an. Fun fact of the day, the large, mounted binoculars used for watch are so powerful, one can read newsprint from a mile away #themoreyouknow.

Guest 1 I'm thrilled it was not 'predictable' that the next chapter would be 'shared bed trope' as weird as that sounds. I completely agree, I think this conversation was exactly what each of them needed to say. In Tom's case, in large part, what he's wanted to say since Vinson, and almost said in Changi *both times*.

Guest 2 You made my day with this one. Thank you! The part where you mentioned it paid off the flashbacks/backstory for you was, in particular, very satisfying to read. Also that you noted that Sasha's choice to break what's really the policy she's decided for them/herself was driven by the initial state of vulnerability/embarrassment/lack of dignity more than the lingering feelings. I agree, Tom is in compartmentalization mode and reacting how he always does, in addition to this kind of tantalizing concept that he might be able to 'undo' a 'mistake' so he's gone from like a five, to a twenty, and decided he's waiting forever for Sasha to come back (and not really hearing why he's setting himself up for heartbreak).

If It Haunts You, Face It

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December 18th, 2013—USS Nathan James, Approaching Vicksburg, Mississippi

Mike flipped a page, scanning a report furnished by Rios at the behest of Tom, detailing whom was still eligible to give blood, which potential recipients were most at risk from lack of supply, and a conclusion of the types in most critical need of replenishment—if that became possible. Behold. The latest bug up Tom's ass. Mike could see why. Dr. Scott had been right—as she often was, though he still held a twinge of not caring to admit it—O-neg was about to be a giant problem. Only two souls left on board who weren't barred from donating for at least four weeks, and Tom was one them. Tom, who loved to go on ground missions when he arguably shouldn't. Until this report, and distracted with chaos, Mike hadn't considered the part where red-blood cells needed time to regenerate. Neither had Tom. After fifty years of life, Mike continued to learn something new every day. It's what he'd loved about the Navy. Then came their fuel problem, which prevented any detours in search of a blood bank or hospital—assuming they weren't raided—and finally, the big one. The sub. No definitive answer, and now the James was miles inland in what amounted to a firing hall.

Someone entered; last person he expected to see. "Good Morning," he offered.

"Morning."

Over observing was not his intention, but the last update solicited from Tom was delivered with such artificial detachment, he'd assumed the worst. The words themselves had been simple. 'Awake, cognitive, expected to recover', but it was everything Tom refused to touch, and those statements clashing with how drawn he'd seemed.

Mike's investigative scrutiny had been noticed, however. Sasha was no longer moving. "Sorry, just surprised to see you up."

She started using the coffee maker. "Can only lay in a bed for so long."

Tipped his head. "Can't argue with that." Then hoped his effort to be upbeat might mitigate the part where he'd made her uncomfortable; didn't much care for Sasha on a personal level, but he didn't wish to be rude, and Tom cared. End of the day, he'd want that respect if the roles were reversed. In fact, he'd outright demanded it after Christine's transgressions became known. Despite his ultimate choice to pursue marriage counseling in effort to salvage their union, Tom had been steadfast in his disapproval. Vocal about it until they'd exchanged words… and he may or may not have weaponized Tom's confession about Sasha. Wasn't proud of that moment, for either of them.

"Heard you found out about Michener," she deflected, turning, and resting against the counter.

Mike's lip curled. "Knew there was somethin' off about him."

Her left brow quirked. "I'm still surprised Tom sold him out."

"He didn't brief you?"

She gave a micro-shake. "He was off duty when I got out. Before that, I only got the basics. Too many ears."

Autonomously, Mike nodded. "He was standing over your bed."

"I got that part."

She'd answered quickly, almost before he was done, and appeared to have a complete lack of concern. He blinked. "You are aware that that's creepy?"

He thought she prevented an eye roll, and then at least emoted something; not what he expected, though. Just more dismissal. "I understand why Tom would take issue, but you really think Michener is dumb enough to believe he'd get away with doing something on the ship?"

Mike made a non-verbal gesture that showed he was closer to agreeing with Tom than not. "I think people aren't thinkin' straight—look at Dr. Scott."

Sasha's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. "He's not trying to kill me; he's playing mind games. Yes, he doesn't want his secret out, but you don't think he's already considered that if I was going to say something, it would have happened by now?" Mike's features thinned. "This isn't about me," she said.

Ah. "We did it smart." Mike's tone was a little singsong. Defensive. "Tom didn't go in all guns blazin', if that's what you're thinkin'."

She tilted her head, waiting.

"Far as Michener's concerned, I put it together looking for Donaldson's family. I went to the Master Chief, Master Chief calmed me down, brought it to the Capn's attention, and Capn' ordered me to keep quiet."

Though her features remained quite flat, some of the dullness in her eyes lifted with a spark of intrigue. "And Green? He posted a guard right outside my door."

"P.I. count on the medicine chest. Narcotics register had a discrepancy." Mike made a blasé facial gesture. "Standard op-rep until it's accounted for. Rumor has it we'll find it under a bunk tomorrow. Green's there until then."

