Declan

At least he was well-dressed. Black tie, tux, hair slicked back, rings, the whole nine yards. If he was going to die alone forever, he might as well look his best and make sure no one else finds out.

The salty ocean breeze whipped across Declan's face as he stood watching the steel-grey waves pitching and rolling against the navy vessel's hull. Despite retiring a year ago, the familiar sights, sounds and sensations of being at sea instantly flooded back - the persistent rocking underfoot as the ship's prow sliced through each rising swell, the pungent tang of briny mist carried on the wind, even the faint creaking of ropes and metal groaning against the relentless tides' ebb and flow.

For over three decades, Declan's life had consisted of little else beyond these drifting, endless waters stretching from horizon to horizon no matter which way he turned his gaze. As an admiral, the open ocean had become more of a home than any earthly port. Its vastness, power, and isolation both awed and comforted him in a way nothing else could replicate. Leaving it all behind in pursuit of a quieter, tamer retirement had proved more bittersweet than expected.

With a melancholic sigh, Declan pulled out his tin cigar case, the weathered brass etchings depicting an old destroyer he had captained untold years ago. Plucking out one of the premium Cubanos, he patted his pockets in search of his lighter before catching a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Declan's head snapped up, instantly on alert despite his surroundings being nothing more treacherous than a pleasure cruise ship's outdoor deck.

"Need one, Admiral?" An all too familiar voice sliced through the tranquil quiet like a harpoon - simultaneously thrilling and deeply unsettling.

Declan's eyes widened in disbelief, all his muscles relaxing, though he straightened to attention automatically under the calm authority of that voice. Shit. His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, his hand falling away from where it had begun inching towards the non-existent sidearm on his hip. "Christ, Admiral..." he muttered through gritted teeth. "Thought you were someone else for a second there."

Admiral Westbrook chuckled, the deep rumble resonating in that way only a lifetime smoker's laugh could. "Who, the Grim Reaper himself? Need to loosen those nerves a bit, son."

Declan scowled at both the jab and the familiar moniker - he was hardly some raw recruit anymore. But as Westbrook leaned back against the rail lighting the end of his own cigar, Declan couldn't help studying the deep creases etched across his former mentor's face. Each craggy line is a memorial to battles fought, sacrifices made, lessons branded into their very souls through sheer force of will and circumstance.

"I know that look," Westbrook murmured around the cigar's amber glow. His eyes betrayed a wistful sorrow that age had been unable to fully extinguish. "Feels like you can't shake the ghosts, no matter how many miles you put between you and the sea."

Declan's jaw clenched, turning his face away from the too-perceptive gaze. He couldn't admit how accurate that assessment struck, even to himself. Not when he'd sacrificed everything - his career, his identity, his sense of purpose - chasing that elusive dream of a life beyond the bloodshed. Of finding something, someone, worth coming ashore for.

"The look of someone who regrets listening to your shitty advice," Declan growled instead, jamming the cigar between his lips to disguise the faint tremor in his voice. He scowled, forcibly averting his gaze as he tried and failed to harden his expression. Not today - not a year after abandoning his Navy life in search of...something else. Westbrook had encouraged him to quit, warned that he was burning himself out by treating life as nothing more than a series of missions to just grit his teeth and survive. The older man had told him to stop then, or he'd never stop until a mission finally took him. On his deathbed, he'd regret never allowing himself a chance at living beyond Navy fleets and mission lingo.

Well, what shitty advice that turned out to be.

"That day you told me to resign before losing my chance at life..." Declan mumbled, weariness weighing heavy as his hand came up to rub at the scarred flesh around his eye. "You scared the fuck out of me, Admiral. But your little piece of wisdom didn't work out." His jaw tensed. "I haven't found anyone. I've looked everywhere."

Admiral Westbrook's responding rumble of laughter caused Declan's glower to intensify into a withering glare. "Now Admiral O’Connor, you know I never speak in exaggerations," the older man chided with an amused shake of his head. "You most certainly have not looked 'everywhere.' Besides..." He leaned back, puffing on his cigar. "I also told you love isn't something that can be found by expending every last ounce of energy searching for it."

Declan scoffed at the familiar droning lecture. "You're wrong, sir," he shot back mulishly. "Since you seem to think at your ripe old age of sixty-something you suddenly know all about love and...and 'cupids' after living the same godforsaken life as me, where's your sweetheart?"

The rhythmic slap of waves against the hull provided the only accompaniment to the uneasy silence lingering between them. Declan immediately regretted allowing the impulsive question to slip past his lips. Of course Westbrook had loved once - nobody reached their advanced age without experiencing that all-consuming ache, however briefly. But what became of that affection remained an enigma, the Admiral's solitary existence proof enough that whatever spark he'd found long ago had evidently sputtered out.

Releasing a weary sigh, Westbrook leaned back against the weathered railing, his calloused palms smoothing over the salt-stripped wood as if seeking solace in its tangibility. "I did find love once, O'Connor," he murmured at last. The usual gruffness anchoring his voice had dissolved into a wistful melancholy few possessed the fortitude to openly acknowledge.

