an. I still plan to publish on FFnet until it's dead dead, but in case it does go under, I'm also on AO3 under the name Aspect_AO3 and have crossposted almost all my TLS fics. I will get around to archiving them all, but currently, there are no stats on stories, no alerts when we update, no alerts that reviews have been left, and I'm fairly sure PMs are also broken. If you'd like alerts on updates, consider subscribing over on AO3 instead.
References: St. Augustine, Chapter 4: 'Tanah Merah', St. Augustine, Chapter 25: 'Been Digging It Up Like Groundhog Day', and Looking Glass, Deleted Scene: 'That Girl'
Guest review response: Thanks so much for the review and encouragement :) greatly appreciated. Given I've now spent 3 years writing about one couple I don't think I'm in any position to call anyone crazy, ha. So no - feel free to love Tex and Pablo. The fact that you mentioned you might even be on board with Tom and Sasha marrying if they continue suffering at the mercy of external forces made me laugh. I consider this an objective achieved, haha.
Re: the two weeks in Asia (I think this is you who left this review but if not, sorry). Gah, don't give me another plot bunny *but yes, I totally agree with you, and this has driven me nuts in canon*. Two weeks completely cut off with no functional government, and, Tom is technically separated from the US Navy because he formally resigned his commission. Damn this show for refusing to expand on what was going on. All we get is them flirting away in front of Tex for 2 seconds, and then a big old question mark come season 4 on why Sasha still cares that Tom left, and why they're straight back to flirting by the time he re-ups his commission. It makes zero sense. Seriously, lol.
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And If You Talk Enough Sense
then you'll lose your mind
.
.
Those hadn't been real kisses.
The heat in them had been crippled by fear and grief. This one, however, was stirring more, and a lot. Three months ago, the culmination of their lapses in judgment had been clear, unspoken, and yet agreed upon… but Sasha didn't know where this would stop. If it would stop. How enticing an act of bittersweet self-destruction seemed—here—now, in this moment. Surrounded by intoxicating madness and the prospect of looming death. She'd already prepared her excuses; she wondered if Tom would use the same…
His breath was warm on the rounded curve of her shoulder. Sleeveless blouse half unbuttoned and askew. His jacket was gone, her hands running greedy over the firm strength of his torso. She surged; lips insistent against his own, and Tom took the cue, lifting her to approach the bed.
The bed.
It was deceptively plush, covered in some kind of oriental fabric that felt delectably smooth, just as the way he'd divested her shoes.
In three days, he'd be gone. Well, two considering it was already Thursday and come Saturday, the C-130 would leave at 0900—back to Vietnam, then the Seahawk—and thereafter, Nathan James.
Of their own volition, her legs wrapped around his waist when he returned, his weight heavy. And hard. Desire raced through her like a liquid rage. She needed more. Contact and then friction. His tongue touched her pulse. Teeth nipped at her collarbone. Her skin flourished with goosebumps, and then his hands were on her, unbuttoning what remained of the blouse. The last time she'd been this reckless—
"I can't," Sasha choked.
Immediately, Tom stilled.
"I'm sorr—"
"Don't," he interrupted, rolling to the right. The unceremonious slump of his weight onto the mattress jostled her body. "There's nothing to be sorry for."
He sounded tired. Resigned. Sasha blinked while staring at the canopy-draped bed, attempting to prevent her lips from trembling.
"It was my fault," he offered.
"No, it's—it's not you…" she stopped before finishing the cliché because his hand, warm and broad, engulfed her own.
"You don't need to explain," he murmured softly. "I wasn't thinking."
The knot lodged in Sasha's throat screamed. For a moment, neither was she, and that fact caused her eyes to burn. It hadn't felt like she was betraying Andrew, and a significant part of her still believed that it should. Really, it was only the fear of repeating her greatest mistake that had shattered delirium. She didn't know how to process that. Skin now cooling, Sasha became acutely aware that remaining semi-undressed beside Tom was a poor choice. Squeezing his hand, she let go and perched at the bed's edge while re-buttoning her blouse. The quiet breathing behind her was measured, and Tom hadn't moved an inch, yet the intangible pull grew.
She closed her eyes.
She could still feel him against her lips. Smell the salt air on a beach while she ached. Tom was probably looking at her the same way through the darkness now. That's why the skin at her nape was tingling, almost as though the past was sitting there whispering.
"Pablo thinks he can find a way into Peng's suite," she broached.
The energy emanating behind her morphed from longing to trepidation. "He knows what you've been doing, Sasha. And if you want my opinion, I'd say he's planning to kill you both the second I take off."
Numbness echoed in response.
