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Guest 1 I'm evil, I know, but this is a quick update!
Guest 2 Me tooooo! I swear sometimes I hate myself but random time jumps annoy me if they're just because I want to skip ahead to my favorite parts LOL. It's a love-hate relationship. On the one hand, I've drafted all the shippy scenes and could just post them, but on the other hand, I'm like... 'you should attempt to write an actual story though'. Pretty sure this will end up split into two parts, St. Augustine, and St. Louis where we address re-building (and working on that alternate life).
Of Sugar Glass, Cocktails, and Checkmates
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It had already been real, the frantic nature of Dr. Scott's work, and instructions all but barked toward Bertrise more than communicated precedence, but somehow that all didn't sink in until she started cutting. As in, one giant line from below Cooper's sternum, right down under her naval. That was… not anything he'd expected, and Mike was relieved when Tom clenched his eyes and chose not to watch Dr. Scott sifting through Cooper's insides. He'd seen some shit in his time. Couldn't pull a stint in homicide without it, but those were strangers, not his best friend's ex... whatever she was. Honestly, Mike had a lot of questions in that regard, and he kind of wished Dr. Scott hadn't hooked up the heart rate monitor either, despite its necessity. It made it hard to ignore that part where it sounded like Cooper was dying.
"The fuck?" The words were breathed over his left shoulder, and Mike jerked his head. Green. Slack-jawed and entranced while Wolf sat on a crate, a plastic line of blood flowing straight into Cooper's arm, only for it to flood what Mike could identify as intestines.
"I need more suction!"
He'd thought the blood which oozed from Juan Carlos' chest had been alarming—both in viscosity and speed—but this? He didn't know what to call it. Dr. Scott was muttering things. Things Mike couldn't discern over the noise of the suction, Lynn's cries of agony, and the insipid heart rate monitor.
"There," Dr. Scott exclaimed. Mike couldn't help the way he jumped, and it was enough to force Tom to snap his eyes open. "Her spleen is completely ruptured."
Glancing first at Tom, who appeared several shades paler than he should, and then to Green and finally Wolf, who was just as unsettled, he tried to extrapolate an answer to the unspoken but critical question. "That's good, right? I mean, you can live without that."
The way Dr. Scott's lips pressed into a tight line was the opposite response of the one Mike desired.
"It's not quite that simple, Commander. She's already in shock." She was going in with clamps now, and then some very long tweezer-type-looking things.
"What does that mean?" Mike prompted.
"It means that I can't give you a prognosis, and if I were forced to give you a statistic about how much blood she's already lost, it wouldn't be good."
Oh.
Cautious, Mike drew his gaze toward Tom again, regretting the decision to clarify that yes, they were all standing there witnessing Cooper die. Hadn't expected that choice to elicit thoughts of Christine, but when he processed that Tom wasn't watching Dr. Scott work at all but staring at Cooper's face with an expression Mike imagined he'd wear if it were his wife on the table, the comparison was inevitable. Been a long time since he'd thought prayer might make a difference. In the wake of that observation, he was considering it, however, and also quietly accepting that whatever Tom's thing was with Sasha, it held greater meaning than previously understood.
At some point, Milowsky approached, his own features set in grim repose. He gestured for both Slattery and Chandler to step aside, and when Tom hesitated, Mike wondered if he possessed the capacity to respond, but inevitably duty overruled.
It always did.
Milowsky looked toward Lynn and shook his head. "We've done everything we can, but his burns are extensive. Severe." The Doctor paused, battling with something before he sighed. "I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to come out and say it. I'm not sure that keeping him alive is the right thing to do."
Both Slattery and Chandler sobered further, if possible, and looked toward Lynn.
"Even if we could make port, the kind of care he needs… I'm not sure it even exists anymore. We're not equipped, we don't have enough morphine, he'll be in agony for months, he needs skin grafts, the risk of infection is…" he paused again. "We're not equipped, sirs."
Chandler hollowed his cheeks, and for several moments the silence stretched. "Is he lucid?" Tom eventually asked, the words quiet.
