an. Review responses below, author note at the end because I don't want to spoil.

Guest 1 Thanks so much! Another character development-focused chapter for this one :)

Guest 2 I'm glad you liked that Sasha provided the counter perspective. We've all heard a million times that Neils deserved it, but I don't think that was ever the argument, nor the actual point. They see things fundamentally differently, and that's just how it is. TY! Very happy to hear you like it, and my writing. It's a large compliment.

What We Say Now Will Make Us Dangerous

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Sasha hated this. Losing autonomy and the awkward and bluntly invasive realities of waking to find you'd needed intensive care. Realities like catheters and being exposed beneath a gown that you didn't put there, and despite knowing it was clinical and necessary, and unmemorable and completely ordinary to the medical professionals who'd done it, she'd always struggled with the crawling nature of violation in the aftermath. Loathed it. Really, there was little dignity in requiring care. Dignity had always been paramount, which was why the second Dr. Scott allowed her to take a few post-operative steps several hours later, she was pressing for clearance to take a shower. There'd been some back and forth, and several conditions, like not cross-contaminating, using only mild soap, ensuring it was completely dry, but eventually, she'd been freed and then solicited Green to bring her some sweats.

Forgot to ask for boots, though.

That was regrettable.

As was navigating narrow p-ways with a rolling IV at a snail's pace, with a clean towel and a fresh pack of dressing stuffed in her hand. So too the wrongly assuming Tom would be on duty. He wasn't even in uniform when she let herself into his cabin without knocking. He was in bed, watching something on a MacBook, more than confused when he pressed pause.

She blinked. Right now, she'd describe herself as an absolute shit show.

"I need to use your shower." Beyond observing custom, or even basic manners. Maybe later, when she was feeling less demeaned, she'd thank him for keeping his mouth shut and merely acknowledging her flat statement with an incline of his head.

The surfaces were still a little condensed and the air humid when she shuffled into the bathroom. Realized pretty fast that her idea of washing hair wasn't achievable and the IV port still stuck in her hand kept pulling every time she moved too far. Then she'd gotten a look at it, the damage. Wouldn't describe herself as vain, but despite every attempt not to let it phase her, Sasha found herself blinking back tears in the mirror.

Clearing her throat, she moved on. Focused on reapplying the gauze as Dr. Scott had instructed and then taping it down with pieces she'd pre-ripped and dotted along the sink's edge. Then, on a whim, helped herself to some of Tom's Listerine to dispel the dry mouth.

He was sitting at his desk when she re-emerged. Stood because it was polite. She trailed her eyes around the room, dimmed because it was late, and then cautiously met his. "Someone got in a fight with your sink." Her head quirked just a fraction. "Think it lost." She was trying for humor, attempting for that bravado, but she could hear the latent sadness.

She wasn't fooling him one bit, the softness in his features told her that, along with his choice to be honest. "I was angry."

Sasha understood that on a deep level.

Shifting, he inhaled. "They let you out?" Subtle, but noticeable when looking her up and down.

"Moving lowers the risk of blood clots, least that's what I was told. I didn't break out, and I'm following all the rules." She attempted to smile, but it ended half dead. "Promise."

Tom seemed to think about that, or maybe debate engaging in this charade if just to make her feel better. But then, he'd also been placed in a coma... and learned that he almost lost a leg. "So you're saying I don't need to call down there?"

The smile came easier this time, felt it in her eyes. "Nope."

His answer was nonverbal. A gesture with his head.

"Do you have a sweater I can borrow? All the ones I've found are fitted."

When Tom moved back to his bed cabin, she was drawn again to the various photographs. Needed that reminder sometimes. It was deceptively easy to forget the many years and circumstance which separated them now. A few moments later, he reappeared with a hoodie. There was an awkward moment, where Sasha considered how best to accomplish wearing it. The extra-large, yellow Navy t-shirt Green found had been its own pain in the ass, but Tom seemed to have considered the problem already. Put it over her head, and then unhooked the bag from the IV pole, handing it to her before helping guide that arm through, fishing the line, and then the other.

