an. The penultimate chapter, or end if you will. The next update is a shorter epilogue tying ends in St. Louis. Thanks for coming on this angsty ride with me—until they meet again...

References: Really, all the flashbacks, but most notably the infamous raccoon in Chapter 26: 'Cause It Hurts To Get Lost In Yesterday'. The conversation in Changi, Chapter 4: 'Tanah Merah'. Scene after meeting Kara, Chapter 13: 'Show Me Your Pieces'. The conversation at the end of Chapter 17: 'Wicked Game'. The kiss in Chapter 14: 'Every December' and finally, the fireplace scene in standalone flashback, 1997.

Guest 1 Thank you, I'm happy to be past it, total wimp when I'm sick, lol. I'm really glad you liked Tom's choice to let some of those old-world rules go to grow closer to the crew. It was an area in the show I was curious about, and it didn't make the most sense that he seemed to stay so completely removed until I started down this path of trying to understand the culture of Naval leadership. The number of codes sailors live by is so fascinatingly removed from regular life, and we know Tom in canon very much sought to preserve and honor the institution. It's fun to play out his biases and where those corrupt his adherence to code, and where they don't. And of course, I so enjoyed the opportunity to write Tom and Sasha removed from some of the baggage for that poker game!

Guest 2 Saying you felt like you were watching something instead of reading is the highest compliment, so thanks for that! Pablo is one of my favorite characters now, which seems insane since he got 2 minutes of screen time, lol! So happy you loved the poker game—it's admittedly a scene I really enjoyed writing—and jealous Tom… haha. I knew you'd enjoy that. He is totally overthinking it 100%. I did not intend for a LOTR reference, no! But now I am curious which part!? LOTR was a favorite of mine growing up, so I wonder if I did something unintentionally. So glad that you're feeling better it seems, and this review was lovely but don't feel bad for real life getting in the way! It happens. I am just glad you're enjoying the story still.

What a Wicked Thing, to Let Me Dream Of You

.

.

Tom's watch felt like a magnet where she'd stuffed it into her front jean pocket. Distracted after playing the final rounds with Nishioka to conclusion, and now between stealing glances while Tom interfaced with his crew, differently than she'd witnessed before—a clap on Green's shoulder—a joke with Cruz, banter with Wolf, Sasha failed to notice Slattery approach.

"You threw the game." Not acquisition, just fact.

Momentarily, she lowered her chin. "I didn't need to win," she gestured with her head toward Nishioka, who was surrounded by jubilant members of CIC, "plus, he's their hero right now." It bothered her that she still knew so little about Mike Slattery that she couldn't find the upper hand in their interactions. "What's better than winning condoms for all your friends when you have zero chance of using them with the people around?"

He smirked, but it dissolved fast. "That thing about Shemanski—"

"Not me."

He seemed skeptical.

"Trust me," she leaned in. "I learned my lesson the first time I mixed work with play… and even if I hadn't, there's nothing there."

"Might wanna clear that up."

She prevented an eye roll. "I was planning to have a conversation, yes."

Before, she may have chosen avoidance, and while the games were fun to an extent, this wasn't a world in which to play. On his part, Slattery's mood sobered, switching from mirth to introspection. That still surprised her. How quickly he could shift when external appearances pegged him closer to an unforgiving hardass than not. And he appeared to have something to share but questioned doing so.

"What?" she prompted.

His mouth opened, and then he bunched his lips and sighed. "Nothin'—just make sure you have that talk. Before he gets it all twisted in his head—"

"What am I missing here?" she murmured, shifting closer, the beer in her hand forgotten.

Itchy and uncomfortable, her unanswered question lingered before Slattery conceded. "He's taking command of the James so I can stay in St. Louis with my family."

Shit. And she'd been procrastinating the need to disclose that she wasn't only leaving but resigning her commission entirely. Cutting ties with everything that had defined her because it felt like the only way she might be able to breathe.

A sad quality rounded her eyes, and Slattery squinted in response. "You're still leavin', huh?"