"He's in and out, but he's able to communicate. He is aware of what's happening." Milowsky let his eyes trail the deck, wandering until they seemed to settle on a point beyond Captain Chandler's shoulder. Mike watched while Tom approached, squatting until he was close to level with Lynn. They were far enough that he couldn't hear what was being said, but Mike assumed Tom was looking for input. This wasn't the first time Mike had been both relieved and yet guilty that these decisions didn't rest upon his shoulders.
There was undeniable weight to Chandler's steps when he returned to issue a simple flat directive. "Let him go."
Milowsky bunched his lips and bowed his head. Mike had to work hard to suppress the sorrow lodged hard in his chest, watching while Milowsky returned to Lynn, and Tom sank onto the open cot beside Sasha and scrubbed both hands down his face.
Dr. Scott had been working for one hour and twenty-eight minutes before she started stitching. Tom knew because he'd all but monitored every second. The heart rate monitor was still beeping. Either the biggest stroke of luck or a cruel type of purgatory that would end in despair. At this juncture, he didn't want to process or wager a bet. And then Dr. Scott had removed the gloves, soiled in red, uttered words that held no meaning like 'stable' and 'for now' and 'keeping sedated' and 'next twelve to twenty-four hours are critical' and he'd barely heard them over the tinnitus. Now, he was in his cabin, palms gripped on either side of the sink basin, face dripping with ice-cold water he couldn't recall putting there, so angry he struggled to breathe.
He snapped. Ripping against the metal with enough force to loosen the bolts in a fit of rage before forcing himself under control almost as suddenly. Tearing a sink from the wall would do nothing. Solve nothing. Soothe nothing. He took several deep breaths while the ache tingled from his palms to his lower arm and then up through his shoulder blades, and the knuckle on his right hand throbbed. Clearing his throat, he straightened under the pressure, extinguishing his personal party of pity to meet his feral gaze in the mirror.
Radar.
They needed Radar—out of this pass—and confirmation that Sean Ramsey was dead.
Tuesday, April 12th, 2011—Hutong, Midtown East, New York
"Sasha!"
Across the rather generous room, Sasha spotted Jesse, who was gesturing. Waving back, she turned to the hostess. "Thanks, I can take myself." When she reached the table, Jesse stood and offered a brief embrace, which Sasha returned, albeit distracted because there was a man sitting in the booth. A man whom she recognized.
"It's so good to see you, you remember Andrew, right? Dr. Cooper? He's in town for a medical conference. I figured I'd invite him."
Affixing a very benign expression, she raised her brows. "I do," and then glared at Jesse through her peripheral. "What a coincidence."
Jesse merely grinned, everything about it sly. "Back in a jiffy, need to piss—cocktails are great, by the way."
Dr. Cooper stood politely if somewhat awkwardly. His napkin which had been in his lap almost fell to the floor before he stopped it. "Hello, it's uh—nice to see you—again."
For a second Sasha only looked at his outstretched hand, long enough to make him wonder if she was going to return the gesture. "Hello." She shook it, and then took a seat, fussing with the place setting for something to do, internally vowing to rip Jesse a new asshole.
Andrew cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "You look better than the last time I saw you."
There was complete silence before Sasha canted her head. "You don't get out much, do you?"
He appeared crestfallen, and then embarrassed, before choosing self-deprecation. "You're right, that was lame."
Despite her desire for indifference, Sasha grinned and took a sip of water, nodding. "It's not the best line I've ever heard, no."
"So…" Jesse drawled, twirling a cocktail stick through the fifth Cosmo Sasha had seen her drink. They were back at her hotel, the Hyatt at Grand Central. It was overly tourist-centric for Sasha's tastes. Had always preferred to stay in lesser-known boutiques when she traveled, but this wasn't her trip, and she was still surprised that their schedules had aligned.
"So?" Sasha echoed, quirking a brow while she nursed an Old Fashioned.
"He's here for the rest of the week."
"Not interested."
