The Opposite of Want

Complicated.

He hadn't wanted this, hadn't wanted to feel any of this.

Hadn't wanted to notice her.

He'd steeled himself against her, against those haunted hazel eyes, the sensual curve of her lips. He thought he'd inured himself to the pull of that raging intelligence, the passion that had driven her around the world in search of the cure. And then he'd looked across a crowd a few hours ago and seen her - really seen her - as if for the first time. Happy. Relaxed. Joyous. Literally breathing hope into the hopeless.

Surrounded by people who knew what she'd accomplished, but didn't know what it had cost her.

Complicated.

Tom tossed the envelope she'd given him onto the table next to his bed, shrugging out of his coat and staring at it for a long beat before folding it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. Training died hard, he supposed, even when it looked like the mission might be waning.

The room was nice. Not luxurious - the only room in the entire place fitting that description had been rightfully given to the President. But it was larger than his bunk on the Nathan James, and the shower was definitely better. And the bed -

He'd avoided thinking about the bed, to tell the truth. The last time he'd slept in anything this large had been the night before they'd sailed out of Norfolk, when he'd pressed his wife deep into their mattress, run his hands along her softly familiar form, and promised her he'd come back.

He reached a hand out and skimmed the comforter, the fine fabric catching on the dry roughness of his fingertips. Darien had always twitted him about his hands. She'd been a bit of a neat-freak, and his propensity towards heavy callouses, gunpowder under his nails, and the tiny nicks and bruises that came from his work had amused her as much as it had irked her. She'd always tucked an extra container of hand lotion into his pack before he'd reported. He'd tried to remember to use it.

He'd usually failed until they were a day or so out of home port, and by then it was too late.

The guilt welled up within him again. Too late.

He hadn't even seen her before she'd died. Hadn't been able to say goodbye to the woman who had stood by him through training and school and deployments and the moves that had wrenched her away from family and friends. She'd given him two children, made him comfortable and whole, and assured him that he was good enough. She'd valued him in a way that he'd thought impossible. His dicey relationship with his father hadn't given him the support he'd craved, especially after his mother had quietly succumbed to cancer a dozen years before. Darien had made the difference in his life, had grounded him. And he'd missed her-still missed her - especially since there had been no time to grieve.

Still, he wondered. If he'd made different choices, given different orders. . .

Sighing, Tom closed his eyes against the pain that shot through him. He'd done this to himself a thousand times, and the end result was always he same. No matter what he might have done, Darien would still be dead, and he would still feel guilty about it. Trouble was, he had no idea how to move on, or when. How, exactly, he was supposed to go on, he had no clue.

Grasping the corner of the comforter, he yanked it back, exposing the clean, white sheets beneath. Lifting a hand, he tugged his tie loose, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt. He toed off his shoes, then sank down into the softness of civilization.

So. Chief of Naval Operations. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. There were pros, but also a butt-load of cons. He'd have to consider carefully before giving his answer. Of course, in the end, it was POTUS's call, but Tom liked to think that Michener would value his wishes.

Once he figured out what the hell his wishes were.

Scrubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw, Chandler groaned. He hated not knowing what was coming next - being directionless. That was one thing that had steered him towards the military - despite the convoluted relationship he had with his father. He liked the community, the camaraderie, and the purpose in the service. Even when he hadn't actually been saving the world, he'd been helping keep it safer.

And then he'd been charged with keeping her safe, only to find his soul imperiled as a result.

They'd been sitting off the coast of Guam for three weeks, surreptitiously monitoring Chinese naval operations in International Pacific waters. The Chinese ships and subs had gotten braver as the games had continued, frequently drifting closer than had been comfortable. As an XO, Chandler had gotten antsy.

"Calm down, Chandler." From behind him, Wright had sounded mildly amused.

"It's just galling, Sir." Tom turned, facing his CO. "They're ignoring established conventions."

"Yeah." Wright had sighed, steepling his fingertips at his waist. "They are. But since we know that they're trying to goad us into a response, the prudent and right thing to do is to sit back and continue monitoring. That's the mission."

Chandler had frowned, looking at Commander Wright from beneath lowered brows. "I thought that the mission was to protect the United States."

"And we are." Wright had nodded. "By not doing what the Chinese want us to. By not responding, we don't give them the impetus to go further. You've got a kid, right?"

"She's little. A toddler."

"Right. So, what happens when she has a temper tantrum?"

Darien had explained that one to him. He'd been gone so often during Ashley's babyhood that he'd returned for an extended leave to find her deep in the the throes of the Terrible Twos. Tom's wife had figured it out already, and had explained it to him. "You ignore the tantrums. When you don't respond, then they don't get any benefit from their bad behavior."

"Same here. The Chinese are throwing their weight around. Thumbing their noses at us, trying to get a rise out of us."

Chandler nodded. "Having a tantrum."

"So, when we ignore it, it defeats their purpose." Wright had reached out, gripping Chandler's shoulder in a fatherly way. "Come on, Tom. Let's go get a cup of coffee."