The mattress shifted, indicating that he was now standing. She heard the metallic sound of his belt buckle and then ignored the surge of need attempting to repossess her autonomy. Orange-toned light spilled from the bedside lamp when he toggled it, causing her to squint. Sasha chanced a glance over her shoulder. Tom had no business making a plain white t-shirt look that good, but he did. Averting her gaze, she stared at the shoes strewn across the floor. His collared jacket was thrown haphazardly over an armchair…
"I need to know why he bombed those docks," she finally responded quietly.
As most everything between them, Sasha's 'And I'm not leaving until I do,' remained unspoken, but the way she registered his shoulders deflate indicated Tom understood the message just fine.
"Because of Jesse."
There was an edge to his tone, but it hadn't been phrased as a question. Watching once more, Sasha observed him open his duffel, pulling several items out. It was late. Her eyes felt gritty. "Yes."
Whatever her next move, Sasha understood their jig was up. The penthouse would no longer be secure assuming Peng surveilled their return, but contrary to Tom's thinking, she was almost positive he'd play the long game; allow her to lead him to Jesse, and there's no way that Sasha was leaving without ensuring her friend's safety.
"However this plays out, your hands need to stay clean," she began.
That was enough to make Tom abandon the duffel, and he faced her with an expression Sasha could only label as steel. "What kind of trouble are you in?"
"Not the type you can fix."
"You said you'd tell me everything." His brows lifted. "So talk."
Sasha breathed. "We got into bed with someone we shouldn't have—a pirate called Wu Ming." Stoic and reticent, Tom waited for her to elaborate. "It was either bad timing that Peng found us in Guangzhou, or he sold us out, and if it's the latter? Then we all have a much bigger problem because it doesn't make any sense for Peng to be working with a pirate."
"And you can't find Wu Ming?" Somehow, it comforted that Tom remained sharp as ever.
"I hit a dead end. The typhoon leveled his hometown. That's the only lead I had left without needing to come here."
Sasha watched Tom fight the urge to allow emotion to overrule, but she still caught the frustrated tick of his jaw. "Which is why you were trying to contact me—because you needed to know if I had an in."
Forcing herself not to blink, Sasha softened. "I wanted to call you anyway, Tom. Not just because I needed your help." The distinction mattered. "You haven't read my letter yet, have you?"
His gaze raked her up and then down, almost challenging in its manner. "You'll tell me yourself when you're ready."
It was cocky, and Sasha fought against letting her lip curl. Her pulse quickened again; reminding her why she'd been adamant about keeping her distance from Tom. She needed the conflicting emotions to stop. The ones that argued it was wrong to feel so deeply this soon, and the others conversely intent on exploiting the caveat… it wasn't so much moving on, as recapturing what was hers. Except he wasn't. The wedding band still residing on his left hand proved otherwise.
Sighing, Sasha stood, smoothing the fabric of her slacks. "Were you able to get a secure connection to St. Louis?"
Tom's head canted. "No. But Michener wants damage control."
"The hell was he thinking, anyway? Acting like he could keep what happened from getting out…"
Facially, Tom shrugged. "I wasn't there when he made that decision. All I got was a directive from the Chief of Staff outlining our official stance."
"Who did he appoint?"
"A civilian named Allison Shaw. No prior public service. Former attorney."
"What kind?"
"Corporate securities," he fired back.
It didn't raise any red flags, but it did confirm Sasha's fear that Tom had no means to control the menagerie of folks whispering in Jeffrey Michener's ear.
"You shouldn't be here," she implored. "You need to be in St. Louis."
"Neither should you."
Briefly, Sasha closed her eyes, then shook her head, willing herself not to heed the ultimatum held within his own. The burgeoning energy was becoming a vortex; it would swallow her whole if she let it, and Tom was inching closer once more.
"Why is that every time I let you go somethin' brings you back?" he murmured.
Her mouth parted while she breathed shallow, and he stopped, looming close enough that she was forced to peer up. He was doing it again. Claiming her with a singular look, except this one was intentional.
"Deep," she deflected, projecting nonchalance. "Even for you."
Tom smirked without moving his lips. "When are you planning to execute this mission of yours?"
"Tomorrow," Sasha confirmed, chin lifting. "During the luncheon. Pablo said security got lax at dinner, and now that we own the doors and Val can scrub the footage, he can be in and out within ten minutes."
"Meanwhile, Peng's distracted with engaging the delegates," he surmised. "And what's your excuse if they notice he's gone?"
This time, Sasha allowed her mouth to curve. "Did you notice tonight?"
Tom's eye contact held, and then slowly, begrudgingly, his gaze traveled right.
"He's good at what he does, Tom." Almost petulant in his refusal to engage, he shifted, which only deepened her amusement. "All you need to do is keep your hands clean. Best-case scenario? We find something that can help you, too."