Declan arched a skeptical brow, studying his former mentor's profile through the hazy sea-spray kicked up by the restless tides. Yet Westbrook's forlorn expression remained unwavering, that perpetual undercurrent of loss which so often flickered beneath his usual gravel-rough banter now rising to the surface.

"My love was the sea herself," Westbrook continued, raising his gaze to the vast cobalt expanse rippling out towards the horizon. "And all those countless men who rode her churning depths alongside me over the years. Each one forging an unbreakable bond thicker than blood." Slowly, a fond smile overtook the Admiral's weathered features. "So yes, I've known love in its purest, most profound sense - the willingness to sacrifice everything for those under your charge without expectation of anything in return."

A flicker of realization flickered across Declan's face as he absorbed the unexpected sentimentality. This vulnerability was so wholly at odds with the uncompromising hardass who had once instilled him with that same military doctrine of selfless devotion. Yet maybe there existed a wisdom to Westbrook's words that Declan's own relentless pursuit of more conventional romantic ideals had blinded him to.

Before he could find a response, however, the admiral's expression morphed into one of impish mischief, eyes crinkling at their corners. "Of course, that includes putting up with dumbass protégés too stubborn to recognize the love and loyalty surrounding them."

Declan scowled at the teasing jab, muttering a halfhearted "Oh, piss off..." though unable to disguise the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Westbrook's rich, gravelly chuckle mingled with the crashing waves as easily as it once had with the bellowing orders of a warship's bridge.

"See?" Westbrook murmured, a wistful smile playing across his weathered features. "Who's to say I haven't found romance yet, in my own way? Not all love needs to culminate in marriage. Sometimes, it ends with...friends."

Declan's grip tightened on the railing until his knuckles paled. He wanted to protest - to insist that was utter bullshit, born of Westbrook drinking too much at this dismal excuse for a party. The old man seemed satisfied surrounding himself with platonic affection, casual companionship a sufficient substitute for that singular, profound bond. But what about finding that special someone to share one's life with? Surely that held paramount importance...

Didn't it?

When Declan's pensive silence stretched on, Westbrook tipped his head, studying the younger man's furrowed brow. "Don't search for it, O'Connor," he mumbled cryptically before turning to amble back inside, leaving Declan staring after the Admiral's retreating back with faint bemusement. Was that a hint of mirth causing the older man's shoulders to shake almost imperceptibly? Was this all some ridiculous long con solely to yank his former protégé's chain?

"Looks like someone needs to ease off the alcohol," Declan grumbled under his breath, his gaze drifting out across the restless waters with a renewed sense of misery. How did one simply stumble upon something as profound as love without actively pursuing it? He didn't put any stock in chance or happenstance. His entire life's philosophy centered around rigid routine and self-discipline - the notion that applying oneself towards a goal through sheer force of will inevitably yielded the desired results. Westbrook's words reeked of drunken delusion, spouting nonsensical romantic comedy drivel that flew in the face of every fundamental tenet Declan lived by.

Yet here he stood, having failed so utterly at finding love that he'd allowed an inebriated old sailor's asinine advice to worm its way under his skin.

Declan snatched the cigar from his lips, expelling a frustrated stream of smoke towards the inky horizon. Perhaps it would be better to rejoin the revelry unfolding inside, to let the whiskey and crowded chatter drown out his doubts until this ill-fated anniversary had finally drawn to a close...

Drip...

Declan blinked, something rippling outward in concentric rings from the epicenter of that fleeting burst. A small, analytical part of his mind nagged that they were surrounded by open ocean - no landmasses for untold miles in any direction. Shimmering shoals frequented these nutrient-rich currents, their silvery bodies flashing and undulating in mesmerizing cyclones. Perhaps a few overly inquisitive specimens had ventured closer to the unusual metal behemoth cutting through their realm...yet that didn't ring true. Fish avoided ships and their churning wakes, the primal urge to flee far outweighing any curiosity over such strange floating monoliths.

His brow furrowed as Declan strained to locate the disturbance's source, but the relentless swells had erased all evidence of its existence. Only the endless rise and fall of the restless sea remaining. He was never one to trust his gut - not after the harrowing lessons his gut instincts had drilled into him over the decades. And yet, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something...else...lurked out there, just beyond his field of vision.

Drip...drip...drip...

A new series of ripples blossomed further down the starboard bow. Larger and more pronounced this time, the concentric patterns unmistakably headed in their direction at a steady, almost purposeful pace. Declan felt the hairs prickling along his nape as some deep-rooted primal instinct kicked in, his free hand unconsciously dragging across the salt-pitted railing as he began tracing the anomaly's path.

"What in the...?" he murmured under his breath.

Surely the current captain wasn't fool enough to steer a pleasure vessel brimming with drunken revelers onto any uncharted or hazardous waters? They cruised through America's territorial boundaries. The Navy wouldn't sanction a lapse in protocol that egregious...would they?