an. I really wanted to explore Sasha's mental health and the things that drive her - the show left several hints but never fleshed it out, and so here I am filling in the blanks and trying some things.
Warning: Emotionally heavy, graphic depictions of decomposition.
Saturday, August 27th, 2016 – Mount Pleasant, South Carolina
Sasha was stood in the kitchen; she could faintly see Tom and Sam in the distance through the French doors that lead onto the back porch. They were sitting at the end of the dock in camping chairs, fishing poles in hand. And while the sight of it should have made her happy, she couldn't dispel the cold stoicism that had settled itself in her heart since returning.
A lot had changed while she'd been living in a capsule in Panama. A scientist had unlocked the secret to stabilizing a spreadable cure within plant-based insects in early June. Their first yield of crops had been harvested; there was a general sense of progress and prosperity among the country again. Most of the rioting had stopped. Presidente Arias was successfully turning the tide on the last of the rebels, and Canada had come into the fold. Within the next sixty days, they'd have enough fuel to end the rolling blackouts across the country, enough fuel to begin rebuilding a fleet. It was a historic agreement that united the Northern and Southern America's right down to the tip of Columbia. Some 50 million-plus survivors all working towards the same goal. They were winning – she should be happy. Yet for all of their victories, she'd never been more lost. Never felt like such a fraud, or so disconnected. Like she was an imposter in her own life.
"Why don't you go grab the Steaks, and we can start cooking so they have something to eat when they get back?" Sasha asked, pulling out the cutting board and some seasoning. Ashely headed out toward the cooler that was still sitting in the bed of Tom's truck. She climbed up only to realize that she hadn't closed the lid the night before fully.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath – he would be so mad at her – could hear him reminding her to push it down all the way because it was overstuffed, and the generators wouldn't cool the fridge for at least 24 hours. He hadn't stopped talking about how lucky they were to have the meat, all thanks to a local farmer who'd recognized him and offered it; the cure had arrived just in time to save his wife. Ashley scrunched her nose in disgust at the smell coming from it as she picked it up. Maybe Sasha could salvage something or help her hide the evidence, at least.
"Sasha, I messed up," she called as she walked back into the kitchen, struggling to carry its weight.
"What's wrong?" Sasha asked, immediately coming over to help her put it on the island counter. The second she smelled it, she felt her throat close up, shook her head, immediately feeling a wave of dread flood her system.
That smell.
"I forgot to close it last night, and everything's gone bad," Ashley started, pulling items out to get at the meat; she stopped quickly when she looked at Sasha, concern immediately marring her young face as she took in her expression. Something was really wrong. All the color had drained from her cheeks, and her eyes were wide. Sasha could feel her heart rate increasing, her chest had seized, and she struggled to expand it to breathe. She just kept smelling it all around her. She couldn't get rid of it.
The bodies.
"Sasha, are you okay?" Ashley asked, coming around the counter. She shook her head, backing away – not really even sure where she was anymore, her eyes were open, but they weren't seeing. Not her kitchen at least – they were seeing bodies, floating, and baked in the sun.
She couldn't breathe.
She cleared her throat in an attempt to get it to open up, the sound strangled and strange even to her own ears. "I'm... fi…" she tried, grasping at her chest as pain shot through it like a spear. It went through her extremities, and she vaguely wondered if she was having a heart attack.
"Sasha!" Ashley repeated panicked, grabbing onto her arm. "What's wrong?" she tried.
Her whole body was seizing on her; she couldn't hold herself up. Dropped to her knees. "I ca… I can't… bre… breathe," she stuttered out, gasping harder and letting out a sound of pain in-between struggling for air. Her hand was clawing at her throat, the other shaking and braced on the floor as she hyperventilated on her knees. The corners of her vision blurred, the blood pulsing through her veins rang in her ears – all she could hear was the sound of sloshing, panicked breaths, bodies – another noise of pain.
"I'll get Dad!" Ashley said frantically, flying out of the kitchen, the wood of the back door protesting at how aggressively she'd burst through it. She took off, sprinting down the path towards the dock as fast as she could.
"DAD!" his head snapped up the second he heard it, his heart immediately lurching and ice flooding his veins. Itchy and uncomfortable.
"Ashley?!" he yelled back, looking in the direction of her voice. She sounded terrified. It hadn't been a yell; it had been a scream. A million scenarios ran through his head, was she hurt? What had happened? Did someone break-in? Where was Sasha?