Concentration would be simpler, Sasha mused, were she not so attracted. The first couple of days until acclimating to Tom's presence again were always like this. At least that's the mantra she repeated. He'd been pretty when they were younger, but something about the rugged lines of character adorning his face hit differently now. Alluded to the brutal strength that she knew he could wield. Riddled with electrified tension, Sasha placed some distance between them.
"I should go. The sooner Val can switch the feed back, the less chance of Peng's security catching it."
He was watching her, she could feel it upon her skin. Using the bedpost, Sasha steadied herself in the act of tugging on her shoes. Next, she retrieved the blazer from the carpeted floor, but as she untucked the hair stuck in her nape, Tom spoke, causing her to still.
"I'm not letting you go without a fight this time."
A beat of inaction passed, and then Sasha glanced in his direction.
"I'm not about to take the oath again," she warned.
"I never said you were." His tone flared arrogant once more. "But if you think I'm going to leave you in his backyard with no backup, no comms, and no exfil plan? You're insane." He paused. "The ball's in your court, Sasha. You control how dirty my hands are gonna get."
It felt as though the air had become thin. She swallowed. A few strides were all it took to reach the door, and she made it a point not to regard him but offered a platitude instead. "I'll see you at breakfast."
May 16, 2014, 1036 UTC-5
Danforth Campus, Washington University, Busch Laboratory, St. Louis, Missouri
Rachel leaned away from her desktop computer and removed the reading glasses from her nose. Captain Slattery stood in the overlarge space between her desk and equipment, his stature imposing. It didn't appear as though he had gotten much sleep, or at least not a restful one. Then again, her own morning had been lambasted in its early hours by an insistent banging against her door after failing to answer the telephone. Rachel had always been more of a night owl.
"And?" The big man's brows lifted, both hands clutched at his waist in a stance better suited to the bridge of a ship. Here, in a civilian setting, it appeared quite brutish.
"Yes, it's a mutated variant, but this sample means nothing," she began, her tone bordering comical. Based upon the furrow of Slattery's brow, this was yet another obvious conclusion she'd have to illustrate. "This screenshot isn't evidence. It could have been taken from anyone, at any point in time. Unless I see a live subject and withdraw a sample myself or obtain a similar profile from Doctor Milowsky whose word we can trust, it proves nothing other than Peng's scientist can accurately interpret microscopic data."
Slattery's smirk was unexpected, so too the glimmering warmth in his gray-blue eyes. "That's exactly what I thought." His chest seemed to expand proudly. "This whole thing stinks."
Rachel blinked several times and swiveled in her chair. "So we agree."
Slattery made a face. "You gotta start givin' me more credit than that, Doc."
Demure, she grinned, grateful that his admonishment erred toward humor over offense. "Believe it or not, it's not the first time I've heard that statement."
He chuckled, "Yeah, well—maybe you ought a listen to whoever said it."
"That would be Captain Chandler."
Mike nodded. "Tom's usually right."
"And what does he make of this?" Rachel kept her tone neutral and fiddled with the arms of her spectacles, hoping not to betray how important the Captain's continued faith in her abilities remained. Given space to reflect upon her time with the Nathan James, Rachel perceived that Tom's belief had provided a significant source of comfort. Stability. Even strength, at times.
"Not buyin' it."
She hummed, feeling unconfident in offering any eye contact. "Well, it's nice to know that we're all still on the same page, at least," she mumbled. The thing about Captain Slattery was that he was always consistently judging, and whether or not he voiced his observations, Rachel held the notion that Michael Slattery saw many a thing she'd prefer he not perceive.
"May I ask," she began, finally renouncing her idle fixation with those spectacles. "What compelled you to visit in person? I know it's only a few miles, but surely it would have been faster to call?"
"Honestly?"
Rachel leaned on both elbows and non-verbally encouraged him to continue.
"I'm sick of listenin' to Shaw and Riviera bitch. Anything that gets me a break and some fresh air's fair game."
She grinned. "Well you're welcome to waste a few minutes here if you wish." Removing her elbows, she rearranged some notebooks. "Even I must admit, it's been eerily quiet since Tex left."
"'Preciate the offer, but I need to go relay this to the President. We're pushin' to get you a Vid-Con with this scientist of his."
"Yes. President Michener called shortly before you arrived. It would seem that the choice not to disclose Neils' involvement has backfired."
Over that, Slattery appeared regretful. "We're preparing a statement for the press…" he hesitated. "It's gonna be rough for a few days. A lot of scrutiny. Not much I can do about that."
Rachel wet her lip, staring now at the image on the monitor. "It is what it is," she sighed. "The truth seems to have a certain way of coming out, doesn't it?" With more resolution, she met his gaze. "Though I think if the record of my actions should end up in the public sphere, most people will be able to understand why I did what I did."