She didn't expect shame to burn so hot. "I can't stay." And then it swelled and made her throat ache. "And if that makes me a lesser person than the rest of you, so be it—"

His demeanor changed, and he stooped in emphasis of the point. "Not what I meant."

When she bit down, the muscle in her jaw bulged and Slattery appeared to verify their immediate surroundings before continuing.

"Look, I get it. I lost my son… and I can tell you right now, if I knew what was comin' our way back in April like you did? I never would've left Norfolk. Not until I made damn sure my family was safe."

She searched his features, shock evident, "I—I didn't know—"

"No reason to. And I am sorry—about the way I acted before." Awkwardly, he paused. "Guess what I'm tryna say is it wouldn't be so bad if you came back… and not just for Tom." The next gesture resembled a smile, but it held regret. "I hope you find whatever it is you're lookin' for," he said.

And then left her floored in his wake.

For the second time in a week, Tom exited the small washroom of the at-sea cabin to discover Sasha lurking in shadow. Barefoot, he shuffled to a stop at the threshold, palm still curled around the cool handle.

Her lip quirked, and she dangled his watch by its strap, pupils almost blown black from the alcohol while the bathroom light glinted from them. "I came to give this back to you."

His gaze caressed her form, up and then down. "Keep it." And then tossed the hand towel on the desk beside her, looming mere steps from where she'd perched unconventially with both feet planted in his chair. "Probably looks better on you, anyway."

A gentle blush formed, and she flicked the mechanical face back into her palm, studying it. "I heard you're taking command of the James," she broached quietly, gaze still averted.

He made a noise, something soft in the back of his throat that could neither be defined as scoff or laugh, but something in between. "Another one of those talks you two have?"

She grinned, but it faltered. "If you asked me before tonight, I would have told you the only thing we have in common is you… but I just found out about his son, so."

Considerably, Tom's demeanor shifted, and he intended to find words, but they escaped him.

Sidestepping the topic, Sasha inclined her chin toward the overstuffed duffels stacked beside her. Three in total. "You went home?"

"Yeah." It held more than he'd aimed to convey, enough for her to keep his gaze with soft understanding.

"There was a raccoon in my house." He didn't know why he'd chosen to share that.

Sasha quirked a brow, expression curious before she chose a response. "Did you give it a name?"

He side-eyed, cheeks hollowed against a grin and looked downward where her thin fingers still held his watch. "I was… talking," he began, pulse dropping as before when he'd voiced the poison of Bosnia. "To Darien," he mumbled. "I said this thing—about how I didn't know why when she can't hear me, and then bam. I go look—and there's a raccoon, standing in my hallway. Staring at me."

Slowly, Tom chanced a glance, meeting the gentle consideration of hers. She tilted her head.

"Are you trying to tell me you've changed your mind about ghosts?"

No. Yes. Maybe? But more so, he yearned to stop falling slave to her grace. Wished it didn't slice so deep to know she was still the right person at the wrong time.

"Or that you think Darien's a raccoon?" she deadpanned.

Rapidly he blinked, thrown by the gentle mischief emanating so smoothly. Warmth coated his insides, then elicited that lopsided grin he'd aimed to suppress. "Well, when you say it like that, it sounds insane."

"A little," she said, wearing a smile that dimpled her cheeks and showed her teeth. "But I'm not judging you."

It rested, and companionable silence blanketed before her voice pierced the veil. "You know, I always used to wonder if I'd ever see death the way you did. Up close like that?"

The levity morphed into undivided attention.

"If it would change me the same way?"

His blink this time was languid. "Has it?"

"More."

For a time, she was lost to him, peering at nothing before her lip tugged as it did when she aimed to bare her soul. "I've lived most of my life for a career. Went almost a decade convinced I didn't need or want anything else." Her gaze was back now, heavy in ways he couldn't describe. Conflicted. Contemplative. Wistful. Regretful. "But I can't do it anymore. Can't be half in. If I miss the wrong thing, I'll end up getting someone killed." She hesitated, lips parted and then found resolve. "I'm resigning my commission—" she swallowed. "And I have a contact that has a way to get me to Hong Kong. They should be here on Monday."