"Sam!" he said earnestly, gesturing for his son to drop what he was doing and follow him immediately. He did as he was told, their fishing poles clattering to the deck loudly.
"What's wrong!?" he bellowed, running with Sam in the direction of her voice, the wood of the deck under their feet thundered and flexed as he blazed a trail down it.
"It's Sasha!" he could see her now, about a hundred feet away from him coming down the sloped hill, his mouth went dry.
"What happened?" they continued to run towards each other. She was panting hard, out of breath from the panic, and how fast she'd run when they reached each other.
"I don't know, but she can't breathe!" she was almost crying as she spoke, they were feet from colliding; he held out his hands, ready to catch her momentum as she crashed into him, picked her up easily as he continued toward the house, made sure to hold her weight as he set her down. She stumbled slightly – the rapid change of direction, sending her off balance. He held her arm firmly to keep her upright, unable to control the frantic urgency from his voice as he asked her, "what do you mean!?"
"I don't know!" she repeated hysterically, "She was fine, and then she grabbed her chest, and said she couldn't breathe!" He dropped her arm, accepting that he needed to go faster, and there was no way they could keep up with him. He sped up, his hip and leg protesting every impact his foot made with the solid ground, but he ignored it. Nearly ripped the door off its hinges when he reached it.
"Sasha!?" he bellowed, using the counter to stop his momentum when he flew into the kitchen, his eyes searching wildly for her until they settled on her figure. She was curled in a fetal position on the ground, hyperventilating hard. He felt his heart stop for several beats as his brain caught up, and he moved quickly, kneeling behind her. "It's okay," he said calmly, reaching out to turn her. She was ridged, her hands locked, and fingers stuck in a contorted position.
Ashley and Sam made it through the door, another loud smash as they burst through it and appeared in his peripheral. Their faces panicked and worried, Sam's eyes went wide, and he grabbed Ashely because he was scared. "What's wrong with her hands?" he asked, his lip already quirking downward in the beginning of tears – his voice showing it.
Her breathing came in short, panicked gasps, "Dad?" Ashely asked.
It was then that he noticed it, the horrible smell. His face contorted in disgust as he looked around for the source. It smelled like rotting meat. His subconscious supplied him the connection.
"The bodies, in the sun… sometimes I think I can still smell it on me…"
His eyes found the cooler, sitting open on the counter, and he squeezed them closed briefly in frustration. One of the kids hadn't closed it, and the meat had spoiled. She was having a panic attack because it smelled like rotting flesh.
"Ashley – the cooler! Get rid of it!" he snapped. She had started crying as she clung to Sam, unsure of what was going on. If Sasha was dying, having a heart attack. When she didn't move fast enough, he repeated it.
"Ashely! Now!" It snapped her out of her stupor, and she let go of Sam, rushing to follow his instructions and take it outside.
"Sam, I want you to go outside with your sister. Wait in the car, listen to the radio, it's going to be fine, but I need you to wait there for me." He instructed. Rubbing Sasha's arm calmly as she continued to hyperventilate, he needed them in there in case he couldn't bring her out of it, and he needed to take her to the recently recommissioned base for help. Sam sniffed and nodded, following his instructions.
Tom turned his full attention back to Sasha, sitting himself down properly on the floor, he lifted her, so she was settled between his legs, her back to his chest. "I need you to listen to me." He said calmly, placing a hand on her heart so he could feel its pace – much too rapid – the other rubbing her arm up and down in slow, comforting motions. "You're breathing too fast; we need to slow that down." He instructed. "Breathe with me, okay?"
She sputtered and gasped. Struggled for air. "Shhh, it's okay. Slow it down, in and out," he exaggerated his breathing so she could feel it against her back. Did this for a few moments until he felt and heard her start to adjust to try and match his pace. "Good. It's okay, alright? You're having a panic attack,"
She inhaled sharply, a sob managing to break through her hyperventilated breathing. "Slow down," he repeated calmly. He felt her fighting to move to gain purchase over her body that had locked up on her.
"H…hands" she struggled out. He grabbed one of them, it easily fitting in his larger palm, and rubbed it reassuringly.
"I know, they're all cramped up. It's okay. It's because you've been breathing too fast for too long, and that's why we need to slow it down." Another sob, followed by uneven, labored gasps. "Shhh, I'm here. It's okay. We've done this before, remember?" he spoke softly into her ear. He felt her nod stiffly. She did remember. Only she'd never lost control of her entire body this way, never been locked up. Never felt pain this intensely through her entire system to the point she was convinced she was dying.
