Disclaimer: I don't own The Last Ship, et al.

Letters

Heading down the p-way, Rachel walked with haste now, having only minutes to spare. Stopping at his doorway, she peered up and looked at the brushed gold placard and Navy seal that signified so much to a dignified man of his stature – Commander Thomas Chandler – a man who made a career out of following and adhering to ancient codes whilst dealing with modern day watersheds ... a man hand-picked for their mission. She smiled into herself and brazenly opened the door without knocking, for she knew the Captain was alternating his vantage point between the bridge and CIC, his "all hands" order in full swing now as the masses prepped for both a land and sea military defense against the Ramseys.

She closed the door behind her and exhaled sharply into his private sanctuary. The quiet therein somehow shocking her as she stood in place and her eyes swept the space, making a cursory note of her surroundings … monitors ablaze and blinking … screens alive with status alerts all the way from engineering to the bridge. Her eyes softening when they landed on a framed photograph of his children ... a trinket from home.

She sighed and fished her hand inside the front pocket of her backpack and pulled an envelope out. Scanning his desk, she picked a pen up and wrote is given name on the front – Tom – just Tom (a vast difference from his placard), she felt a small smile fall across her face. She huffed, looking now for the ideal place to set it, so in the event he would have an opportunity; he would find it (this small piece of her) with relative ease.

And she hoped he would, find it, this small fragment of herself (an entry from her research journal) that seemed as though it belonged to him as much as it belonged to her … so much so that if she kept it all to herself … she would have been a coward.

Her eyes narrowed now, spying his copy of Ruskov's book on his shelf, she pulled it down and set it on his desk, her eyes glossing over their shared nemesis – her mind wild with the past and everything they had endured – both together and apart from one another. Turning the book over she stared at Ruskov's composed face and self-possessed eyes and cringed, her mind deluge with stock footage from the first time she encountered Niels on that vessel too. She fumed and swiftly turned the book over.

Fighting another curtain of tears, Rachel thoughtfully set her letter on top of it. With an uneasy sense of finality, she turned away from his desk and stood completely still. She took a cleansing breath and committed the essence within to memory – sea air, the salt of the earth, Navy issue soap, shaving cream, coffee – closing her eyes, she willed herself not to lose it. Instead, she inhaled another large gulp of 'him' (another tiny fragment)… opened the door and stepped outside and back into the chaos.

###

Only then did Tom step into his stateroom from his private head, having just watched Rachel enter and exit his quarters from the reflection of the mirror. His wound radiated heat and sharp, unyielding pain. He just needed this to be over. He needed it to end. Here. Today. So he could move beyond the pain … and see beyond his current circumstances.

Stepping gingerly into his sanctuary, Tom approached his desk where Rachel stood. He took a deep breath and inhaled the last of her essence: sweet, spicy, organic. He spotted Ruskov's book and a crisp white envelope with her recognizable scroll imprinted upon it … Tom … she had written simply … just Tom. His heart quaked; only imagining what may reside inside that envelope. Sighing with defeat, he picked it up, running his finger back and forth along his name – Tom, Tom, Tom – she dared him to open it … taunted him with her intellectual prowess … this woman whom he'd never known to do anything just because … Tom.

He turned the letter over, but then stopped himself, for he wasn't sure why he didn't reveal his presence to her just now and he thought he'd better think about what that meant. And as he ruminated, he paced … in large part, he supposed, he didn't want to deal with an emotional outpouring of any kind … for he was in no condition to focus on anything other than Ramsey.

In fact he knew that was about all he was capable of at the moment – that and the need for finality – and for vengeance. He also could no longer deny that the status of things between he and Rachel had hit a nerve and while he didn't regret sanctioning her, he knew he could have done something by now to repair their relationship. Except that he had circumvented her instead, using the Nathan James' struggles as a crutch and an excuse to avoid coming to terms with his feelings on the matter.

