She was waiting in his temporary quarters. Unplanned. Found her feet taking her of their own accord. Too damn scared to deny herself this time. Today, Sasha believed she would watch Tom die. The last person left alive from before. When she closed her eyes, he was there. Imprinted in her mind. She was shaken and her nerves were fraught though she was hiding it well. Didn't know if she planned to tell him this when he arrived, or just stare helplessly at him. But she had some time to figure that out. As she waited, she scanned the desk solemnly. Noting the mixture of goods. Most of them belonged to Captain Slattery, though a few of them were distinctly Tom's. Pictures of his kids, Darien. A bracelet that looked like it had been made by maybe Ashley.
It was as she was viewing the assortment of things that she saw it.
A picture of her. Of them.
Her breathing stopped. An uncomfortable lump of emotion forcing its way up her throat. Delicate fingers reached out and carefully touched the unframed paper. The edges were thick and slightly curled as if repeatedly handled over the years. Crease marks present where it had been folded and unfolded, probably tucked away in a box, or carried in a wallet at some point. None of that explained why it was here. Now. On this ship.
A candid moment caught haphazardly at a Bar, someplace out of town during a recreational weekend with one of their friends. A friend that had nothing to do with the Navy or anyone remotely close to it. They'd been so naïve to go out in public like that. Young, dumb, and invincible. Sasha blinked. Eyes suddenly watery despite her best efforts. God the trouble it had caused. It was the beginning of their end, but she couldn't deny how happy they'd been. Far too drunk and careless and unaware of its existence... Tom's free hand at her rear supporting her weight. Sasha's legs wrapped around his waist, right arm outstretched clawing at his while she tried to reach the pool cue in his hand. A questionable position at best, but more than a precarious and very inappropriate moment captured between a superior officer and his subordinate, was his face. His god-damned beautiful face gave them away. Left any attempt to explain it as over-enthusiastic, drunk rough-housing frozen at the wrong time superfluous.
There was zero room for misinterpretation. He was looking at her like she was the world—and she was—she'd been everything to him.
He kept it.
Sasha heard the handle turn and tried to collect herself, completely flustered. Features slipping into their non-communicative neutral.
Tom paused momentarily as he stepped through the threshold, assessing the situation before him. Scanning first for distress, not missing the slightly red-rimmed eyes and emotion lurking within them, before settling upon the picture in her hand.
Ah, that.
He'd discovered it again while packing his house in Virginia. Somewhere between dealing with the fallout of Rachel's death, moving to St. Louis and a somber weekend spent boxing up Darien's things. Torturing himself with countless family photos while he grieved for his wife. He'd explored drawers and boxes of items that hadn't seen the light of day in years. Found it again in one full of mementos from his days spent training at Dam Neck and had felt warmth for what felt like the first time in months.
Sasha.
Tom had hoped to find her name in the list of confirmed surviving forces, just to know that she was okay. That she was still out there somewhere living her adventure, but alas, he'd encountered no evidence to confirm that wish. Reasoned that she would have contacted him if she were. After all, he was now the highest-ranking member of the Navy. The entire military. Intelligence was all but gone. Other assets left in the wind when it all went down had checked in. And Tom knew her well enough to know she'd never abandon her duty—even when faced with the end of the world.
He'd transferred it to his personal effects—the ones he took with him on missions, along with photos of his family, the kids, Darien, his brother, sister, Mom, and Dad. Pictures he wanted to be sure would survive in the post-plague world. What he hadn't expected, was for her to find it so conveniently left out after a bout of guilt-laden insomnia. There'd been a lot of that lately. Hours spent staring at the faces of the dead, those he'd failed, and the face of the woman he couldn't afford to add to that list. Tom entered and closed the door behind him, coming quietly but purposefully to rest near her. Slowly, he leaned against the desk, legs crossed in front of him, and waited for her to speak. To reveal why she'd seen fit to let herself in.
"You kept it." Was all she said. Voice sounding soft and strangled, even to own her ears. World was too far gone to play games anymore, and they were much too old for that anyway. Had too much history to play coy or act dumb here. Tom had always been a straight shooter, it was her that liked to hide.