"Let it pass, you're okay," he let go of her arm and started stroking her head. Smoothing her hair away from her face as he tucked her under his chin. "Just keep breathing slow." They stayed that way while the pain passed, and numbness subsided. Her fingers and hands started to relax again, and she found she could move them. Her breathing returning to a normal level, punctuated only with hiccups. Her body began to shake, quite violently, as the chemical buildup of stress worked itself out.
"Can you walk?" he asked quietly after a time.
"I think I can," her voice was pitchy, shaky, and she cringed.
"Let's go lie down."
She nodded her head in response, twitching as her body hiccupped again. Felt him scoot back and heard the protest slightly as he stood. His leg was giving him hell from the run, something he'd have to bring up with his physical therapist. Once he was up and steady, he held his hands out to her, helping her stand. Her legs were a little shaky, the last of the numbness making them stiff, her hand grabbed his arm to steady herself, and he wrapped his around her waist to help her balance.
"You good?"
She sniffed. "Mmm-Hmm."
Tom's hands hovered at her waist as he guided her to the bedroom, pulled back the covers for her once they were there. She slipped in gratefully after shrugging off her shoes, completely physically and mentally exhausted, grabbed his pillow and hugged it to her while he tucked the blankets around her and fixed her hair.
"I need to go check on Ashley and Sam. Let them know you're okay. They were pretty scared," he explained softly. "You'll be alright?" he asked.
She nodded, her body hiccupping again, he bent down and kissed her temple with care.
"I won't be long."
As soon as he'd closed the door, he dropped the act, his shoulders physically sagging as he clamped his eyes shut and processed what had just happened. She couldn't keep going like this. They couldn't. It was making her sick, and he could no longer stand by as the passive observer. He was prepared to have her committed if that's what it was going to take to get her to deal with it. Determined that he no longer cared if she hated him for it, all that mattered was her getting the help she so clearly needed.
The kids immediately got out when they saw him step onto the porch, rushing over. "What happened? Is she okay?" Ashley asked, running over. He opened his arms for a hug, which they both gladly accepted.
"She's okay, come on, we'll talk about it inside." He said, squeezing both of their shoulders and steering them to the living room. They settled on the couches, could tell they were dying for answers by the looks on their faces.
"She had a panic attack. It happens sometimes, and it looks scary, but it's not life-threatening. She just needed some help to calm down–"
"It was the smell, wasn't it?" Ashley interjected quickly. He sighed, his chin fell the way it did when he didn't want to admit something but had no choice. Her mouth quirked downward again and trembled. He could tell she was about to cry. It was the confirmation she needed, and the guilt blossomed.
"It was my fault," her voice emotional and fraught with guilt-ridden tears, he shook his head and cut her off.
"No, it's no-one's fault. You couldn't have known. Sasha didn't know – sometimes things happen that are outside of our control. This was one of them." He soothed immediately.
She was pouting, eyes watery, and arms crossed tightly over herself, "So, you're not mad at me?" He furrowed his brows with concern. Was he really that scary to his own kids? Did she really think he was going to punish her for a simple, yet unfortunate mistake?
"No, of course not. You didn't do it on purpose; it was an accident," he assured her.
"And Sasha? Is she mad?" she asked, still trying to hold back tears. Her face was red from the effort.
"No – not at all," he clarified firmly.
"Can I go see her?" she sounded unconvinced, wanted to check for herself.
He hesitated slightly, trying to figure out how much to disclose. "Not right now sweetheart, she's resting–" he gave her a sympathetic expression.
"But I thought you said she was okay?" Sam piped up. He shifted his gaze over to his son, trying to hide his exasperation at calling him out and not accepting the answer at face value. He knew Sasha, and he knew she'd be mortified that the kids had seen, not that it was anything to be embarrassed about. This wasn't the type of thing you wanted anyone to see.
"She is, but she's tired, and she's a little sad right now, buddy," Sam looked dejected and looked over at his sister, silently requesting her input. Wanted her to back him up and demand that they be allowed to see for themselves. Ashley looked between them, chewing on her lip before she put her arm around Sam.
"It's okay; we can make her something that will cheer her up."