She seemed impressed. "And this was all Tom's idea? All because he was standing over my bed?" The incline at the end of her sentence screamed.

Sucking in some air through his teeth, Mike stood. "He's a thinker. Not much he can't do with the right motivation. You of all people should know that." He paused for effect, satisfied if forced to admit when her jaw seemed to tighten over that passive aggressive jab. "But I'm pretty sure Michener said somethin' too that got to him—just not sharing. Least not with me."

Reaching over, he retrieved one of the communal mugs from the wall rack and handed it to her; seemed to cost her something that he'd read the issue. The part where the pot had been re-heated, and she kept eyeing the mugs, but not moving.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

He only scrunched his lips together in response.

"And Michener? How did he react?"

Wry, he smirked. "Like he knows we're willing to use our leverage. Think he's startin' to realize who he tried to manipulate."

"So they're playing an elaborate game of chess," she surmised, her next remark dry. "For someone un-interested in politics, he's apparently good at it."

Two hands for the coffeepot, and it was still precarious, looked like she'd pulled the IV herself, and she was barefoot. The detail he'd originally been scrutinizing. "You sure they let you out?"

The look was scathing. "Call and ask."

He threw up his hands in defense. "Just doin' my job."

Sullen, she continued pouring. "Where are we going?"

"Vicksburg."

"And nothing on the Sub?"

Thank god she put the pot down. "Nothing. We're dropping passive behind us, takes a while, but it's the only warning we'll have if Ramsey comes up the Missi—"

Violently, the ship lurched in what Mike recognized as an all stop. The coffee Sasha poured with such effort went everywhere, and if he hadn't been standing, in addition to possessing common sense, and the fast reflexes to grab Sasha's arm, she'd have a problem. General Quarters had been set.

"I'm good, go." The words were rushed out of Sasha's mouth through clenched teeth.

He hesitated over that. "You need to be in a bed, any more evasive maneuvers—"

"I get it. I'm right across the hall. Go."

"What happened? What's going on?"

Chandler glanced at his XO who'd navigated the maze of consoles in their pilot house with muscle memory and burst from it onto the bridge wing.

A fucking clusterfuck, that's what.

"Not the Sub. It's the immunes on land—we've got a problem." Tom stepped away from the Big Eyes, allowing Slattery to assume his place. "At your ten O'clock."

Several moments passed in silence. "What am I—"

"Just wait for it," Tom interrupted, his instruction low in his throat, drawn out and a little melodic.

Almost a minute passed before Slattery tensed, and Tom knew he'd seen it. The flash of sunlight glinting from a rearview mirror and masked almost entirely by dense foliage. Waited for Slattery to sort through the shapes and blending colors until it became recognizable. The same thing he'd scrutinized for a full three minutes at maximum magnification before confirming what Petty Officer Newman reported. If they survived this, he was appointing Newman to second class and awarding him a Distinguished Service Medal. Simply, his discovery was outstanding. Tom's pulse still had not slowed.

"Mother of God," Slattery muttered and then drew back to peer at Tom, face sobered and eyes wide.

The tip of a rocket launcher with ordnance large enough to skunk Nathan James was being moved into position fifteen miles up the Mississippi's bank. Tom surmised the sole reason the immunes had not yet fired was because the James—by his rough calculation—remained just beyond sightline from the low ground. Hidden by Earth's curvature upon the horizon, and the gentle bend of the river. But it was tight. Too tight. Tom ordered their ordnance expert to scan the database for confirmation on its type, the result currently pending, but he'd been trained to recognize ship killers. Hew knew of four matching the visible attributes that didn't require guided satellite systems. Hoped to god, that Ramsey didn't have one of those.

Slattery dragged his eyes toward Newman with the same pride and inexorable astonishment Tom had possessed in the seconds after setting Condition I.

Newman had saved their lives, and now it was his job to finish this. Issue was, the five-inch only had a range of thirteen nautical miles, and if his assumptive weapons class was correct, this was a mathematical problem they'd lose. Dropping a Tomahawk was beyond the realm of contemplation. It would level everything, including Vicksburg, and any civilians seeking the cure… and he didn't doubt Ramsey had eyes, meaning whatever their best move, it needed to happen fast.

And all of that, his XO had thought about, processed, and concluded, too. "We have to take em' out on land," Slattery said.

The Master Chief stepped out, both hands clasped behind his back, expression grim. "Gentlemen, we have another problem. CIC picked up a ping on passive sonar—what's left of the Civilian Fleet is heading upriver and will be on our six in thirty minutes. Radio chatter is unfavorable. Sir—they intend to sink the Nathan James."