Now he regretted the inability to tell time, or perhaps it was better than he couldn't calculate precisely how few hours remained. Less than forty-eight—probably closer to thirty—and then it spread. Deep, undignified shame in wondering whether taking to his knees and begging might elicit enough guilt to change her mind, and that was exactly the problem with him. Them. He loved her selfishly in pivotal moments when he couldn't.

It hurt.

A lot more than he'd prepared for.

"You're not saying anything—"

"Take him with you." It barreled from his lips.

She frowned; mouth opened to argue, but he spoke first.

"I don't care what he is to you, Sasha." The way she reacted seemed like a wince. "I don't. As long as he keeps you alive," he rasped, ignoring the radiating ache. "Just take him with you." And then did something he thought he'd never do. "Please."

A knot marred her forehead, sheen glassing her eyes. Wordless, Sasha searched his expression, then placed his watch on the desk and stood. "There is nothing going on between Pablo and I."

"Then why are you so adamant that he has to stay?" It was terser than intended, and now she was fighting tears.

"Because I need him to make sure that nothing happens to you." She framed his face, hands cool against his skin. "You don't get it, do you?"

No. He couldn't say he did.

"It took me so long to let go of you… and I thought I had, but I spend five minutes around you?" Her jaw twitched. "And all I can think about is everything we had. Everything we were supposed to be, and it scares the crap out of me, Tom."

Something surged from a place deep in his gut. Premature hope and he diverted futile energy to quash it.

"I don't know to make this work… I don't think you do either—but I do know, that if I could go back and stop myself from walking away from you, I would."

It took effort to breathe out. To control his response and mind, and he wondered if Sasha truly understood the ways that her fist was gripped around his heart. If she'd read it right when he'd begged 'please'.

"You don't need to give me a watch to make me come back."

Smooth despite his turmoil, Tom canted his head left, her fingers slipping down his jaw. "No?"

"No," she breathed. "You're a good enough reason."

Rushing filled his ears. Couldn't think. An inexorable déjà vu encapsulated; a thousand memories converged like a conversation resumed which ended only minutes prior. Closer she drew. Onto tiptoes, slow and deliberate when she brushed her lips against his. It was gentle and tentative until decorous resistance simmered beyond his containment. In her hair, fingers tangled themselves, cupping the back of her head to angle their mouths deeper. His free hand splayed in the small of her back, pressing her against him. Firm. She tasted like home. Like the sweetness of innocent memories only a child could capture—pure and untainted—intensely aware of her hand where it raked through his hair, and the other up and under his shirt, traveling the expanse of his back.

The sound of her sighs were potent. Couldn't appreciate how far they'd carried away until his mouth was trailing over skin, tongue against her pulse, and hands beneath sweater prepared to unclasp her bra. God, he wanted. Needed. But not like this. Cursing himself, and wielding more control than believed reasonable, Tom slowed and eased. Cupped her cheeks once more and dropped gentle kisses against her face. The tip of her nose. Forehead. Until she was gathered soft and real to his chest and tucked beneath his chin, face buried in the ridiculous beauty of her hair, drowning in that scent which seemed to define belonging.

She stirred; arms wound now around his waist, though still beneath the fabric. "I should go."

"Stay."

"You really think that's a good idea?" It was half sardonic, half rueful.

"I can keep my hands to myself if you do."

Through his shirt, Tom felt her grin.

"I guess I always was the instigator."

Sighing, Sasha pulled away. In her absence, the skin on his flanks prickled with goosebumps. Even in the dim, her flushed appearance was evident, the swollen quality of her lips and tousled hair.

That lump of tightly coiled emotion in his throat grew.

Tucking dark flyaway strands behind an ear, Sasha looked toward the duffels. "I need a shirt. Coming back here from officer country in nightclothes is a rumor even you can't shut down."

