we have codes!" She flinched when he bellowed. "Saving the world isn't just about a cure, Rachel. There needs to be something left to save—everything we do matters, every action we take, every decision, needs to remind us that we haven't lost who we are!"

She inhaled and opened her mouth to refute, but then closed it again. Looking now toward the Galley door in the back corner that was left open.

"Did. You. Do it?" he seethed.

The laugh she gave was one of exasperation. Bitter and quiet and left under her breath. A nervous tick she'd never controlled. "I told you—"

"Goddamn it Rachel!"

"Fine! Yes—Yes I did it." Her pacing stopped, leaving her hand on a hip now while her chest heaved, and her throat felt hoarse from the outburst that had boarded a tone of hysteria.

The vein in Tom's neck was flexed and bulging. "How?"

"The needle. I loaded the shaft with DNA scissors and resealed the package before the procedure."

Blinking and scrunching his brow while he processed, his entire expression rendered confusion. "And Milowsky and Rios didn't see that it was full?"

She waved her hand as though it were obvious. "It's a biopsy needle—the chamber is opaque. It's designed to extract, not inject. There was absolutely no reason for them to suspect otherwise, which is why you all spent so long scrutinizing the IV bags—it's completely undetectable and rather foolproof."

His jaw was loose now, grinding his teeth, terse when he bit out sarcastically, "Well. I am glad that you are so accomplished at committing murder."

She didn't have a response, so settled for setting her expression into something tight while willing the crawling nature of his disapproval from her skin, though the resounding weight of his next statement rendered that futile.

"And you lied to me."

Rachel swallowed, lips pursed while staring at his abandoned plate, the image of it becoming distinctly blurry. "I was hoping to avoid getting blood on your hands."

"I already have blood on my hands!" Her gaze ticked up, meeting the hardness of his. "You put it there, and now they're tied."

A bell chimed. Eight rings that sounded like the call of gallows for how befitting their interruption was. Accompanied by the beat of her own heart, the fine sweat coating her skin prickled cold under the blasting AC.

"Which means what, exactly?" Her inquiry was breathier than intended, the air difficult to push through her lungs under the weight of shame.

Tom straightened his posture, stance rigid and broad while he clasped his hands behind his back. "For now, it means you'll be allowed to do your job in whatever capacity that may require, but after that, you will return to your quarters. No access to the wardroom, mess decks, CIC, Bridge or any communal space without escort—"

"Tom—"

"I'm not finished." Though quiet, his voice was like a whip.

Abruptly, she closed her mouth. Blinking against the moisture.

"The crew will be briefed, as will the President… but you should know, I don't have the authority to sentence you for your crimes at sea. But if we ever make port and this comes to light? I won't stop them from prosecuting you. And I won't lie."

The silence stretched, distinct tinnitus beginning to ring within her ears. The realization that she'd lost not only his faith but his trust sank in with a hurt that shook her for its depth. A hurt she hadn't felt since Quincy so eloquently pointed out her every personal deficiency with such disdain.

"Is this really what you want?"

In stark contrast to her wavering stance and tone, Tom's remained devoid. Unyielding and convicted when he looked her directly in the eye and answered.

"This has never been about what I want."

Rachel drew the inside of her mouth between her teeth, biting to stop her lips from trembling further, and averted her gaze. Couldn't stand how chilling and blank it was, and after a further drawn-out moment where she stood rooted awkwardly to the spot, he moved. Measured, mechanical strides toward the door, where he held it open with his posture squared beside the frame.

She swallowed, taking a few breaths in quick succession to ensure she could remain composed while heeding his very clear directive that she leave, and kept her head down while she strode out.

Narrowly Sasha avoided colliding with Dr. Scott when she tore through the p-way, guard in tow. The action sparked vivid snapshots of the dossier she'd reviewed months prior, particularly the parts surrounding the scientists' reputation regarding collaborative relationships. 'Difficult' was the term they'd used. Either way, Sasha brushed it off and entered the crew lounge.

Tex glanced. His chair was turned backward, chest against the unforgiving metal support. After inclining his head, he returned to reviewing his cards. "You want in? We just dealt the round."

"Sure, why not." Sasha said, dragging over a free chair from the adjacent wall while Wolf scooted to make room. Danny edged his own seat closer to Ravit's. It was clear they'd been in the throes of discussion, and Sasha didn't have to wait long to discover what she'd interrupted.

