A/N — branching out to include Tom and Sasha. xoxo — tmtcltb

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Starry Night

April 1999 — Washington DC

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Sasha stood, hands folded across her chest, eyes focused on the painting in front of her. Not one of her favorites, or the one that she was truly there to see, but there was something mesmerizing about the scene. The very simplicity of the picture — bright orange and yellow fruit in a plate that sat on the table — felt like a balm to her soul.

Next to her, someone snorted.

Head swiveling, Sasha frowned as she was forced to look up, and up again. Being on the taller side for a woman, she often enjoyed the benefits of meeting men's eyes directly, an expereince that many oft hem found disconcerting. Annoyed by the height disadvantage, she found herself scowling, even as she registered that the man standing next to her satisfied every element of tall, dark and handsome. "Something funny about lemons on a plate?"

"What?" Blue eyes blinked at her, blankly, before they focused on the painting directly in front of them. A flush covered the man's cheeks. "No! Sorry, I was thinking about something else."

The flush was what convinced Sasha that he was sincere. A flush couldn't be faked, well, not without some time and expertise in makeup. Sasha tipped her head, voice softening. "Not a fan of still life? Or of Van Gogh?"

The blank look confirmed Sasha's suspicion that the man actually had no idea what he was looking at, but then he smiled, eyes sparkling. "If I wanted to see fruit on a table, I'd go to the supermarket and snap a picture on my phone. No need to come to a museum."

Sasha raised an eyebrow. "There's an exhibit of Ansel Adams' photographs on the second floor if that's more your style."

Instead of answering, the man turned back to the Van Gogh. "What do you see when you look at this?"

She hesitated, surprised by the question. He waited, silently cocking an eyebrow at her. "It's not what I see, it's what I feel when I look at it. The picture is orderly. It's quiet. There's nothing demanding your attention. Calm."

The man nodded, studying the picture, before turning to face her again. "I'm Tom, by the way."

"Sasha."

The corner of his lip lifted. "I came in here to get away from my dad. He's in town for the weekend and staying at my place. I figured this was the last place that he would look."

"He's not an art aficionado?" Sasha asked, eyebrow arching.

Tom snorted again, nose wrinkling, before ushering her in the direction of the next painting, one of Van Gogh's self portraits. The one made after he cut off his ear. "Dad would say that the point of life is to live it, not to look at pictures of other people living it."

"My parents love museums," Sasha replied, the words falling from her lips naturally, even as some tiny place in her brain registered how odd that was. How unusual it was that she felt comfortable talking to this man, the one she had known for all of five minutes, about her family. A topic that she rarely mentioned, even to her closest friends. Perhaps it was the lemons. "They immigrated from the USSR and still marvel at how many museums there are in the States, and how few Americans spend time in them."

Tom's face froze, the animation of a moment ago gone, before he spoke. "Вы говори́те по-ру́сски?"

Despite herself, Sasha was impressed. Few people of their generation spoke Russian, not with the Cold War a thing of the past. "Among others."

Tom's eyes widened, but he didn't push the topic, instead glanced around the gallery. "Which one is your favorite?"

"Why?" Sasha asked, eyes narrowing on Tom.

Tom shrugged. "I came in here to hide, but you came here by choice. I assume that means you actually like Van Gogh."

Sasha hesitated again, before admitting. "It's Starry Night. Along with ninety-nine percent of the other people here."

Again, the corner of Tom's mouth lifted into a half smile. "I actually do know that one. The sky almost looks like waves. It draws you in."

They began walking again, moving towards the next painting. "You like the water?"

"What you said earlier about the fruit picture?" Tom replied, waiting for Sasha to nod. "The ocean is the opposite. Powerful, chaotic, never resting. Endlessly fascinating."

The way he spoke about the ocean reminded Sasha of nights spent on overnight watch, staring up into the darkness above as the sea rocked below her. She opened her mouth to tell Tom that she understood what he meant, how your could feel like the ocean stretched forever, before stopping. Sharing stories about nights aboard ship would inevitably lead to a discussion about being a midshipman at the Academy, here in DC on weekend leave, and that wasn't what Sasha wanted. This afternoon, Tom, felt removed from real life — and the last thing that Sasha wanted to do was spend the next few hours being quizzed about life in the Navy.

Absently, Sasha raised a hand to twirl a strand of hair around her finger, enjoying the fact that it was falling loosely around her shoulders rather than contained in a tight knot. "Van Gogh actually painted the ocean."

"He did?" Tom asked, eyes flittering between her face and the hand playing with her hair.

Smile growing, Sasha nodded. "Seascape near Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Should we find it?"

Tom smiled, a dimple appearing on his left cheek. "Lead on."