Tom's heart clenched over how much he saw Darien in her, how Ashley had in some respects been forced to become Sam's mother while he'd been occupied with missions. How she knew how to comfort him better than him at this point.
"That's a great idea. She'd love that." He encouraged, voice betraying the calm he was so badly trying to portray.
Sam looked between them and nodded. "Okay,"
Tom sighed and looked at them both, standing to rub his son's hair in a comforting gesture.
"Why don't you guys work on that for a bit, okay? I need to go take care of Sasha. You can knock on the door if you need me, I'll come down and make you some dinner soon," he instructed, pinching Ashley's cheek and smiling at her in an attempt to cheer her up.
She hadn't moved at all in the time he'd been gone, barely lifted her head when he entered; she was vacantly staring into the distance, his pillow the only thing she clung to in the center of the bed. The room was still dim. They hadn't opened the curtains yet though the sun seeped through the cracks casting shadows across the floor and the bed. Tiny particles of dust floated and danced as it highlighted them. He kicked off his shoes.
"Hey," his tone was soft, tender.
"Are they okay?" she asked timidly as he settled in the bed next to her, propping himself up on his elbow as he faced her – hated how much she didn't look like herself, none of the spark behind her eyes, nothing but apathy. Like the lights were on, but no one was really home.
"They're fine, they're worried about you," he told her, his fingers finding purchase in her hair again caressing her temple with the pad of his thumb, the warmth of his skin soothing her.
"I'm sorry they had to–" she started, shaking her head.
"No – there's nothing to be sorry for," he admonished. Her eyes fell, and she exhaled heavily, shaking her head slightly.
"The smell, Tom…" she inhaled sharply, not quite able to finish the sentence without her gag reflex attacking her. His thumb moved to rub her cheek, gentle back and forth motions across the smooth, cool skin.
"I remember, you said something in China?" he inquired quietly. She nodded, closing her eyes to try and block out the memories. He hesitated for a moment, considering how best to proceed, his gut churning with nerves – apprehension of how this was about to play out.
"I know you don't want to talk about it," he started cautiously, expecting her to immediately clam up the way she did every time this subject came up, "but you can't keep ignoring this anymore. I am scared for you, Sasha. I love you, and you need help. It doesn't have to be me. I will find you the best damn phycologist left in the States – but you have to face this." He all but begged quietly, his entire body imploring her to listen. She could see how much she was hurting him in his eyes; it was like a lead pit in her stomach. She bit the inside of her cheeks, looking his face up and down silently for several moments. Long enough that he thought she was simply going to ignore him. Like she always did when he asked her about this. The pain that was throbbing in his chest, proverbially pulling him to his knees – he was at his limit.
To his surprise, she started to speak, not more than a whisper. "It was the village."
He remembered that part from their talk on the James. Remembered she'd gone to ground there where the population was less dense – that she'd been forced to leave when someone got sick, and there were bodies. "I think it was… September? Or the end of July?" she rolled slightly to rest more on her back instead of her side, peered up at the ceiling. "But I'd already been there for close to two months. We had a good system, kept to ourselves. Split off into groups, gathered supplies. Shared them." He waited patiently for her to continue, afraid that if he spoke, she'd stop, didn't dare move.
Someone must have missed a body because they got sick – exposed us. Within a few days over ten had the symptoms." She sniffed, fighting to keep her face neutral. "I barricaded myself in the hut. I only had a weeks' worth of food – less water than that. Rationed it out and waited – for them to die off," she closed her eyes again, jaw twitching like it did when she was getting overwhelmed. Despite himself, he reached out and rubbed her upper arm reassuringly as she breathed, and thankfully, she didn't brush him away like she usually did in this state.
"The rest started to get desperate after three weeks – risked leaving the huts to get food and find water – tried to take mine." She pursed her lips. Nostrils flared slightly as she remembered the absolute horror she'd felt as she heard someone trying to break in one night. "They all got sick. Every one of them. More than thirty people, Tom." Her breath hitched. "They were rabid at the end. The crying––I didn't have enough bullets to put them out of their misery, so I listened to it. For weeks. It took them weeks to die, and I pretended I was already dead so they wouldn't come in." Her body started to tremble again; he felt it. Could see it. He swallowed thickly.
"It finally went quiet, about a month after the first person. I didn't have anything left, was just catching rainwater to live, ate bugs if they came by. The monsoons. They uh, they washed some of the bodies… out of the huts," her voice became strangled as she tried to stop herself from gagging again.