Stopping, he turned to his door. But now, here she was 'leaving' the ship (again by his order) … and that alone struck a chord, his wound responded, deep tissue struggling against the discomfort now. His heart bottomed out – memories of their fight in the wardroom on full display now – deep within his mind's eye where he stockpiled them. He set her letter down and exhaled, rehashing any number of scenarios again:

He could have asked Michener to pardon her … he could have at least talked with her, listened to reason … he could have said more than "thank you" to her for saving his life – a perfect segue into a conversation – but alas he couldn't, because if he did, he might reveal that he was an emotional mess when it came to her.

And being of sound mind, of course Tom knew precisely when things went askew for him. For that day in the wardroom, the thing that tipped the scales for him and ignited his anger wasn't Niels' death or that Rachel was responsible for it, but rather that she'd been so reckless with her own life by in introducing her new contagion cure into her own body.

For the very idea that his demands upon her to develop a new cure (albeit mutual) had out measured her own precaution for herself – made Tom seethe with anger at his own actions – shaking his head now at the pressure he'd imparted upon her to work with Niels (against her will). Leaving him to once again ponder the vast and elusive 'what if's' of their situation … 'what if' she died … 'what if' her work was in vain … 'what if' he never made peace with her … and where … where would hope come from … for the world … for him?

Unable to soothe or reconcile his lack of action now, Tom crossed the room, swiped the envelope from his desk and opened it. Leaving himself with no choice but to face his latest round of demons so he could get to the task at hand and face Ramsey with clear eyes and an open mind.

###

Dearest Tom,

As I wrote in my journal this morning, I realized this entry belonged to you as much as it did me. Much like you I am not sure where this face off with Ramsey will leave us, but I could not depart the Nathan James without telling you it has been a sincere pleasure to know you.

Alas, our circumstances have been less than ideal, both of us doing what needed to be done, at times to the detriment of one another (me, keeping the true nature of my work in the Arctic a secret from you … and you … well … I guess, the onus of our latest row is on me too: my actions against Niels).

For this, you must know or hear me say, "I'm sorry for the damage it's caused between us." At no time in my life have I regretted the outcome of my actions more.

And to leave now – to step off of the Nathan James as you commanded in your sanction – even if, presently … it's under the pretense of finding a safe place to deposit me to avoid Ramsey's aggressive attack … there is a finality here that I have not felt in a long while … kind of like utter happiness or complete relaxation … both gone, but not forgotten.

Regardless, I am glad the Navy chose you for this mission after my fight with them (though I am sure our opinions diverge here too), and again, for that I must apologize.

Full of regrets, you see?

Perhaps if we should be blessed to see one another again (I would decree this a blessing, though I am not sure of your stance), maybe … we should just look upon one another without regret.

Even if you should desire to turn me over to authorities one day and banish me from the Nathan James … maybe it would be wise for you to look upon me and simply watch my back as I take leave.

To be silent on our disagreements, though unresolved, I believe now, with all the chances we have had to mitigate the damage between us … that what has been done is done. The last thing I want to be is a burden … for don't we have enough already?

So please … watch me leave, I see now that there is no need to fill this void between us.

I would be remiss, if I did not thank you Tom, for your service and dedication to this mission. Despite what you may think, I do so admire and trust and revere you, very much like your shipmates do. You are a true national treasure and hero.

May you find this note in good health,

Rachel

###

Tom swallowed hard and attempted to maintain his composure, his hand flying to his wound where the mounting stress over Rachel's state of mind began to attack him in earnest. Holding himself together now he fought the urge to exit his safe-haven and find her immediately ... thereby saving himself the grief of reading any further, for this – reading her uncensored, intimate thoughts like this – magnified his sense of dread, tenfold. Except he found he couldn't move, couldn't imagine what that confrontation would look like or how it might blow up in their faces and at the moment, he knew he had bigger fish to fry (an expression he knew she hated). Begrudgingly, he began to read her coveted journal entry.

###

Day 210 – 5:00 AM

My latest version of the cure – this contagious cure – and I are to leave the Nathan James this morning and be deposited somewhere safe on land. The Captain plans to square off with the Ramseys and while I have full confidence in his strategic prowess, I am a realist enough to know that Ramsey is, as the Captain put him, "a wildcard". As such, the state of ambivalence I have been feeling lately has only intensified.

