Tom Chandler walked the snowy streets with his hands buried deep in his pockets, collar turned up against the wind carrying snowflakes. The white stuff formed a thin white layer on the street, and covered his tracks slowly behind him. The map in his mind told him only two more blocks – when errand strands of music touched his ears. One more corner, and his heart lifted. Not that he had heard her play that often – but who else would choose this frozen evening to play the piano?

He found the building. Doors were locked, but he found what Mhari had told him to look out for – the side entrance, the window in the porch. He climbed in, taking pride in his noiseless approach. Found the stairs, the long corridor on the second floor, following the ever so slightly out of tune sound of the piano. He didn't know the piece. Come to that, he mightn't have recognized it anyway. Alviarin's playing reflected her state of mind – erratic, highly emotional, almost destructive. Her skill on the instrument remained impressive, and in a moment of intuition he realized that this was a composition she knew very well and had chosen for exactly that reason – it gave her range to shed some of the overboiling emotions.

He entered the room silently during a passage of – what was the expression? Fortissimo? – many chords - and closed the door behind him equally silently. She never noticed.

Alviarin sat with her back to the door – the tactician in him shuddered – completely immersed in the music. It was quite impressive, watching her reach for those white and black keys, the slender wrists so strong and fragile, the long fingers agile and expressive. The side of her face he could see in the twilight was glistening, the inner elbow of the sleeve had wet spots on it.

He felt an uneasy peace settle over him. Found her he had, the rest he would fight.

By the end he could put at least a composer – classical; the Austrian one, who had died young – to the piece. And then she changed it up. Head hanging, she started something soft and gentle, utterly melodic and sad, so sad. When she joined her voice – deep, velvety despite the tears – to the piano, Tom swallowed. It was about saying goodbye.

She broke down maybe halfway into the song. Calling forth a discordant chord from the keys, she leaned her forehead against the instrument. A few long seconds she stayed like this, shoulders relaxed, then she wiped her face against her arm and stiffened. And turned lightning-quick, crouching down into a defensive position.

He must have made a sound along the way.

When Alviarin recognized him, she relaxed and sank back onto the stool with an exhausted sigh.

Tom gave her a moment, then shrugged. "Sun's down."

For maybe a minute her eyes searched his face, expression far, far away. Then she said carefully: "So what happens now?"

"We talk?"

"You still want to … to know what's in my head?"

No brainer. "Always."

It took her a long moment to find the words, and when they came, they were deep and breathless. "I am angry. Angry at myself, at you, at the professor. At Mike. At…"

"Start with me. I'm here."

"You knew what happened – to me – from walt and chris and alan. You couldn't have waited? No, don't say anything. I know fully well I am being absolutely unreasonable here, but gods, I was not prepared for you to know… the… horror, the shame, the … and then you were there and had words for everything, and knew everything without me even having to spell it out."

He waited until she drew a calmer breath. "Elf, the way you shrank from Green, the expression in your eyes, the way you twitched at every male voice. If it had been anybody else, I might have been polite and declined the information. Not with you. Not when the knowledge was necessary to understand the severity of your – our – situation."

She nodded, shaking suddenly. "I understand! But…"

He kept still, waited until she got herself calm again.

"You were there through Maddie making me talk about… you orchestrated the…"

They'd talked about this in the snow. "I supported the fact that she took an opportunity that would not present itself again."

Helpless, bitter humour twisted her face. "Same background, you and them, right?"

Tom watched her warily. He wasn't surprised how much it bothered her. That she tried to factor in his side of things, the reasons for his actions.

Alviarin broke the silence with bitterness.

"Its like that time with Rachel…"

"Your brought her up before." Careful, careful. "Same background?" was this the issue?

She burrowed her hands under her thighs. "I put you in an impossible situation. What if my action – or inaction as it were – revives the old suspicion. What if the whole thing comes out, with – Paul Mycroft actually the mastermind. We know how people are. Planet bat shit crazy." Her grimace was mirthless.

"Things have progressed too far for this to have much of an impact, even if it comes out. Rumours will have started already, the vets, our clandestine winter mission. You won't be able to stay out of the spotlight completely. I have a suggestion covering that, but let this lie for the moment."

She frowned at him, head tilted that way he loved so much. He tilted his own in a mirror motion and smiled a little. "What set you off? Why bring up Rachel?"

The young woman pulled in on herself. "Because what I did would invariably remind you of her, of Sorensen's death. Of the fact that I visited her, talked to her, tried to understand her. You thought I sided with her. You might …"

"Stop." It came out with more amusement than he had intended. "You might trust me to differentiate. Seriously, had we known 'bout the information he enforced on you – yes, that's what it was! – what would that have changed in the long run? Your abduction? O'Connor's death?" oh yes, he could see from her reaction she'd taken his death on her shoulders, too.

She shook her head like trying to get rid of moisture. "Now that I had time to think on it, those stupid numbers brought up too many questions, questions completely out of my orbit - when we were all just about to get back on our feet… I couldn't fathom a reason for them, not with no electricity, no computers, hardly any internet… I didn't put enough thought into it."

"Alvi, on some level I understand their reasoning in giving you the responsibility for those codes. You are level headed. You are one of us, but still stand apart. You've proven resourceful. They know you better than any of 'us'. The professor had your loyalty first, solidified it – unexpectedly, to be sure – in Baltimore."

"You'd do the same?"

"It's what many leaders would do. Use a personal connection. Even if that endangers said connection. Or destroys it." He shrugged, tired. "And we're back full circle to Rachel."