While he had no intention of hiding anything in the long-term, logic concluded adding accelerant to the quiet burn traveling scuttlebutt was unwise. Stance loose, Tom sauntered to the bag and produced a clean option—a simple crew neck, more than aware of his weakness for button-downs. Sasha opted to change in the bathroom—an arguably correct choice—and Tom plunged the room into darkness. When she re-emerged, jeans and sweater folded, he was thankful that she was shrouded to mere silhouette because that shirt was skimming bare thighs. Perhaps it would be smarter to give her the sweatpants too… and the thought did come—after she'd gone beneath the covers, flattened to the wall, leaving just enough space for him—that his back would protest tomorrow. Squeezing two frames into a twin was certainly easier achieved a decade ago.

Tucked across him, leg thrown over his and entwined, Tom tried to focus. To quell the intense fear that fate would snatch her from him too, but it was hard. Damn near impossible. So, he listened—the rise and fall of her breaths synchronized with his—until her voice came quietly in the dark.

"Will you go back to St. Louis? To say goodbye to them at least?"

It didn't surprise that Sasha accurately discerned in large what he'd been ruminating all day. "I will. Still three weeks until the cure arrives. Garnett and Jeter can hold the line here in the meantime."

"So Slattery's going back on Wednesday," she surmised. More for herself than anything else. "He's taking CNO?"

"For the first leg."

"Hm," she acknowledged. "At least I don't need to convince him not to trust anyone."

He breathed a chuckle, and a lull followed. Around the bicep thrown over him, his hand was curled, thumb absently caressing while her own rested over his heart. She felt more robust, Tom realized, than the last time they'd shared a bed. Less snappable but still below a weight he'd deem acceptable to go guns blazing to China.

"You should lose my file." His thumb stilled. "He might have been wrong about me, but he was right to question it. There were less than twenty people who knew about Project Bluenose… and we know one of them sold out to the Russians. Believe me or not—you're a giant walking target, Tom. All it takes is one person determined enough to find a way to control you."

Cold spread in his gut.

"Just look at Michener—he already tried that angle. You might have the leverage today, but who knows what will happen six months from now."

"You gonna take him with you?" he countered.

He felt her reaction, begrudged acceptance of the quid pro quo. "Have Val scrub me from the database, then I will take Pablo with me."

"Consider it done."

She made a sound. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Just like that, Sasha. It really is that simple."

For a moment, everything stilled, and then she shifted, pushing herself onto an elbow. Red light from the p-way spilled through the door's seams, just enough to make out the shape of her features. Struck.

"You honestly believe you cheated on me, don't you." It wasn't much of a question. "That's why you're doing all of this. Because you think you owe me something—"

"I'm doing this because I love you—"

"Why would you still love me after I left?" she breathed.

"Why do you still care after what I did?"

Silence resonated until finally, her lip curled ruefully. "I've never been able to stop the way I feel about you. Believe me, I tried."

"Neither have I," he murmured, the decade-old scar flaring anew. "It's just what we do. It's always been this way."

Inhaling, her head shook. "You know I was convinced that you and Darien wouldn't make it?" Her teeth passed over her lip where she chewed. "It took me longer than it should—to stop waiting for that to happen."

"Sasha—"

"I didn't understand it before, but I think I do now… and I meant it when I told you to forgive yourself—"

"I'll never forgive myself for what—"

"That's what I'm afraid of," she continued, urgent and hushed. "Because you'll never forgive yourself for Darien, either… and I hate that I'm not the bigger person, but I don't think I can live in another woman's shadow."

"You're not."

"She's the mother of your kids."

It wasn't those words themselves but the way she'd delivered them which tore at his heart. Same way it had wrenched in a different stateroom upon the discovery of Sasha curled around her child's blanket. This was deeper than Darien, and he wasn't blind to that. Only time might loosen the holds of that grief—enough to constructively talk about it, at least.