"Hey," he tried to soothe, palming her forehead and stroking it. She shook her head sharply. Now that she was finally getting it out, it was like she couldn't stop. It was like a battering ram inside of her, begging her to break free. To have someone else know what she'd done. What she'd lived through. Begging to be acknowledged and recognized though she wanted to ignore it.
"I had a gas mask and a suit I'd used to make it out of the city – knew I had to move, or I'd starve. But when I went outside, they were everywhere. The whole field was flooded with bodies." Her face contorted in pain. He blinked a few times; he knew what water did to decomposing corpses, how they bloated beyond recognition, the putrid stench of the swollen rotten flesh. The body fluids. He felt sick. Sick to his stomach. His heart clenched tightly, and the pace of his breathing evenly increased as he listened for what he knew was coming. As he pictured it.
"I couldn't do it. I went back inside, and I picked up my gun." The implication of her words punching him, his mind supplying other parts of the conversation they'd had. The part where she admitted she almost gave up but heard about the ship and thought he was alive and working on a cure, and she'd decided to keep going. "If I hadn't decided to check the radio, one last time… if I hadn't heard about your ship." She chanced a look at him then; his eyes were brimming with tears as he listened to her. She looked away painfully – she couldn't. She had enough torment; she couldn't handle him looking at her like that. She wouldn't be able to stuff it back in, and she simply refused to go there.
"Took me three more days, but I worked up the courage. I got myself out, went South… but I couldn't take it off because it wasn't safe." She stopped. The images bombarding her again, how there'd been a body right below her steps. The first one she'd had to wade through. How the disintegrated remains had turned to soup in the water – the smell so putrid, the sight so horrific that she'd gagged in her mask but couldn't take it off or she'd die. How the water was shoulder deep, and she'd been terrified it would leak. That she'd lose her footing and be submerged. That she'd drown by sucking a rotten corpse into her lungs. Couldn't quite believe that she'd spent over an hour wading through flooded remains with vomit in her re-breather to survive. That she'd wanted it that badly – life. That she hadn't picked a bullet instead, and all because the idea that he was still alive gave her some kind of hope that almost bordered on religious.
How when she'd finally made it out, the sun had baked it. Lumps dried all over her suit. How she hadn't been able to take it off until she was sure she wouldn't encounter any more bodies. She'd trekked for three days that way before she hit the outskirts of the city. Before she could break into a house with some water supplies and had scrubbed her skin raw to the point of bleeding. Her expression contorted into pure pain again. She was so tired of reliving the memories over and over; would give anything just to make it stop. "I can't get the smell off me," she stuttered out, bringing a hand up to cover her face.
He pulled her to him and held her tightly. What could he possibly say? How could he possibly respond? He knew there was nothing. Nothing that could make what she'd been through right. He couldn't take it away for her. It wasn't like blame. It wasn't like guilt; there was nothing to be said about it, no different perspective to give. It was merely the reality of what she'd had to do to survive. And she'd been all alone with it for years.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart aching painfully. She knew every crevice of his despair, the things that kept him up at night, every failure, the guilt, Baltimore, Darien, his Father, Rachel, Shaw, Greece. Knew his troubles when they caught up to him and eased them away with a simple kiss, or by offering an ear – she was there for him, and he'd barely even scratched the surface with her. But not because he didn't want to be; because she simply wouldn't let him.
She was running, still.
"You don't have to do this alone anymore," he told her tightly. The only thing that felt right to say. Alarm bells rang in her head. She kept putting tape on all the cracks, and it wasn't working anymore. She wasn't in control of herself. She didn't want all her ugly on the table. She didn't want to accept that she was lesser when she had always been strong. Didn't want to need help because she kept all her deepest emotions to herself, and that was her identity. Her entire purpose was to be iron-willed enough to get through anything, alone. That's it. That's all that had driven her for her entire life because relying on herself rendered her invincible.
Sasha wrenched herself free of his grasp, shaking her head as she inhaled, choosing defiance instead. Choosing strength. She didn't need this. She needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and it would work itself out like it always did – she'd made it this far had she not? And now that he knew, he could let it go. She wouldn't have to talk about Panama. He'd chalk it all up to Asia and could stop pestering her silently with that wounded expression he wore every time she shut him out. Sasha pulled roughly at the sheets to get out and pace. Tom stood slowly, hands clenched into fists, expression tight and purposefully stoic, though his eyes gave him away as they tracked her. His eyes that were torturously pained because he could see what she was doing. Building walls again, shutting him out.