Jesse finished the rest of her glass and set it down. "That's bullshit, don't think I didn't see you two flirting all night."
Chewing on her cheek, Sasha faced away, studying the bottles behind the bar. "What is it with you and trying to force me into a relationship?"
Jesse raised her hands in mock surrender. "Don't blame me. You're the one who lives like a fuckin' nun."
"I'm not celibate. I just don't need any long-term commitments."
"You know what that's like?" Jesse's comment, though sarcastic, still surfaced something. Softer now, like a phantom limb, but enough.
Sasha took a stiff gulp, enjoying the burn. "They're not compatible with my line of work. Like I said—I'm not interested."
With her elbow slumped against the bar top, and her cheek resting against her fist, Jesse peered at her. "Someone screwed you bad, huh?"
"Nope." Sasha made sure to pop the 'p'. "I just live in reality." And then downed the rest of her drink.
Jesse scrunched her nose. "Was he hot at least? Cause Andrew's pretty hot... and he's a Doctor, so you know he makes money—"
Exasperated, Sasha rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous. We're not having a girl talk about my ex—"
"I knew it!" The volume and vigor of Jesse's outburst attracted a few glances from other patrons.
Shit.
Ignoring completely that part where she'd walked into that, Sasha gestured for the bartender.
December 15th, 2013—USS Nathan James, Pass A Loutre—2243 Hours
Tom was tired of funerals. He'd been tired since he stood over Cossetti's body in their makeshift morgue, the place where Senior Chief Lynn now rested in preparation for his services tomorrow. At least, so far, it was only one. Ravit had fought and pulled through—how Tom didn't know—official count was six bullets, four of which hit through the penetrable side of her vest. Chung had a severe concussion, but Rios was confident he'd recover with relatively few lasting effects. The leg fracture hadn't been compound, another stroke of luck, aside from hobbling on crutches for the next several months.
It was late, and he needed sleep desperately—just wasn't foolish enough to think he'd get it. Instead, he found himself in medical. Chung was on the bunk racks, well enough that he didn't need constant monitoring. The lights were dimmed, and the door was only marginally ajar—enough for Tom to see he was asleep. Ravit was in the adjacent cabin, a port curtain separating the spaces and providing some privacy. Heard light snoring too, a man's snoring. Burk's if he had to guess.
He hovered at Sasha's bedside. Someone had wiped the blood from her forehead and closed the cut with Steri-Strips. Put her in a medical gown, and hooked her to wires and things Tom didn't know the correct terms for—ultimately irrelevant—all it did was reinforce the situation. She looked breakable, and that was a word she'd both hate him for ascribing and something he'd never imagined using to define Sasha's state of being. The sound of the heart rate monitor stopped being enough evidence to prove her vitality in that moment. Told himself if he could feel her pulse thread against the pads of his fingertips, the suffocation would pass.
He stopped right before making contact with her wrist.
Blood.
It was still caked and dried in the bed of her nails, though someone had tried to wipe them clean.
She hated that.
Tom lowered his hand and scanned the room for a basin. It took a few moments of riddling through cupboards and drawers until he found a metal one shaped like a kidney, and a fresh pack of what he assumed were surgical towels. Or maybe they were just rags meant for cleaning. He went to the adjacent room, the one that housed Rios' desk, knew there was a sink and hand soap. Set the items down next to her thigh when he returned and pulled a rolling stool over, settling himself with one foot resting on the metal rung and the other on the ground. He started cleaning methodically, ridding the dried coagulated red from their short, practical length. Her hand was completely limp. Cold. Like she was dead. It felt like his ribcage collapsed.
It was some moments later that Rachel approached, now showered and re-caffeinated enough to make her rounds. She paused in the threshold, observing unnoticed as Captain Chandler went about his task, his movements unexpected as they were tender. Reflective in a way she'd only witnessed when he held that bracelet from his daughter. It felt like she was intruding upon something deeply personal. Vaguely, Rachel registered that perhaps her conceptions that the Captain was a forthright, 'what you see is what you get' type of man were far too simple. Wondered how he could be so callous and caustic in one instance, yet so quietly caring in another. It seemed rather like a contradiction to her.