It occurred in the moment that she'd never quite known where Captain Slattery's stance lay in the muddy aftermath of her choice to kill Neils. Mostly she'd focused on the fracture it had caused with Tom.
"I wouldn't doubt it," he confirmed readily. "But bad PR is bad PR, and I don't know how much more of it we can take. The public took our word for it that Ramsey lied…" again, he hesitated. "But now this? I gotta be honest, I wouldn't buy our story either if I hadn't been there firsthand."
The mood shifted. "I understand."
His next gesture fell somewhere between smile and squint. "I'll let you know about that Vid-Con."
May 17, 2014, 1120 UTC+7
USS Nathan James, Rally Point Alpha, South China Sea
Commander Garnett observed from the XO's chair, trying to quell an irrational unease. The day was blessedly clear, waters calm in the open seas and her decks drenched in sunlight, yet the feeling remained. The USS Hayward had completed a successful UNREP of goods sent from Guam at 0900, then proceeded on course to Singapore. Radar was clear, the Rally point was secure, their ground team was assisting the Vietnamese military in inoculating survivors… by all measurable standards, the ship and her crew were running at full excellence.
Master Chief, with a coffee in hand, approached, his ever-perceptive gaze knowing. "Ma'am," he greeted before sipping.
Andrea glanced around the bridge, debating whether to share openly her gut feeling, but the chime from CIC preempted her.
"Go for bridge," she answered.
"Ma'am, communications with the helo are down."
"What do you mean, down?"
At her words, the Master Chief set down his drink and became stern.
"She just stopped squawking over IFF."
May 16, 2014, 2332 UTC-5
Slattery Residence, St. Louis, Missouri
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." Mike heard when the shrill ringing of his phone interrupted their conversation.
"Christine—"
But her back was already turned, her hand gesture dismissive as she headed toward the stairs, leaving him standing alone in the kitchen. Fist clenched, he took a moment before answering, "This is Slattery," still uncomfortable with addressing himself as the CNO.
"Sir, we've lost contact with the Hayward and Nathan James. Their last communication said the ground team in Hai Phong was attacked."
The fatigue beating him into the ground was immediately replaced with a cold burst of adrenaline. "I'm on my way. Wake the President."
May 17, 2014, 1348 UTC+8
Presidential Palace, Hong Kong, New China
Sasha was right about one thing: 'Pablo' was good. True to her word, despite his intent to keep eyes on the man when faced with the need to pacify Asia's delegates, Tom had lost track, and by the time he'd found a second to breathe, it was as though nothing had happened. He could tell, however, in the way Sasha held Shemanski's gaze across the room, that their plan had been executed without fault.
It was at least easier to focus today. The shock of Sasha's appearance had lapsed into a healthy regret. He'd been too long at sea; endured too many months plagued once again by the unknown, and then she'd been dangled before him like a drop of water in a barren desert. Alive. Well.
From the buffet, Sasha approached. After sitting and eyeing the flower arrangement at the center of their table suspiciously, she spoke in a low breath, "He's searching for something in the Paracel Islands."
Though his first inclination was to frown, Tom prevented it, maintaining a neutral flat while he eyed Shemanski, who stood playing security across the room. "But nothing that explains the docks?"
When no answer forth came, he glanced in time to see the clench of Sasha's jaw.
Internally, he sighed. After she'd retreated, he'd lain on the mattress pursuant to his goal of convincing her to drop this, only to conclude that the words shared with his father, 'Sasha does what Sasha wants', before leaving St. Louis rang true. Part of him hoped his semi-dirty tactic of using himself as a bargaining chip would hold enough weight to sway her, but Tom also had doubts about how well he truly knew this version of Sasha. She'd clearly honed her craft, but it wasn't about trust. He trusted her implicitly, he just didn't know how he factored into her personal hierarchy. Below Jesse, that was for sure. Probably below 'Pablo', and even as the unproductive thoughts spread petulant venom, Tom could identify that none of it mattered. He couldn't be angry with her for building a life when he'd chosen to walk out of hers. His mental diatribe was interrupted when the President of Vietnam rushed toward their table, vehemently stating something and attracting the room's attention.
"Wha-what is she saying?"
Sasha finished her mouthful in a hurry, wearing such confusion that it spread cold in his gut.
"Vietnam is not responsible?" she repeated in English, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, before asking for more details in Vietnamese.
Shemanski was approaching, Wolf too, but it was the latter's expression that foreboded something darker.
"Sir," Wolf began, "There's been an attack in Vietnam. The President's ordered you to Guam."
"What?" Sasha breathed, staring.
"The James?" Tom clarified, low.
Terse, Wolf shook his head. "It's unclear, sir. Command has lost all communications with both the James and Hayward."