The word thanks got stuck in her throat when she noticed how close he was now, peering down. Forgot sometimes how tall he was when she wasn't wearing boots that cheated a few inches.

"How'd that happen?" He mumbled off the cuff. Huh? When she didn't answer but rather creased her forehead, he brushed this thumb against the scar on her lip. At once, her pulse jumped.

"Uh… Columbia. I took a fall off a trail."

For a moment he deadpanned, before smirking. "You fell off a trail… again?"

The snort was unintentional, and she couldn't help but wince when the action of it moved her core muscles. Sasha was quickly learning how frequently she used them.

"Sorry," he said.

Despite the pain, she still smiled or rather grimaced through it while trying not to laugh before making eye contact again. "At least I was running from something this time. But yes."

"You should probably stay away from hiking in general."

"I don't think that's bad advice." For a few seconds, she enjoyed the simplicity before the smile slipped into something softer. "Did you ever finish it?"

The boyish humor he wore so well faded. "No. I went back a few summers ago, but the kids were there. Stuck to the loop by the creek."

Her brows moved softly. "Still the last piggyback I ever got, you know."

Tom tilted his head left. "Still the longest one I've given."

Two whole miles back to the truck, before taking her to the ER in Roanoke, wasting hours, and leaving with a boot for a hairline fracture, all because she refused to listen. Never did learn her lesson. Her Commander at Dam Neck was beyond pissed, and he'd paid for carrying the extra weight like hell with his knee. Its own reminder of why he'd never be on the frontlines again, despite ignoring statistics and pushing it farther than anyone thought he could go. Funny how something unrelated seemed so important now. Like it all had a purpose and Tom was walking a path he'd been made for. At least to her.

"You ended up getting that surgery?" She inquired quietly.

"In o-two."

Made sense, probably timed it so he could be stationed at home for a while. Before, he'd been postponing it mostly for her, but with Ashley and Darien, it was the opposite of an inconvenience. Kind of hated herself for still feeling a twinge when she thought about it. All the reasons why they didn't work. Still wouldn't. Never could. The idea of him playing happy families while she'd been struggling to let go. The dark part of her psyche dwelled on that part, told lies, and refused to accept that Tom could love her but still knowingly shatter her heart. Vindicated her contribution to their demise.

She felt that sting behind her eyes again, trailed them off so she could stop ruminating, landing on the laptop. "What were you watching?

"Looper."

Huh, Bruce Willis. Didn't make it a point to keep with movies, but she'd watched that one on a flight back from China. "Please don't try and tell me it's a Christmas movie."

Why did it make her want to cry when his face dimpled like that?

"Die Hard's a Christmas movie, Sasha."

"And you will live and die on that hill."

"I will."

It sank in. The acceptance that she hadn't been wrong. Memory wasn't faulty, she could stand there and talk about nothing with him forever. It came and settled, same way it had on a beach in Changi, and in the same way, so too lead-weighted reality. They couldn't. Things between them always ended in tears, and it wasn't just 'them' anymore. There were more people to screw up.

Swallowing, she dropped eye contact and reached for the IV pole. "I'll leave you to it."

It was lurking again, that aching look he used to give her. At least she wasn't hooked to a heart rate monitor anymore, though she wondered if it sounded different when it was breaking.

"Thanks for the sweater."

"Sasha."

The indecision to hear him lingered while she faced the door, but she was kind of a martyr when it came to Tom. Turning her head but not fully facing him, she glanced over her shoulder.

"I miss you."

It was enough to lose control over the set of her brow, and while breathing, she found herself staring at a picture of Darien.

"So do I."

"So stay." He'd said it so quietly, Sasha wondered if she'd imagined that. "It's just a movie, Sash. Doesn't mean anything."

Softly, she sighed through her nose. Sash. "It always means something, Tom." Already meant too much. "We can't even have a conversation without it meaning something."

He squinted and stepped closer, bare feet silent against the floor, hands buried in the pocket of his sweatpants. "So what does it mean?"