Tom remained oblivious until the feeling of being watched arose. He glanced over a shoulder at the door.
Startled, Rachel attempted to neutralize her features and stepped into the room. Acting as though she hadn't been lingering as long as she had. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain, but I need to check her vitals." Behind her, the guard assigned as her escort loomed.
He stilled, Sasha's palm still limp in his much broader hand. "Do you need me to move?"
"No," Rachel answered. Grabbing the chart from its hook on the wall.
He resumed his task, wondering why he'd forgotten that Sasha's hands were just as lean as Darien's. Small. Another word he'd never ascribed—her personality wouldn't allow it, but now laying lifeless in a bed, he felt it. Felt like he was handling sugar glass. Darien had been quite the baker, and he was reminded. A vivid memory of his late wife cautioning him to 'be careful' while insisting she needed a second pair of hands. Tom clenched his jaw, dispelling the intrusive memory. It cut, and it stung, and he wasn't ready to accept that he'd never see her again yet.
Feeling rather awkward, Rachel rounded the opposite side of the bed to observe the monitors.
Tom waited until the sound of writing stopped. "Has anything changed?"
Rachel half pivoted, glancing over her shoulder through her peripheral. "No. Though I believe I've figured out why she lost so much blood." Tom peered up, waiting reticently for an elaboration. "I rechecked the analysis I did. Her red blood cell count was low. I noticed it before, but I attributed it to Anemia. It wasn't low enough to give cause for further investigation… and she wasn't complaining of any symptoms, but based on the values, I'd assume she was down around twenty percent to begin with."
That got his attention, and he lifted his head. "But she was medically cleared for active. I specifically made her go to Rios."
"Testing for blood volume is not a standard part of any normal medical examination. Not without disclosing something to prompt it—confusion, dizziness, headaches…" Rachel trailed off. Headaches. "She did come to the lab for some painkillers when she first arrived, but it's not like a headache is a cause for alarm. Not when she seemed fine, and it looked like she'd been hit, so I just assumed—"
"What about being cold?"
There was a brief pause. "That's another common symptom, yes—and something very easy to overlook considering it's not exactly warm on this ship."
But he'd noticed. When she'd taken his hand in the hotel before reaching Nathan James. After Cody's death when pressing his lips to her palm. Saw how frequently she warmed them with a mug or the sunbaked deck rails...
With a small sigh, Rachel returned the clipboard to its hook. "I couldn't find anything in the limited medical history we do have, and I didn't see any fresh scars or wounds that would explain it—did she perhaps mention anything to you? It would need to have been fairly recent, within the past few months."
Months.
"Captain?"
He hated this. Making decisions that weren't his to make, with information he wasn't supposed to have. Like whether to disclose what he believed responsible, despite knowing a lack of transparency in that regard almost ended with Sasha's death. "She lost a baby. I don't know the details, but it wasn't a miscarriage—and she doesn't know how much I know."
Rachel became silent, her features reflecting a myriad of both understanding and regret. "Right." She pushed her hands into her back pockets. "Yes. That would certainly provide an explanation… and also raises its own concerns…"
That tone. It was exactly what he didn't want. "I need to tell her before you start asking questions."
Rachel nodded and swayed somewhat backward. "Of course, but with all due respect… I believe it is necessary to inform Doctor Rios as well. If he'd been aware, he may not have cleared her at all, and it certainly would have changed his preliminary examinations. I'll leave it off her chart until you've had a chance to speak."
Tom squinted, his inhale silent though it parted his lips before he swallowed against the surge in his throat and turned back to study Sasha's features again. "Is she gonna be alright?" he rasped.
"She's relatively young, otherwise healthy, and active, and she's breathing spontaneously—all things that help contribute to a favorable outcome, but the reality is, Captain—that we won't have the full picture until we remove the sedation, and as of now, we've done everything we can." Rachel paused, softening a modicum in response to the particularly sorrowful edge coloring his expression. Less clinical in delivery when she surmised, "The rest is up to her, and dare I say fate."