"Well, now you know. It's just a bad memory, I don't know why it won't stop." Her tone was cold. Detached. As if they'd just been talking about something as mundane as the weather.
"Maybe because you keep shutting it out and pretending you're fine." A statement, not a question. Tom's eyes had her pinned. His voice so calm that it set her alight because she wanted to fight, not listen.
"What more am I supposed to do? It happened – I can't change it. I'm not special, everyone had to do something they didn't like – the world carries on!" She demanded.
"Feel it instead of pushing it away. Admit that you're not okay? Stop running from everything that hurts?" He responded quietly – the questions rhetorical though illustrating the point effectively enough.
Sasha stared at him incredulously and scoffed. Her mouth hanging open as she shook her head in shock that he was actually calling her out. Nostrils flaring, she furiously tried to hold back the tears stinging at her eyes. Tom stepped closer, approaching her from the other side of the bed, controlled, slow, and towering. His breath came a little faster. The adrenaline kicking up in his system because he could see it – could see that he was about to break her. And this time - this time he wasn't going to stop. He was going to push her over the edge and catch her because he was convinced it was what needed to be done.
Something in his expression caused chills to run down her spine, and panic to rise in the pit of her stomach. She'd never quite seen this particular look before. Equally terrifying, as it was loving – colored with a certain hint of despair that didn't quite fit the situation. She drew herself straighter, eyes fluttering as she looked him up and down – his entire body an expression of trepidation.
"You think I can't see you. That I haven't figured you out – but you're wrong." He began. So soft, and so quiet she almost held her breath to make sure she'd heard him correctly. A warning flashed in her eyes to back off – not to say something he couldn't take back. Tom saw it, swallowed, worked his jaw, and carried on anyway.
"You think I don't know that you haven't felt safe since you were twelve–" the betrayed look and harsh "Stop it!" she uttered, letting him know he was hurting her. "That you feel like you weren't good enough, and that's why your father never stopped drinking. You've felt abandoned ever since." He paused for a moment. The burning guilt at the expression she wore almost breaking his resolve. Her lips quivered, cast downward as she looked at him with an expression of devastation. With eyes full of the tears she was valiantly holding back, he could see the betrayal in her eyes. Tom hated it. It burned him, it hurt.
"You can't trust anyone because they let you down, so you're convinced being alone is the only way to protect yourself." He stepped closer to her, where she stood rooted to the spot, arms clamped rigidly at her sides, hands clenched though he could still see them shaking. "You ignore anything that hurts you. Won't acknowledge it until you can't push it away anymore, and even then, it's only so you can shut it out and go back to pretending it doesn't affect you." She was clenching her jaw so hard the nerves in her teeth started to ache. Had progressed to refusing to make eye contact with him, staring at anything she could to maintain control. The rug, the vanity, the dust swirling in the cracks of sunlight – anything but him.
Tom's hand reached slowly for her jaw, ignoring how she tried to push it away and he bought his other to mirror it on the other side. Forced her to look at him. His eyes were glassy as they bore into hers.
"The man you were sleeping with betrayed you, and you had to kill him, Sasha. You cried for less than a day and never spoke of it again. Tried to starve yourself and you act like that never even happened!" She tried to jerk herself out of his grasp, some kind of noise sticking at the back of her throat that she refused to let free. Tom held her tighter, not letting her go. His heart beating fast enough for him to feel it in his throat. Could hear ringing in his ears for how cruel he felt. "You married a man who could never push you because it was safe. Because you only had to share the pieces you like." She sucked on her cheeks to stop the haggard sob from coming out. Wouldn't grant him the satisfaction of winning.
"You'll be there for anyone that needs you but can't accept the same in return. I know something happened in Panama, and it's eating you alive…" His breath caught, and his eyes fluttered slightly, the moisture perilously close to spilling over his lashes. "And then there's me." Sasha winced, and her tears started to fall, casting heavy warm tracks down her cheeks in broken silence. They were warm as they hit his thumbs. Tom's voice was strangled as he struggled with his guilt. "You lay right next to me suffering in silence and think I can't hear you drowning... And you can't trust me because I'm the only person who's ever gotten close and I left you. I abandoned you when you needed me. I broke you, and all I did was reinforce everything you've believed since you were twelve–"
Rage flashed white-hot, and she pushed at his forearms again. Silencing him because she couldn't take it anymore.