"Don't do that. Don't compare yourself to her, Sash. I promise you I'm not—and I never will."

"How are they holding up?" she deflected quietly. Everything about it was delicate—as though she expected he'd preclude her from this aspect of his life. Or maybe he translated it wrong, and it wasn't about him at all.

"Ashley's—angry. Doesn't know to talk about it, and Sam is—" he breathed a laugh that was tinged with sadness. "He doesn't understand yet. Right before I left, he asked me when the newest Superman was coming out on Blu-ray. He still thinks if we give people the cure, then everything will go back to normal."

She smiled, though her eyes heavily glistened. He lifted a hand to trace the perfect curve of her cheek, a path he'd known so intimately before. "One day at a time," he whispered, "that's all we can do."

Sniffing, she swallowed and lowered her chin. "You know better than anyone how well I function when there's no simple answer and no solid plan."

"So you're admitting I'm not the only one who hasn't changed?" He grinned softly.

It earned a watery chuckle, and he sighed, pulling her close. He needed to remember forever how she felt in his arms. The way her palm rested on the planes of muscle below his collarbone... and if these were to be the last hours he'd spend in her presence—he wouldn't brave the unknown regretting this time.

"If he's not sleeping with you, then who?"

Against his lips where they rested, Tom felt Sasha's forehead crease and then smooth. "Debbie."

A slow smile spread his mouth. "Does Green know?"

Between his legs, her thigh shifted, foot insinuating itself beneath a calf. "I don't think anyone outside Tex, and I do."

"Mm."

"And no—I've never slept with him—he's closer to a brother."

"I didn't say—"

"Please. You're still a man, Tom… however noble you aim to be."

If she could see his face, it would only add to her enjoyment, but her soft laugh was tinged with regret. "You, Thomas Chandler, are still the longest real relationship of my life." At once he sobered, and the habitual fidgeting of her feet stilled. "Andrew and I were together for just under two years. We met in Columbia—same mission where I got the scar—he was doing a stint with Doctors Without Borders, I think we talked for less than five minutes? Can't say it meant anything to me at the time… that's where I met Jesse too, actually. Pablo saved my ass, and Jesse extracted us. Hell of a pilot, so I stayed in touch. You never know when you'll need someone like that off book. They were friends… year and a half later, Jesse and I are in New York grabbing dinner, and Andrew's there for a medical conference." She paused. "I went back to China and put him off for another six months before I agreed to go on an actual date." Again, there was a beat. The fingers on his chest twitched. "And you know the rest." She inhaled. "Wasn't until last week that I realized I've been a widow longer than I was a wife... and then I look around me, and no one else is walking away—"

"Don't—"

"I'm not the only one who lost some—"

"But none of us were there when it happened," he murmured. "I know what you're trying to do, but it's different… can't play that game, Sash. Not with this."

"Are you saying that because it's me? Or because you actually believe it?"

"I believe it. I wasn't here... and I still tried to resign my commission, remember?"

Quiet followed, the foot beneath his calf once again fidgeting, and he trailed random patterns against her scalp, careful not to tangle her hair. She drifted slowly, the weight on his chest deepening gradually along with her breathing until light snoring became his white noise in the absence of Nathan James' engines. Thoughts, as they so often did, circled endlessly. Hopes tinged with the sour notes of fear, guilt, and uncertainty—she had a valid point about Darien. Sasha wasn't alone in needing time, but he couldn't lie and act like he wouldn't carry love for her beyond death. Wouldn't always hold the burden of knowing he'd failed by hours... and while Darien may have accepted that it would take distance for him to let go, Tom could also identify that Darien didn't have the full picture—didn't perceive that he never truly had.

But Sasha knew him better than that.