Tom had turned back out towards the water, where he could still see foreign ships on the horizon. "I think I'll stay here, Sir. But thank you."

"All right." Wright had taken a step closer, increasing his pressure on his XO's arm. "Just a piece of advice for you, Son."

Tom had canted a look back at his Commander. "Sir?"

"Don't get too caught up in the work. Don't become myopic. You lose perspective, that way, and you'll be in a crap-load of hurt." The older man's normally good-natured expression had turned serious. "Don't let the mission consume you."

Tom closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He'd tried. He'd fought. He'd denied.

He'd kept his wife - his dead wife - in his mind's eye every time he'd looked at her. Each time she'd brushed up against him in the ship, whenever she'd looked at him, challenged him, exulted with him, he'd tried to think of Darien. But still, she was there. As different from his wife as night from day.

And it had been a damned long time since this kind of need had welled up within him. The kind of need that made him lie in bed and control his breathing - his body - his imagination. He'd always maintained a strict mastery over himself and his responses. But now - he could barely force himself to control the thoughts that seethed in him like the currents of the deep.

It had been a long time since he'd felt this conflicted - this confounded by the mission. At least, he'd tried to tell himself that she was just the mission.

He'd lied.

Consumed.

Complicated.

He'd clung to honor in the past months, to duty. Reminded himself time and time again of the mission, his position, and of his vows. He'd considered time and again the consequences of failures - professional and personal. He'd dismissed the twinges he'd felt, the spears of desire that had shot through him. He'd reminded himself to grieve.

But still, she'd been there. Watching him. Challenging him. Insinuating herself into his existence just as her cure had taken root within the bodies of those she'd touched.

He'd started dreaming about her. About learning her secrets, smoothing her roughness. Tangling his fingers within the silk of her hair and tugging gently as he tasted her. About holding her lithe/frail form against his body and figuring out just exactly what surged beneath her prickly surface, and whether it would feel like the healing he needed, or the destruction he craved. Whether her passion would temper the violence brewing within him, or ignite it.

There had been words said - not as many as needed to be exchanged, granted - but words, nonetheless.

"Is this really what you want?" She'd asked him. She'd been angry, and hurt, maybe. Self-justified in her actions. Proud. She'd stood there in the room like some medieval queen and challenged him.

So he'd answered as honestly has he'd been able to. Conjuring up his response from the screwed up mess of truth-lies that threatened to overwhelm him. "This has never been about what I want."

Because how could it have been? He still didn't know her. Didn't truly trust her, if he was frank about it.

But he wanted her. Desperately. And hated himself for it.

Tonight, she'd come to him in the hallway. She'd known where his room was, just as he knew the location of hers. She'd been dressed up - it had suited her, even though he found her more provocative in the jeans and t-shirts he was accustomed to. She'd been open, and a little more free. Not flirty - not available - but edging towards both. His body and his mind had surged in response, desperate for the release he knew - he was certain - he would find there.

He was desperate to take her. To have her. To sink himself in her depths, yet not quite ready for the shame he would feel afterwards.

Tom groaned, covering his face with both hands, breathing deeply. He could still smell her, although he was sure that was part of his traitorous imagination. And although he wanted his wife to be alive, wanted his children close and safe and well, wanted the mission to be complete and the world to be righted, wanted with his entire being to be able to let her leave him behind - he knew that what he wanted was impossible.

He needed this woman. Needed to touch her. Needed to know her. Needed to lose himself in the conflicted mess that she was, and try to make sense of the consequences. Needed to peel back the layers, and discover who and what she was at her core. To discover if she'd tremble as he did so. Needed to fill her just as she'd invaded him.

Sitting up, he leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. A stabbing in his side reminded him of the shrapnel behind his liver - a fitting metaphor if there ever was one for Rachel Scott. Sharp and deadly and threatening, and buried so deep within him that to remove her would cause more agony and bloodloss.

He leaned forward, burying his face in his roughened hands, his fingers digging into his scalp as if he could force her from his memory, banish her from his thoughts.

But closing his eyes just brought her back. In the hallway, the lace teasing at the gentle line of her collarbone, her hair falling in a riotous tumble down her back and across her shoulders. She'd seemed invigorated about leaving St. Louis, about her new adventures. He'd been happy for her, even as his heart had fallen at the prospect of her leaving. Maybe they'd both get some perspective. Maybe being separated would be the relief he sought. He could build barriers. Construct some walls.

He'd miss her. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, exhaling harshly. "Damn it. Damn it all to hell."

Hell. He was already there.

Footsteps hurried in the hallway outside - someone shouted. Rising, Chandler moved towards the door. Something was up, something that sounded serious.

And unbelievably, he smiled. He could use something else to think about. Needed a break from the thoughts that had been plaguing him. To not think about her.

To not obsess about her. To not let his body respond to the thought of being with her. To not need her. If this new crisis could help him expunge her from his soul, then bring it on.

His hand grasped the handle and turned it, flinging the door open and heading towards the chaos.