Sasha was tired of owning nothing. Though she was grateful to the crew for their generosity in providing her clothes, toiletries, and simple necessities like a hairbrush—she missed having things of her own. Her shoes were a half size too big, always had to wear thick socks to stop her feet from slipping. She had one bra and the underwire was poking her in the rib, and save from tactical gear, none of the clothes she'd borrowed fit right.
She was laying in her bed staring at the ceiling, had lost track of the number of hours she'd spent observing small imperfections in its finish. Studied all the cracks in the clear coat until she knew them by heart. It was the same almost every night. Hours spent dwelling, remembering, lamenting. Trying to dispel the past eighteen months from her mind… and the three years spent by Tom Chandler's side. With a sigh, Sasha glanced at the clock. It was early, or late, close to o-three hundred. Sleep would not come this way.
Tom stood on the bridge wing; his silhouette illuminated by the red lights behind. The early morning hours were his favorite by far aboard a ship. Always had been, but now more than ever, they seemed to be the only hours of relative peace he got. The temporary reprieve before the next burden arrived. He listened to the James as it sliced effortlessly through the water. The night was still, ocean like glass. The lack of wind and clouds combining to let the horizon melt away and a reflection of impossibly vast stars blanket the sea. Almost as if they were sailing through space.
Ironic, that there could be such abject beauty in war.
Movement caught his attention. Saw her walk across the lower deck to lean against the railing as she looked out like him. Before his mind could catch up his body propelled him inside. She was sitting by the time he made it, feet crossed precisely in-front as the wind made her hair dance. Fingers twitched with the need to run through it. Wondering if it still felt the same as he remembered.
She didn't turn her head when she spoke, and it almost startled him. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
Tom smirked—he was still ten paces behind her, and she already knew he was there. He came to rest beside her, and she looked up at him, a soft non-communicative smile at her lips.
"It is," he agreed. Gaze a little too intense and focused to purely be talking about the stars.
Her heart fluttered as it so often did around him and she gestured with a nod of her head to the spot beside her. "Sit."
Tom's eyes twinkled something boyish, and he complied with her request, mirroring her and clasping his hands in front of his knees. Shoulder to shoulder, but not touching. God he wanted to touch her. "What are we doing?" he asked lightly instead.
Sasha made eye contact with him through her peripheral and smiled contently. "Nothing."
Something wistful washed over Tom and his features softened. Felt the layers of pressure and responsibility fade until he was just a man, sitting beside a woman who'd meant everything to him. The one that got away.
Nothing.
They sat in companionable, comfortable silence for a time until he spoke softly. "Can I ask you a question?"
She turned and contemplated him for a moment. Knowing without embellishment that she likely wouldn't care for the subject much if he needed to ask her permission. "Sure."
"What was it like—when it broke out?" He'd heard accounts, experienced firsthand the destruction in Baltimore, but it was one thing coming from civilians and another coming from someone as strong as her. She seemed so fine, so well adjusted. Like it just didn't faze her. He wanted to know why. Was it just that she'd moved on, or was it so bad she'd shut down?
Sasha looked away, debating how much she wanted to share. Took several moments to collect her thoughts while she peered absently at the horizon and Tom waited patiently. "Chaos," she whispered. "It was everywhere you went. At first, there were just… piles of bodies in the street. The hospitals were overrun so fast. It only took two weeks before they effectively collapsed. The doctors, the nurses—everyone got sick"—she paused—"people thought it was a bioweapon, no one knew what to do. They started sealing in entire towns—just hauling in dirt on trucks and blocking off roads. Left everyone to fend for themselves."
A bitter laugh escaped, and she tucked her chin, peering down at the black asphalt of the deck. "They didn't even try to evacuate the healthy. They didn't care who died. I got out as fast as I could and went to ground where it was less dense. Hid out in a rice-farming village"—chewed on her lip slightly—"The things people did to each other Tom… I saw a man beat a child to death for stealing food"—looked at him then sharply, something hard, cold, and broken in her eyes—"in the middle of the street and no one did a thing" —she swallowed—"I almost gave up."
Tom felt a chill run down his spine. The concept of her, Sasha, reaching her limit completely foreign to him.
"About six months in… I knew Chris was dead"—his eyes darted upwards—"my husband," she clarified. "I figured the government was gone. I couldn't hail anyone in the military. I couldn't get home. There was nothing left. I was stuck in a shack and everyone was dying around me…" she trailed off. Long enough that Tom was about to tell her to stop. That he was sorry he'd brought it up as he watched her clench her jaw and then grind it.
"The bodies, in the sun… sometimes I think I can still smell it on me…" her voice wavered now.
Tom felt a coil in his gut, not entirely sure anymore that she knew where she was because her eyes seemed to dart rapidly. "Sash—"
But she continued, cutting him off. "And then I heard Ruskov on the radio, talking about a Navy ship." Sasha turned her eyes toward him then, trapping him, calling to him like a place he'd once called home. "For some reason, I knew it was you. I know that doesn't make sense"—she shrugged slightly—"but I knew it"—a sad wistful expression colored her features—"figured I could try a little bit longer," she finished, turning her gaze toward the sea again.
Tom's brow furrowed, his features softened from their usually composed manner. Earnest and empathetic when he spoke, "I'm sorry."
Sasha frowned and turned back to him. "For what? None of this was your fault—you saved the world, Tom. I think you've done enough."
Sorry for being too late.
When he didn't respond, she continued. "You did the best you could, but you were never gonna save everyone." It was soft and careful, knowing without words the burden of guilt he held over Darien.
Tom sucked on his cheeks a fraction. The way he did anytime the subject of his deceased wife came up, and hung his head, looking down at the deck. Suddenly it was more interesting than accepting her forgiveness. Sasha reached out and curled a hand around his forearm. Hoped it would provide the comfort he so quietly desired. "You know what I miss most?" she prompted, changing the subject. Tom looked up at her, curiosity at his brow along with a non-verbal request for her to elaborate. "Music."
His lips quirked a little, somewhere between a smirk and a smile. "Music?"
Sasha nodded, in the long hours spent unable to sleep, the one thing she missed most was music to drown out her thoughts. "Everything I had is in Peng's Mansion or back home."
Mentally, Tom scolded himself. How could he forget? She'd been chased out of Hong Kong with nothing but the clothes on her back. Though they didn't have abundant luxuries, at least everyone else had some personal items on board. He the things he'd packed for the weeklong trip. His laptop and cell, though it had no service, of course. Pictures, a bag of clothes... tangible, meaningful things to remind him just what he was out here fighting for. She had nothing.
Sasha squeezed his arm where her hand still rested before letting go and he hadn't expected how deeply he missed it. How much he wanted it back. "I miss Sunday night football," he offered.
She laughed softly. "I see you haven't changed."
He smiled at her. Eyes alight with that charisma and charm she knew he possessed. The kind hidden under duty and orders. It ached in her heart; he was so handsome when he smiled. Still took her breath away. She wished she could stop it. Stop the way her heart sang anytime he was near. How it pulled and reacted. Wished it didn't feel so perfect and right as they sat together for most of the night, in silence, and casual conversation until the sun showed signs of breaching the horizon, and she finally felt tired enough to sleep.
When she returned to her room the following night, she stopped in her tracks.
There, on her pillow, was an iPod and a simple note—'Something to listen to'—in his perfectly neat penmanship.
Her heart soared.