"Look, all I'm sayin' is somethin' ain't right. That's one hell of a coincidence," Burk said.

Sasha offered what she hoped was a genuine smile toward Ravit when she dealt her two cards and handed her a pile of starting chips. Five hundred thousand, Sasha counted. Not that it mattered, of course. Money was a concept that no longer applied.

"Blind's twenty-five," Ravit told her. Sasha gathered the requisite entry bet and placed her chips in the small stack on the table.

"Come on mate, you don't actually think he was murdered?" Wolf asked.

"Who cares?" Ravit said, earning a frown from Burk.

Now that Sasha had been dealt and bought in, Tex threw in the first bet. "Raise, Twenty-five thousand." Sasha watched for the play order, Burk went next, choosing to call, who was sitting counterclockwise from Tex, which meant it was now her turn.

She picked up her twenty-five and threw in again. "Call."

Green, Ravit, and then Wolf all followed suit.

"CO wouldn't have them on watch if somethin' wasn't up. Last I heard, Garnett had everyone in there, all three Docs, O'Connor, Miller, and Bertrise too," Burk continued.

Ravit turned the flop, and after considering his hand, Tex picked up a few more chips. "Commodore's just following protocol." He set them forward. "Raise, fifty thousand."

"Well, O'Connor and Miller swear they didn't do nothin'," Burk said. "Call." He added his own chips to the pile.

Tex made a noise with his teeth, sucking in some air while he adjusted his ball cap. "You ask me, bastard got what was comin' to him."

Shaking his head, Burk countered. "Naw man, that ain't our place. We start goin' around killin' people just cause we can, then we're no better than them."

Sasha remained impassive, though noted the look Green shot Burk's way while Wolf shifted in his seat and Ravit seemed focused on a spot just beyond the table. "I'll raise—" that effectively derailed the tension, every set of eyes now fixed on her. "Hundred thousand."

While Tex appeared bemused, she couldn't quite get a read on Wolf. Of all of them, he had the most natural poker face. Was just fairly sure he didn't have a hand.

Green was up next, and after scrutinizing his cards and side-eyeing Sasha, he threw in. "Fuck it. I'll call."

Ravit followed, calling Sasha's bet. Wolf too, before Ravit turned the fourth card in the draw, an ace of spades.

Tex grinned, trailing fingers through his unruly beard. "Raise—two hundred and fifty." He pushed a large stack of chips forward, at least a third of his entire pot, and more than Danny and Burk had left to give. He looked expectantly at Burk, who Sasha had pegged as endearingly bad at bluffing. Well, when it came to Texas Hold'em at least.

"I'm not buyin' it man—" Burk pushed his remaining chips in. "All in."

Tex whistled and chuckled, "Fighting words, my friend."

They looked at her, and still maintaining an even neutral, Sasha pulled all but fifty thousand of her starting chips and stacked them in the center pile. "Call," she said, the vibrato of her tone nonchalant if melodic.

Beside her, Green let out a breath, turning over the plastic in his hand, before he shifted in the seat and pushed everything he had forward. "All in."

Ravit grinned while chewing, dragging her eyes up and down Green's form. "You're such a Rook." She threw her cards in. "Fold."

Which left only Wolf, who smiled a well-mannered if boyish grin. "Why not? Gotta take a risk, right? I'm in."

Tex clapped his hands together and rubbed them, pressing harder against the chair back and eyeing the pot with greed. "Come on sweetheart, do me the honors."

Ravit dropped her foot from her chair, the thud of her boot loud against the floor. "I told you, don't call me sweetheart." She turned the river, a ten of hearts.

With a jubilant sound, Tex lay his hand on the table, banging his fist down beside it. "Full house, baby!"

Burk groaned, throwing in his pair of aces, and Ravit rolled her eyes. "That's a terrible hand," she told him.

Green flicked his toward the center pile in frustration, landing in a way that Sasha couldn't see what he'd had. Wolf was better-natured, but his smile was more a grimace as he too revealed his losing bet, three tens.

Smug and unchecked, Tex moved to draw the substantial pot toward his dominating pile.

"Not so fast." With her lip curved into a blank smile, Sasha lay her own cards face up, pushing them with two fingers toward him. "Straight flush—if I recall, that's a winning hand."