"What the hell do you want from me!?" A constricted yell that burst from her soul, anguished and angry. Louder than it should have been. Probably loud enough to carry downstairs. His hands squeezed the back of her head slightly as he implored her.
"That, Sasha! I want you to feel and stop running! I want you to tell me you're in pain, not that you're fine! I want you to stop pretending. Stop acting like you don't need my help because you do!"
Her chest was heaving and she finally managed to break free of his hold – tried to put space between them, but he refused. Grabbed her shoulders instead, and drew her closer again, forcing her against his chest and into his arms. Sasha pushed against him with all the strength she had left.
"Let go!" She cried. Beside herself that she'd barely been able to push him off balance.
"No." He told her defiantly.
The rage it threw her into was blinding, and she launched a full-on attack. Twisted herself and drew an elbow to deliver a blow to his solar plexus, but he was too quick for that – a move he'd taught her anyway. If she were in a better state of mind, she would have remembered that. The muscles in his arms strained as he wrangled her arms to her sides – she made a noise of frustration that turned into an angered sob because he was too strong for her to get away.
"Stop!" She tried again. Kicked her legs up and out, and tried to use her body weight to topple them both, but he managed to counterbalance it.
"No. Hit me if you want - if that's what you need. But I'm not letting go. If you're angry, then be angry. If you're lost, be lost. Cry if you need it, scream if it helps – I don't care, just stop pretending! You don't need to hide from me anymore Sasha. I love you. I am here for you!" He implored passionately.
Tom felt the moment she shattered. Felt and heard it. Big, heaving anguished cries – uncontrolled as she finally let them go. As she finally stopped fighting and went limp in his arms.
It was horrible.
They were raw and gut-wrenching sounds. Tormented, harrowed howls. A sound he'd never heard pass her lips before. The fraught tension broke, the air he'd been struggling to breathe for months started to flow easier – though painful as it was to hear, somehow it was a relief – something had to give, and while he hated every second of it, hated what he'd done to get it – this was pain he could withstand. The first kind. Pain that he could heal, that they could survive.
"I've got you." He said firmly, squeezing her tighter from behind, following her body as it sank to the floor.
Ashley looked over at Sam with a solemn expression on her face; they could hear Sasha's cries downstairs, where they sat on the sofa. Her lips quirked downward again and started wobbling. She felt so guilty. If she'd just listened, none of this would have happened. Sam put the card they were making down – crawled over to his sister and clung to her, burying his head in her side.
"I don't think she's okay," he mumbled, the sound reminding him of how they had cried when their mom and grandpa had died. "Did her Mom die too?" he asked her.
Ashley shook her head – she didn't have any answers. "I don't know Sam. Something really bad must have happened." She answered quietly, wrapping her arms around him and trying to give comfort and quell her own fear at the same time.
"Don't worry, Dad will fix it," she told him, for his sake as much as her own.
Her hands grabbed desperately at his forearm, vaguely aware that the guttural sounds were coming from her. The force of her sorrow so heavy she thought she was going to be sick. Every piece of her body hurt, and she found herself curling up in an attempt to relieve it, face buried in the stupid expensive rug she'd picked out, but it didn't work. It felt like something was trying to claw its way out through her sobs. Could feel Tom holding her as best he could from her side, one arm wrapped low on her stomach, the other across her shoulder and chest, his hand holding her upper arm tightly as he caught her fall.
She felt his hot breath at her ear, "I'm sorry – I'm sorry that I helped do this to you. More than you'll ever know. I'm sorry that I was a coward, but I will never do that to you again. You can trust me."
She pulled herself upright and turned – wrapped her arms around his torso, climbed into his lap and clung to him instead, her head resting on his shoulder as she cried brokenly like a child. His hand came up to cradle her temple, holding her head to him as his other arm embraced her back, rubbing in large soothing movements.
"You're safe now, I've got you."
It was everything she'd needed to hear – everything she'd never be capable of saying herself. The conflicting paradox that was her entire life. It was her biggest secret, the one she buried deep and labeled as weakness, a broken fantasy that simply didn't exist. The yearning hope that she'd find someone who could see her, and she wouldn't have to be alone anymore because they understood what it cost. Understood that she was terrified of trusting someone intimately because it would destroy her to be betrayed. And they would keep her safe.
She wasn't alone.