"But… my uncle…"

He could see how it pained her to think of him.

"Had we known about Paul Rykers"- he refused consciously to give the man his chosen 'honorific'- "connection to the Professor, suspicion would have been first and foremost. Before any trust could be established, any working relationship be built."

"And now?"

Tom managed a shrug. "The professor and I had a long, serious, honest talk. We respect each other. We know how much we need each other – or don't, in some respect. Paul Rykers' involvement is history."

"But you'll need him to…"

"Of course. But Mitchener - we'll deal with that when it comes up. Mike might take over this whole mess, with Jeter and two of the Canadians to liaison and help."

Unexpectely, her face lightened. "Thank you."

The commodore frowned inwardly. What had he done? But then it hit him.

"I know of your dislike – better distrust - of Mitchener, Alvi. I wanted to spare you the involvement. I never meant to keep you on the outside." Tom found his hand twitching to reach for her. "But that's exactly what I did, isn't it?"

The expression on her face told him something else, something he had known and watched for a long time. That uncertainty…

"I apologize for that, Alviarin. Old habits die hard." He willed her to see the sincerity in his eyes and was rewarded with shy surprise. "Ask earlier, next time?"

For a long moment their gaze held, her face open, questioning, vulnerable.

Then, when she broke eye contact, biting down on her lower lip to keep it from shaking, Tom leaned forward slightly. "We haven't covered everything, have we?"

"You said - 'next time'."

He hoped with all his being that they were heading toward the same subject – her conversation with Ashley before she went to the interview with Mike. So he answered with an effort of gentle questioning: "I'm hoping there will be a lot of next times."

She did not look at him, which in this instance was probably the best thing. Had she known that he knew about his daughter's involvement, she might be reminded of the snow trek.

As it was, the story bumbled out of her in fits and bursts, short as it was. The pains she took to tell it as impersonal and objective as she could, while still unable to hide her pain and confusion – he took a step forward.

"Elf, I need to say something."

She glanced at him quickly, and shrugged.

"I think you're scared of relationships. Most every time you got close to somebody, you lost them. I would go so far as to say that even Valerie, with the whole Valkyrie debacle, counts as betrayal deep down somewhere in your psyche – though you would never call it that. I see you, Alviarin, and I see how humanity's flaws hurt you, and make you pull back. I would guess that every relationship you had never got as dangerous for you as this – you and me, and the children mixed in. The way you grew up – handed from one to the other – may have widened your view of the world, but can't have been good for your ability to connect long-term. You see people, you see through people, read body language like others read books, you accept them with their flaws, but you instinctively try to stay apart, emotionally. Its not in you to manage too well, for which I am grateful. But, Elf. But. This is what builds a relationship. To gauge how much hurt and disappointment a connection is worth."

In the course of his slow, somewhat coarse speech, she had pulled her knees up to her chest. Grey eyes looked up at him, colour coming and going in her cheeks.

"Ashley is a teenager, as you explained to me more than once before… before you got taken. She's been trying to be an adult and supportive and half-parent her brother and Jack the whole time."

"You spoke to them… about this…" one pale hand motioned half-heartedly.

"This…" he almost swore. "They exacted what you started – to be taken seriously and talked to. Alviarin, you are the one who made me see that keepin' them out of the loop is not good for them, nor me."

She sat there, helplessly overwhelmed, slight amusement warring with consternation. But the grey eyes warmed. "You're telling me Ashley is a teenager?"

He breathed easier, still holding on hard to temper, emotions, to the chaos in him. "Yes…"

"She put into words what I couldn't… couldn't face. That this – that I… might not be good for you."

Tom felt the heat rise up through his back, could feel his cheeks warm. But the young woman wasn't done.

"That I'm too unpredictable, that I might disappoint you." Her eyes were dark.

"Hey." He pushed away from the wall with a slow, controlled motion. "You are the one who helped me through a lot of… of the trust issues I've been fighting with since we saw that nuke light up the sky over Europe. Hence Norfolk. I trust you. We've been over this. You are good for me.

What I explained to my father the other day - that while Darien believed in the navy and all it stands for and fully supported me and my role, you don't. You don't love the role I'm playing. You would not obey me blindly. You look for the man behind the mantle." A smile came, unbidden. "When I come home… the way your face lights up when I enter a room… You're good for me. For my kids."

She had wrapped her arms around herself, but her face was clear, her eyes light. Somewhat bemused… "Stop with the turn and flight?" She tried a smile.

Tom held her eyes, hard pressed to show outward calm. "I would really like to take you into my arms." He managed to keep the waver out of his voice, though could not hide its harshness.

She stood slowly, wobbling a little. One hand reached out toward him.

One step, one pull, and then she was his again. His arm circled around her back, his hand found the warm nape of her neck. Her face buried into his shoulder. But her arms came around him, shyly, tentatively, and when he rested his lips on her hair, her body relaxed against him.

It was with utmost control that he kept the intensity of his reaction from showing. When her hands spread on his back, pulling herself closer against him, he tightened his hold on her.

Both grew aware to their surroundings when the wind picked up, calling forth the eerie sounds of a mostly empty city. Without words, they picked their way through the dark corridors, locking the school behind them.

The commodore reached for the slender musician's hand and let the feeling of 'right' settle over him when their fingers entwined. The way she smiled with the slow, otherworldly delight when he tucked their interlaced hands into his pocket for warmth reminded him of the first time they had stood on the streets of St Louis together.