Of course, I do not wish to leave the Nathan James. The lab and the "life" I have built reside here now and I feel worse than ever about leaving this makeshift home. Especially given the unresolved stalemate between the Captain and myself. My indiscretions aside, I cannot help but think about his "sanctions" and wonder what this means … for me. I can't help but wonder if I am leaving the Nathan James for good (and not just because of the Ramseys, but because I am meant to fulfill his sentence and answer to a higher authority for Niels Sorensen's death). Something I am prepared to do, of course – I did kill the man after all – though I wonder if creating a contagious cure with his lungs will count for anything in my defense.

In preparation for this turn of events (and knowing I may never be permitted to come back here), I have packed my very few personal belongings, just those few photographs I've kept with me all along … some letters from Dr. Hunter, my father and Michael and of course, my mother's rosary beads.

And I feel dreadful.

Recently I have often wondered what my parents would think of my actions with respect to Sorensen; having likened these feelings of limbo that have been prevalent thereafter (with regard to the Captain's sanctions) to waiting for the Navy to assign a vessel to me … or better yet … the wait for my mother's slow, painful death to come ... and go.

As such, my moral fight within myself then, as a girl of twelve, seems to resonate now.

My misgivings and extreme disagreement with my father have resurfaced again … his stubbornness in insisting that my mother not be treated with medicine, still grating on my nerves, even now, even almost 30 years later.

Malaria was treatable! We know that now and we knew that then.

Everyone told him (my father) and yet, he left it up to his "higher power" to decide her fate. And so … we stood by and powerlessly watched her succumb to the virus … watched her take her last laborious breath. Until there was nothing left of her.

Her sentence … much like mine: mandated.

Mandated by a man I very much admired and revered and … loved … and the same could be said again of my present sentence and its deliverer: Captain Chandler.

But I digress … …

The contagious cure must be tested still, in a controlled environment on human beings (to compare and extrapolate my initial findings across a wider population, though I am quiet certain of its effectiveness). If I were be permitted to stay on the Nathan James once this "dogfight" concludes (I'm betting on Chandler to win here), I feel somewhat certain that I could find enough sailors that still trust me to participate.

Of course, the circumstances for the trial participants would not be dire this time, for now … they would become saviors!

I can only hope and rally for this outcome. And … that if I am ever able to come back to the Nathan James … and live and work here as I have done since this mess started, that I will redeem myself in the Captain's eyes. Of course, none of this will reverse my actions or the convictions I feel about what I have done … and yet, as stubborn as I am – I know that developing this contagious cure was worth it – and I truly cannot wait to test it.

Presently, the state of its fate and success are unknown. But I have it, on my person. And I will be disembarking the ship with sailors that, for the most part, value and wish to protect the longevity of this cure as much as I do.

###

Tom exhaled and watched as Rachel's words blurred on the page in front of him, his emotions raw now as he thought about her as a child Ashley's age having also lost her mother to a virus … only in her case there was already a treatment. And in that moment, he swore he understood Rachel Scott and her tenacity to prove herself and her scientific theories more than he'd ever imagined he would.

He carefully folded her letter and her research notes and slipped the papers back into the envelope. Ceremonially, he slipped the envelope inside Ruskov's book and positioned it on his desk, right under a photograph of his children, losing himself inside their happy, relaxed personas wherein he realized that he too, had forgotten what it was to be both truly happy and relaxed … another opinion he shared with Rachel.

'And I feel dreadful.'

Her latest sentiment resonating now as he once again noticed how similar he and Rachel were in temperament, not so drastically different, as she saw them.

And on that thought, he opened his top desk drawer and pulled his own envelope out, glancing at his children as he slipped it into his pocket where it would remain under his care until he passed it to Mike.

Without another thought, he turned his back on the photograph and walked though his door where he knew now there was nothing more he would say to Rachel today. And if he were to see her before the land teams departed,he would honor her wishes and remain silent. He would simply watch over her back as she left the Nathan James. For much like his predecessor (her father), he decided he would leave their fate up to a 'higher power', though admittedly, one of his own making. Because Tom knew he would sink Ramsey today. And because, in the words of his great friend and Master Chief, he felt certain that their journey together (his and Rachel's) 'would not end here'.

END