He had no answer for that. Fate. Whatever that meant. Somehow the word stuck. Didn't think scientists dealt in non-absolutes or matters of faith, certainly not Rachel Scott. Blinking a few times to clear his vision, Tom set Sasha's hand down, wheeling the stool around to the other side. Made a mental note when it stuck and protested to see that fixed by a crewmember, and then reached for the basin that was now tinged pink with diluted hemoglobin.
"I need to check on Ravit," Rachel said.
Absently, he felt himself react with some form of acknowledgment and then registered the curtain separating the spaces draw open and then closed.
Fuck.
The guilt and burdens pressed like a vice in those seconds, things he usually kept at bay. All those lives. So many lives. So many mistakes, his mistakes that had cost said lives… his wife. His gut churned, the misery in his heart spiking to a peak until he forced the inferno back down his gullet and into that black hole where it lived. Dark, cold, and consuming.
December 16th, USS Nathan James—On Course North, Mississippi River, Pointe à la Hache, New Orleans—1812 hours
"Funny thing happened today. I went to check on Cooper and Green refused to let me in—" Mike removed his gaze from the plate and quirked a brow "—CO's orders."
Tom continued cutting through his beef very specifically, loading it onto his fork, along with some carrots and rice, before putting it in his mouth and chewing. And now Jeter was lacing his fingers together atop the table and waiting with a significant degree of interest.
Tom took his time before acknowledging the comment, his bite fully macerated before he responded. "She has information that would be—damaging—to certain individuals if it were to get out."
Mike straightened in his chair, all manner of challenge gone. "Michener?" He glanced fast between the Captain and Master Chief. "I thought we trusted him now."
Tom stilled his movements but did not set down the knife and fork. "I never said that—I said we were gonna use him to help spread our agenda." He began cutting again. Waiting.
Mike wore a sly type of grin. "What does she have on him?"
Tom inhaled, this conversation going exactly as he'd hoped after concluding the most failsafe way to protect Sasha, was to make it so he didn't need to protect her at all. "He broke the protocols to fly his son from Michigan to the stadium, knowing they had a confirmed outbreak—now, I told him I was the only one that knew. But that's not true—she's the one who put it together."
"How the hell would he find that out?" Slattery pressed.
Tom pulled a face. "Can only speculate. Maybe he's guessing. Could be a hunch. Either way, after the debrief he made it a point to ask if she knew. I lied, but he's seen her file—who knows what he'd assume—let's not forget you thought she was working for the Russians."
Mike sobered and shrank despite Tom's comment erring on the side of black humor over reprimand.
Placing his utensils down, Tom leaned back in the chair, elbow on the armrest. "He's saying and doing all the right things, but he also did that with the Ramseys, and when I went to see her today, he was standing over her bed. While she's unconscious." There was a beat of silence while that settled across the table. "Can't find a single reason for why he'd need to be there."
"He say anything?" Mike's tone communicated distaste.
"That it would be a shame to lose such a competent operator." His exact words, though Tom left out the part where Michener first made clear that he knew they had some kind of past. In subverted terms.
Jeter frowned, curling his neck back, and Tom had to refrain from exalting. The concept was viscerally unsettling as vigorously grinding his knuckles against raw pavement.
"You saying you think he's still with em'—or just trying to cover his ass?" Mike prompted; his own expression troubled.
"I'm saying I'm not willing to risk her to find out. I want eyes on him—discreetly—we still need him on our side. It's obvious he can be an asset when it comes to logistics. Planning. Infrastructure." Tom paused briefly. "And he can spin a great speech, can't overlook the value of that." Mike reluctantly tipped his head and then skewered his fork into some meat. "Keep him focused on the big picture, and in the meantime, I'm gonna let him know that there's more than two people on this ship now who know about his secret."
The Master Chief gave a deep nod. Conveying his complete understanding of the play. "Yes, sir."