After debating the merits of doing this now, she moved back toward the desk, perching against it. "It means that this—whatever it is that we're doing—it's not real." She saw him swallow, and he moved again until he was standing in front of her. "We're just stealing time. Same as Vinson… and you were right. When you told me it wouldn't work—you were right."

That burned. She could see it. "That was twelve years ago, Sash. Things are different now."

Her smile was sad. "Not as much as you want them to be. What exactly is it that you think will happen?"

The hesitation spoke volumes, whether it was because he didn't have the answer or had figured out that she didn't believe and was trying to protect himself. Either way, it didn't change the facts. "We get back and what? Avoid each other for a while? Have funerals, and then later, oh, here's dad's friend with the ambiguous past, but don't ask how we really know each other." Her head quirked. "So we what? Watch everything that we say, and just hope that your daughter isn't like you and doesn't put the timeline together?"

His jaw tightened.

"You know how I grew up—"

"Darien and I weren't the same as your parents." He'd breathed it, could tell she was hitting nerves.

"I'm not saying you were. I'm saying if your daughter ever found out, it could taint everything for her and Sam. They already lost their mother; I'm not interested in destroying what's left. I don't want any part of that, I already have enough guilt—"

His eyes were narrowed, but they softened when he cut her off. "Sasha—"

"No. I'm going to Asia." That was the last thing he'd expected. "That was always the plan, it just got derailed, and then when I came back up again, I ran into you." She paused briefly. "I don't need to explain why it made sense to stay and help with the cure… but you have that now, and you have a way to spread it, so as soon as I'm cleared, I'm going."

He was breathing through his mouth now, lips barely parted. "Why? What's in Asia?"

"Someone I owe my life to." Broke off to smooth the waver in her voice. "And they're only there because of me."

Bringing her eyes back, she held his gaze, waiting for him to argue. List the reasons it was too dangerous or a fool's errand, and at times, she believed on a baser level in her ability to dictate what he was thinking. Even when he wouldn't outright say it.

"So I'll wait."

Closing her eyes, she tucked her chin and swallowed. "We've already been down this path—"

"And you changed your mind." The conviction in his tone made it impossible not to return her focus, finding he was looming a step closer now. Close enough to smell his soap. "You said you would have tried."

"I was twenty-six, Tom. That's what happens when you're convinced you can't be happy without someone." Hesitated over the next words. "But I know better than that now… I was happy. You were happy. We made it this far without each other."

Often, she'd wondered if being on the other side was easier. Debated in the dead of night, a postmortem of what-ifs—now, watching the way he kept his features neutral, yet unable to prevent red creeping up the whites of his eyes—Sasha had an answer. It wasn't. It was awful.

"We can't undo it, Tom," she whispered. "However much you want to." Wished that they could.

"But the future isn't set in stone. Not anymore." It was equally muted.

There was a small noise of irony under her breath. "Did you even listen to what I said?"

"I listen to everything you say—"

"Then don't look at me like that."

"I don't have another way to look at you!" he rasped. "And I am sorry that's not what you want, but if I could trade places and give him back to you, then I would."

That wrenched deeply, and she knew it was written all over her face, percolating harder when she comprehended. She might be trying to walk away, trying to stop this from getting worse, but she also couldn't live with not clarifying. "I've never said I didn't love you." The words were thick on her tongue, and the level of patient, quiet understanding found in response did little to ease her perceived disloyalty. Nor her shame. Instead, it did everything to affirm why he still felt like home—why she'd only loved once with abandon.

Tom's hands were warm when they framed her jaw. "Then don't self-sabotage because you're scared—I won't make the same mistake twice, Sash. I'm not walking away, and I will wait for you for as long as it takes."

Why did life come in big, elaborate circles?

"I can't give you what you want."

"Not asking you for anything." He cut her off before the argument came. "I'm not. I'm just telling you where I'll be."

This was the part she'd never understood. How Tom could keep getting burned and then come back for more, stumbled into things and became convinced that if he wanted something hard enough, the universe would provide irrespective of mountainous evidence to the contrary. There'd been moments where she'd believed that way too. Not anymore.