It wasn't a question of whether Darien would want him to move on. They'd outright discussed what was appropriate for the kids should he not return. Pragmatically. Both in the wake of his mother's death, and untimely widowhoods of mutual friends. The problems lay in his questioning if Darien's opinion would change had she known Sasha would constitute 'moving on'. The questioning if Christine's sentiments would be echoed by his late wife had he saved her. If she'd blame him the way Sasha blamed Andrew for that stadium... It was enough in combination with his crossroads to break his stubborn will—the shield he placed between himself and humanity—and Tom could no more stop the tears that dripped silently into Sasha's hair than he could claw back time to fix what he'd lost.

Monday, February 10th, 2014—Norfolk Naval Shipyard, Portsmouth, Virginia

She'd just finished zipping when the door behind her opened and closed; made no damn sense to believe you could feel someone's identity. He'd never let her leave without something, but he wasn't the first visitor to wish her farewell—Andrea between repairs, Alisha, the Master Chief… yet none of those people transformed air the way Tom could.

At least she still had a full 90-day bottle of anti-crazy pills. Clearly, she needed them.

This was mostly her doing—the choices that now made it exponentially harder to say goodbye. Like waking in his bed and stealing time like it bore no consequences. Kissing him. Opening her heart to him.

Upon her own mattress, which hadn't been used for two nights, there were two duffels, the backpack, and two envelopes—and she saw the way Tom's stoic resolve almost faltered when his gaze passed over those.

The brave face she wore felt flimsy, her tone even more so. "If I don't check in within the next three months, you should open it."

For a long time, he peered at the wall before making eye contact. "Who's the other one for?"

She prevented the lip tremble. "Your dad."

But Tom had to bite down and lower his chin to keep things in check.

"And one of the bags is for Kara," she said, voice thick. Tom snapped his focus upward. "I stockpiled some—things." Avoidant, she turned and looped the backpack around her shoulders. "She might be able to use them—" but when she pivoted again, Tom was no longer by the door—he was less than a stride removed.

It rushed up on her, couldn't decide if it was the way he framed her jaw, the look in his eye, or the fact she was leaving, but it hit when his lips crushed against hers. It was the same. He was saying goodbye, and seeking forgiveness, except this time it was for now, and not forever. She hoped. There was nothing tender about it, and she was pressed on tiptoes once more with her fingers insistent at his scalp and their mouths deep and thorough.

He angled a kiss to her cheek, then buried his face at her throat. "I love you," he rasped. "I love you so much."

The tears she'd avowed not to cry threatened. "I love you too, Tom." Finally, she could voice it without feeling like an adulterer—in this moment, at least. "But I need you to walk out of this room before one of us can't."

It was gray as shit, cold as shit, and the wind chill packed a punch. On the aft deck, Mike stood wrapped in an expedition-grade parka and looked on, coffee mug in hand. He wondered if it would snow today—those clouds looked heavy, and ships' barometer put it just below freezing. He sniffed deeply, then cleared his throat, the sound a little chunky—been fighting some type of cold for a few days now. Seemed it was finally setting in.

Didn't expect to hear those boots behind him, nor to see Tom appear at his starboard side—manning the rails like him while the crew took much-needed liberty. "Figured you'd be upriver," he hedged, glancing right.

Oh, he was a hurtin'—that much was clear.

"I said what I needed to," Tom murmured, gaze narrowed and affixed on the horizon, which conveniently gave view to the airspace surrounding Norfolk Naval Station.

Mike had watched the plane descend ten minutes prior. Knew Tex and some of Green's crew had hitched a ride to see Shemanski and Cooper off. Figured they were all shootin' their last shit in the hangar by now, loading up to take off. Taking a sip, Mike glanced down at Tom's wrist, visible where his hands were braced on the frigid railing. The watch was still missing.

"She comin' back?" he inquired quietly.

Tom swallowed. His only response an inclined nod.

He wanted to say something affirmative—but the reality seemed to prevent it—and Tom wasn't here for falsehoods or platitudes. Duty and time marched on, the only constants. That, the ship beneath their feet, and the knowledge that all things eventually met their end.

Damn.

He sipped in silence and solidarity, and his friend's gaze stayed unwavering from her bearing... long after that plane hit the sky and faded from view.