Burk whistled and rocked back in his chair with a shit-eating grin. "Ouch."

Wolf clapped Tex on the shoulder, the hollow thump of his large hand seeming to echo. "What was that mate—undefeated?"

Leaning back, he eyed Sasha. Arms now folded while she stacked her winnings methodically. "It doesn't count when you're up against a spook."

"Excuses," Ravit drawled, popping another goldfish into her mouth and exaggerating the crunch.

Sasha's smirk was wry, and her eyes came alive a while peering across the table at Tex. "What is it they say? Can't bullshit a bullshitter?"

Taking the jab in jest, Tex unfolded his arms, leaning forward again to rest his forearms against the table. "You and Commodore—" in the least smooth manner Sasha had seen, Green seemed to jerk his head to look at her, before thinking better of it and trying to pass it off like he hadn't "—how long you guys known each other?"

Benign, and done stacking her pile into neat towers of ten, Sasha lifted her chin, maintaining solid eye contact. "A few years."

"Is that right?" He drawled.

"Why?" Sasha leveled him, keeping her tone light.

Tex grinned wide, apparently satisfied. "Oh, no reason—" he made a dismissive motion with his hand "—just tryna paint the picture here." He flinched when a Goldfish landed right on target, bouncing off his left cheek and onto the floor.

"In your dreams, sweetheart." Burk snorted while Ravit flashed a slow goading smile before popping another cracker into her mouth and chewing obnoxiously when Tex scowled at her.

Sasha intended to throw a jab of her own, but the door opened. While everyone else looked, somehow Sasha realized she didn't need to. A conscious recognition of a feeling, and the immediate flare of fear over why she still reacted this way which began settling fast into guilt.

"Sir." Everyone else straightened as was customary to the Captain's entrance.

Really, she just didn't know how making eye contact with Tom could still be so exhilarating and taboo. Nor that she couldn't seem to get over the blue, and none of it was new, which was perhaps what made it worse. And damned if it didn't do something every time she saw him... his perfect frame stood in the doorway, with one hand outstretched on the handle.

"There's something you need to see."

Effectively summoned, Sasha pushed back from the table, intensely aware of his eyes on her still. That and the way Tex was watching tennis between them, his own narrowed and stark interest curving his cheek beneath that beard.

Before she left, Sasha split her pile, pushing each half toward Green and Burk. She hunched between them in a conspiratorial way. "His left middle finger twitches when he bluffs."

Ravit cracked another toothy smile, and Sasha made sure to throw Tex a smirk while she straightened, and then walked away from the table.

Never before had Sasha appreciated how tight doorways were on destroyers in comparison until the necessary encroachment into Tom's personal space. Though benign, it felt as precarious as approaching a sheer drop. Of course, there'd be more distance if he didn't insist on holding them open. But that was Tom; shaped and molded by his rigid traditionalist father and polished to perfection by his military.

As soon as it closed, and they were stood in the p-way, he took the lead, directing them toward his cabin, she realized, and though he was ahead of her, Sasha could still picture that soft amusement on his features when he asked, "They figure out it's a mistake to play you at poker yet?"

Indifference. She wanted indifference.

"I think Tex might have."

Within the confines of his cabin during the day, Sasha could define her own mistakes. One of which had been choosing to come here, and then drink, and broach topics that should have stayed closed. She'd spent most of the night analyzing his words. Replaying and then examining them, folding them over and under like a well-worn photograph. She watched as he approached the desk and picked up a cell phone, holding it out to her.

Every time she saw his hands she felt the ghost of their warmth on her skin. The knowledge of how very gentle they could be.

"What is this?" She took the phone, staring down at the app that was opened.

"Deadman."

Sasha quirked her lip and her head.

Inhaling through his nose, Tom perched against the edge of his desk, clasping one palm over the other and then resting them in his lap. "It's how they're communicating. It works via Bluetooth, no cell service or Wi-Fi required. As long as the next phone is within ninety yards, they can share messages, pictures—even video."

She wasn't consciously aware that her mouth had parted until the increased airflow when she breathed made her teeth cold. She brought her other hand up, now holding it in both, a spark of dawning transforming her features until she lifted her eyes again to his. She didn't need to speak to see they were thinking the same thing.