The silence stretched, and he brushed her cheekbone before letting go—missed his hands the second they were gone.

Tired, she sighed through her nose, tone erring close to despondent. "I don't get how you're still doing this."

Tom considered that before moving and sinking down slowly next to her. Arms folded, but close enough that their shoulders touched.

"You don't have to. You just need to worry about you."

She wanted to scoff but refrained, some lessons she learned immediately, but the one he was trying to hammer home was the battle. An endless circle with a pendulum that swung from one extreme to the next. Keep going. Stop. Accept solace or continue punishing herself. Diminish the losses by burying them beneath duty, or outwardly display her devastation. Cry or don't. Scream or not. Hope or despair. There were too many choices in every second of every day.

She closed her eyes and laid her head against Tom's shoulder. After a few seconds, he shifted, until his arm was around her back and he was supporting her weight. The hand on her upper arm squeezed gently. "You should lay down, that can't be comfortable."

"It's not that bad," she mumbled. It was truthful, so long as her back was straight, it was passable.

"Take the room. I'll use my at-sea for a few days. Let Ravit use the bathroom too if she needs."

Inhaling, she lifted her head. "Okay."

She was lingering by the bed cabin's doorway while he picked up and rearranged some things when she worked up the courage. Finally found the option on that spinning wheel she was going to land on—at least in this moment. "Will you stay? Just for tonight?"

The seconds that followed were terrifying when he stilled mid-reach for the laptop, his back facing her.

"We could watch the movie," she hedged.

Slowly, Tom straightened and turned. And whether it was the combination of factors, his lack of pretense, or recent events, it struck hard enough to feel like the many nights in their old apartment. Right down to his choice of night clothes.

"This gonna bite me in the ass tomorrow?" He hadn't allowed his features to be expressive like that before—how they used to be. Made it hard to talk, so she shook her head.

He answered while inhaling, "Alright then."

Captain's bed had the benefit of a few extra inches over the standard bunks, somewhere between a twin and a full, a little awkward while trying to figure out logistically how to make it work before deciding the IV in her right hand, meant she needed to be on the outside. After adjusting they settled, and the position she ended up in was ridiculously comfortable. His arm relieved some of the pressure from the points she'd been stuck on without moving for three days.

She didn't realize she'd made noise until Tom tensed. "Am I hurting you?"

"Is this memory foam?"

Beneath her cheek, she felt him relax again. "Yeah. I got a topper, best two-hundred bucks I ever spent."

Why had she never considered that? In her ship-going days, most of her concern had been jerry-rigging her rack curtains so they stopped opening every damn time a sailor walked by. That and entertainment to last for six to eight months. Wondered if she may have re-upped were conveniences like tablets and video calls a thing. Her eyes were already getting heavy, the rise and fall of Tom's chest and sound of his breathing as soothing as she'd remembered. More. His heartbeat too, all the things she'd taken for granted and never savored. That was the hardest part, scrambling to preserve what she hadn't known were lasts. Everything she'd yearned to relive, even if just in her mind, only to find that time had stripped them from her. Left holes of black where there should have been picture.

She'd lost the sound of his laugh years ago, the real one. And it had only been four months but she was already losing Andrew's too.

He began stroking her hair again gently. His comfort a murmur against her temple. "It's gonna get easier, Sash. I know you can't see it—but it will."

She stopped trying to silence her tears, maybe her breathing had given her away? It didn't matter, what she needed was to catalog every second of stolen time.

In the end, it was all she had left.

an. I debated a lot about whether to go with this scene because tropes are tropes, and I hate to do something just to be shippy vs. what is realistic within the context of the very few days which have passed and the obvious losses, but I hope it comes off as balanced. This story is a true slow burn. I really believe it's too much to think they could just jump right back to where they started, yet at the same time, it's not so cut and dry when there's history like this. That and humans are complex. Anyway, rambling.

Also, thanks to tmtcltb for inspiring the Die Hard reference. Check 'Meet Me in St. Louis' chapter two.