"I did," he spoke softly. "Could never quite bring myself to throw it out." His gaze was intense as it focused upon the delicate slope of her nose. The way her eyelashes framed that sharp blue. Studied her face, so fucking beautiful that it broke his heart. Always had. Sasha peered up at him, her brows furrowed with the effort of keeping her emotions within. She was failing and falling all over again. It was those goddamned eyes, they paralyzed her.
Her head shook gently, a physical attempt to brush it off. "So you've got a soft spot for me?" Breathed into the space between them, lips quirked into a half-smile. She'd always done that, tried to use humor to ignore the hard conversations. Words that meant or conveyed too much for her to handle.
His response was plain, almost scoffing as it came out, "That's never been much of a secret." Her attempt at lightening the tone with humor falling flat.
Sasha swallowed, looking down and away from his entrancing gaze. "That's why you put me on the Helo…"
"I wanted you protected, in case it went to hell," he confessed quietly.
She nodded. Still staring at the floor, fighting with herself. Settled for looking at the picture again, smiling sadly at it. Her thumb traced the paper in a wistful sort of caress. An echo of the past. Her statement simple and soft when it came. "We were good together."
Tom let it sit for a beat before quietly responding. "Yes, we were." Tried to keep the lurking errant hurt from seeping into his tone. The confusion over the softness he so often found in her eyes when she looked at him. Tried to reconcile it with the way that she'd left. How she'd broken his heart. Insisted he'd been wrong to think she loved him the same way. But such was the puzzle of Sasha, her words said one thing and her eyes said another.
She returned the photograph to his desk softly and licked her lips, turning to leave. Almost reached the door, hand outstretched to grab it before she snapped.
Fuck it.
In an instant she was in front of him again, straddling his outstretched legs. Took his face between her palms and pressed her lips against his. Quick. Familiar, yet new concurrently. Lingering for a moment with one hand cradling his cheek, while the other trailed down to brace itself against his chest. Feeling his solid heartbeat thumping through the fabric of his uniform. Thrown immediately to memories of sharing his bed listening to it while he softly snored. Those quiet, stolen moments in the dark still vivid as if they'd occurred but yesterday.
She needed him to know and not question it. Needed to give him a sign that she wanted a second chance. That this was far from done yet. "I did not wanna lose you today."
She'd refrained, held back the desire to suck him straight back into the game they used to play. Stopped herself from making it deeper. Maybe it was the 'I'm sorry' she'd been meaning to say for years, or at least a start. Or perhaps the promise of that explanation he'd surely deserved, and she'd never quite given. Either way, before Tom had processed, she was walking out of the door.
Before his mind could even formulate a response.
His head-turned of its own volition as he watched her leave. Had taken all his restraint not to grab her wrist and pull her back. Demand an explanation for what that meant. Why she had left. But he had a mission to complete, and they had always been an all-or-nothing proposition. He'd found that out the minute he'd taken her into his bed. Tom couldn't afford that kind of distraction right now. He needed to find Mike. His crew. The dedicated Sailors with whom he had the privilege to serve, and he couldn't bear the thought of getting her killed in the crossfire. Of falling completely in love with her again just to lose her to a stray bullet.
He couldn't handle it. He was fucking terrified of her being on this ship. Terrified of what he knew he could feel when it came to her.
Yet if today had proven anything, it was that he was far from the land of impartial when it came to her—still. Yes, he'd assigned Green to the Helo at the request of his team to protect Kara. To give Frankie the chance of one day knowing his Father's love. But his singular thought while formulating a plan—was to put Sasha on lookout. To get her the hell off the Nathan James in case it blew.
Tom wondered if the crew noticed. If they questioned why he spared the woman they barely knew. The woman who refused to address him by rank, who challenged him so explicitly where no one else would dare speak. The woman who drew his attention the second she occupied the same space. Who suddenly held a senior position within their crew purely because he deemed it so.
They had to wonder.
They had to doubt.
He wouldn't blame them if they did.
Tom turned back to the desk, scanning first the picture of them before settling on the framed photograph that Mike had placed by his monitor. Taken at one of the countless barbecues their families had enjoyed before the whole world went to shit. His gut churned—there was that guilt.
"I'm coming, Mike."