Goddamn it. Even with broadcasting Donaldson's confessional testimony in conjunction with President Michener's statement, they still believed Ramsey's lies. Every feature tightened, from jaw to temple, and lip to brow. Tom took a deep breath, looked toward the horizon, and raced through his options. Even if they'd had time, sending their UAV for recon wasn't viable, not without risking the immunes moving that rocket launcher. The Seahawk would be seen upon the horizon, and shot down…

"We need to evacuate the cure, both Doctors, the President, and the children. Have Drs. Scott and Milowsky preserve as much research as they can pack in the next ten minutes." Tom turned away from the horizon and faced his officers. "XO Slattery, you will disembark with every operator we have who can still point and shoot. Secure the assets, find a way to take out that ship killer."

Slattery's lips tinned, and he nodded but remained silent.

"Take the RHIB's—move fast. Haul em' up once you land and then hide em'. I want every essential asset off this ship within the next twenty minutes. Master Chief, brief the crew."

"Aye, sir."

It was biting him in the ass, and he couldn't take it back. The p-ways felt as though they were closing. This was why. Exactly why Sasha said what she'd said. Called him out.

'You need me in CIC.'

Could hear her voice while jogging the distance from bridge to officer country. She was always goddamn right. Exactly why he'd stood beneath his shower eight days prior, suppressing fear in the pit of his gut. This wasn't a game, nor was it the place or circumstance to skirt lines which needed to be inflexibly defined. He'd known it, thought he could handle it, heeded Slattery's caution after that regrettable display, and avowed to do better—but then she'd courted death.

It burned beneath his retinas.

And then he'd lost all control. When Dr. Scott exclaimed the words 'Jesus christ,' every barrier deserted him. He'd been destitute since. Kissed her when he shouldn't—however chaste—held her when she'd cried, said things which should have been kept, and now there were minutes. Minutes left, and he needed an envelope, which was sitting in his desk drawer, and when he retrieved it, Sasha would know. He couldn't predict what he'd do when she looked at him within the context of goodbye.

Again.

Jeter's voice echoed and Tom tasted the fear as he dashed past sailors pressed against walls, allowing him passage. The p-ways were like tunnels connecting a colony of blue-clad ants, scampering to man stations under Condition III. He reached his cabin and ripped through the door.

There wasn't enough time.

Her mouth opened, but nothing passed after making eye contact. Cursed the seconds he wasted iced to the spot while Jeter's voice filled the silence, and she processed the all-hands explanation of their situation. He left her eyes, forced his feet to move, and went to the desk, registering her movement from the bed. Her difficulty was audible, and Tom tried to ignore the ways knowing she was in such pain wrecked him. Tom always felt her presence, but now it was closer to gravity. A type of black hole skirting his orbit.

He found the letter; penned the first moment upon uncovering his opponent commanded a submarine. Did he hear her inhale change? Or had he imagined it... "There's still a chance—"

"That envelope says you don't believe in it," she said. Precedence steeped in every word, though she'd spoken tactfully.

He closed the drawer, breathing shallow through his mouth, and faced Sasha. Lingering in indecision before dropping all pretense. "It says I don't have control—over anything." It was just them now, no Navy, no rules.

A strange calm descended. Or acceptance, he supposed. It washed across her features, softening the angular contours, and she came closer. "Which means the only reason you haven't ordered a med-evac is because you can't use the Helo, and don't have time."

"Yes." An idea nixed the second his Master Chief spoke. Securing and lowering Ravit, Chung, and Sasha into RHIBs, and their assets, was another equation he couldn't solve. Perhaps for one of those people, but not three, and he'd felt deep shame for considering it, before accepting she'd never permit him to. In that regard, they'd always been identical.

"How long?" A fraction louder than a whisper.

Tom flicked his focus to the screen. "Seventeen minutes," he faltered and blinked, "and I need you to stay here."

She'd prevented her lips from tightening, but he'd still seen. Everything. Knew what he wanted to do. It wouldn't be a question at all if there were no potential for aftermath, but could he really stand on their bridge, with Sasha within five-hundred feet and meet his end regretting? After everything he'd lost, every mistake, his kids inaccessible—but Sasha before him—should he not be selfish? Had he not paid the price of this ticket when he'd gambled his wife? He could live with it. Live with a stolen kiss should they survive, but then came his epiphany. Maybe she couldn't. Maybe his being selfish would only hurt more. If they died, the regret would be over soon, but should they not, he didn't know how long it might torture her, and if the storm within her gaze proclaimed it, she'd debated the same thing, and just like him, she was still standing but not moving.

The envelope tripled in weight between his fingers.

There was no time.

The mixture of having everything left to say, and comprehending it had perhaps already been said, was perplexing. It washed upon him, cathartic and sharp—juxtaposition that shouldn't work—her words, the definition of what this was. Stolen.

He was stealing, when he'd already let her go.

The peak slipped from him, the crest of his wave breaking, and he let it dissipate throughout his features. Soften the lines and shine from his eyes. Scanned every beautiful detail comprising her own, set in a way that was doleful, and softly touched Sasha's cheek. Allowed his fingers to linger while their seconds ticked down, and then drew them away.

He took a step back, felt pieces rip from him, consumed by her gravity which had intensified, and then left the room.

Left her behind to face the unknown.