A/N: I began this fic back in 2012 but it turned into a much bigger project than I could handle at the time. Four years later and I felt ready to tackle it again. It's now pretty much finished. I will be aiming to post two chapters every Tuesday and Thursday. I would love to hear what you all think of it.
This picks up right after episode 2x10 and goes au after that.
Dedicated to JCI; this story would not exist without her.
CHAPTER ONE
Sasha leaves Boulder the same way he arrived: suddenly and without warning. After watching Kaylie loaded into an ambulance, Emily forced into a police car, Lauren falter beside the beam weeping for the mother she was never allowed to know, and Payson's reputation sullied by accusations she will never fully escape, Sasha knows staying is not an option. He asked for the girls' trust and has failed to live up to the responsibility the request incurred.
This martyr's guilt gets Sasha thirty minutes down the highway, truck and trailer rumbling west toward the refuge of his neglected Californian cabin. Then he makes the mistake of switching on the stereo and out blares Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake suite. The Airstream sends stones spraying as he pulls it up on the side of the road, flicking off the ignition but leaving the music playing. The string section stirs in a rousing crescendo.
He planned to email Payson later, congratulate her on making the World team, explain that his actions are for her own good. Sasha smacks his palm against the steering wheel and looks out at the navy dusk settling over the mountain range to the north. What kind of coward doesn't even say goodbye?
With a sweeping arc on the empty highway, Sasha turns the truck back toward Boulder, hits the gas harder than he did on the way out. He will see Payson, explain his actions, say a proper goodbye, then drive through the night and see how many states he can clear. Tchaikovsky plays him back to the city.
After so many years traversing narrow European streets, Sasha has never been so glad that wide sprawling roads are a mainstay of the American suburban dream. He eases the truck and Airstream as close to the sidewalk as he can get and, as he hops out, is relieved to see that two cars can still slot past. Just about.
Becca answers the bell, her bright face morphing from curious to happy to curious again as she pulls the door open, sees it's him, then spots the Airstream looming impossibly large under the street lights.
"Yeah, your neighbours probably aren't going to be too happy." Sasha ducks his head slightly, a gesture he's learned from constant contact with people shorter than himself.
Becca, sniggering, glances around then hiss-whispers, "don't sweat it, they already don't like us. Mom was gardening and she kind of chopped down one of their trees by mistake."
Sasha huffs a laugh which makes Becca giggle even more as she enjoys the conspiracy. He's not entirely sure how you accidentally chop down a tree but, knowing Kim Keeler's exuberance when she gets caught up in a task, he's not entirely surprised. Slightly scared maybe, but not surprised.
"Why is your house parked in our street anyway?" Becca frowns as she steps aside and waves a hand which, Sasha assumes, is invitation to come in.
"I thought Ellen Beals might get it towed," Sasha says, walking down the corridor towards the living room, hands in his pockets. It's not a total lie. "Or blow it up with an RPG." Again, a distant - but not at all implausible - possibility.
"What's an RPG?" Becca trots after Sasha. As they round the corner into the open plan living room and kitchen, it's Kim Keeler, standing up from the couch, who answers her daughter.
"Rocket propelled grenade." Kim nods a hello at Sasha, apparently unsurprised to see him, then says, "speaking of RPGs: Payson!" Following the holler, Kim gestures for both Sasha and Becca to follow her to the counter. "Did I hear something about you making a trailer park out of our street?"
Sasha huffs a laugh at the ground, then looks up at Kim and nods. "Temporarily."
"Uh huh," Kim says, suspicious but choosing to ignore that particular reality for now. "Mark had to catch a flight; you just missed him actually," she continues, answering Sasha's unspoken question. "Payson!" she hollers again.
A door slams at hinge-breaking volume and Payson spills into the room, still clad in her new national team jacket.
"What?" Payson snaps, cell phone in hand. "I'm trying to call...Sasha, you're here." She suddenly spots him leaning against the sink and hurries across the tiles, her face lightening. "Where'd you go? I couldn't find you after they announced the team. Did you see Kaylie?"
Kim steps in as Sasha flounders between choosing a lie or coming clean. "Actually, I just spoke to Summer about Kaylie." Kim holds up her own cell. Her eyes glance at Sasha and quickly look away; she continues like she doesn't see his discomfort at the mention of Summer's name. "Kaylie's going to be fine. The hospital is keeping her in for observation but she's going to be ok."
Becca sighs happily and nestles into her mom's side. Payson, standing by the fridge on the other side of the kitchen, frowns. "Did she say why Kaylie collapsed?"
Kim runs a hand over Becca's hair. "Bec, I'm thinking we all deserve pizza tonight. Can you go dig out the menus? They're on the dresser."
Becca side-glances round the room. "Su-re," she says, flicking suspicious looks over her shoulder as she leaves.
Kim smiles until Becca is gone, then braces the countertop behind her with both hands. "Exhaustion and dehydration is what Summer said."
"And malnutrition?" Sasha looks Kim directly on and she nods slowly, Sasha's words and expression confirming her own suspicions.
All the fight seems to run out of Payson. She looks at the floor, then between Kim and Sasha, her bright eyes dulling as she realises the insinuation behind those particular symptoms. Blankly, she fiddles with one of the fridge magnets. "And Emily?"
Kim scrubs a hand across her face. "She must have at least one supporter at the NGO because apparently they've sorted a lawyer for her. Summer hasn't got any more details at the moment but she said she'll keep us in the loop."
There are no televisions on in the house, no radio, no music. The room is silent apart from the echoes of Becca rifling round for pizza menus and Payson flicking at the fridge magnet.
"Sweetie," Kim says, going over to her daughter and pulling her into a hug that's not reciprocated. "Why don't you go and wash your hair and change. Pizza will be here when you're done."
Payson nods into her mom's shoulder, arms hanging limply at her sides. It pains Sasha to see her so inanimate, this fireball of a girl so torn up with emotion that she's pushing it away entirely. Her pace is slow as she makes her way to her bedroom. Sasha tracks her until the door closes, then stares at it until Kim speaks again.
"You knew about Kaylie?" She's looking at her daughter's bedroom door too.
Sasha sighs. "I was worried. I spoke to her about it but she denied everything. Spoke to her parents but the scales said she hadn't lost any weight, so..." He trails off and swallows.
"Scales can be fooled. It's a gym mom's worst nightmare." Kim offers a wan smile. "It's not your fault."
Sasha pushes off the sideboard and looks away, not accepting Kim's absolution. "You got those menus, Becca?" he calls. He almost adds 'we're starving in here' but pulls it back just in time.
After Becca has bounced in requesting coke and garlic bread to go with her pizza and bounced away again with Sasha and her mom's orders in search of a phone, Kim and Sasha sit down at the kitchen table.
Streetlights stroke through the half-open blinds, painting the table in yellow stripes. Kim flicks on the spotlights above the table and washes them away. "So," she starts, "you going somewhere?" There is both warmth and warning in her tone.
Sasha doesn't bother formulating an excuse as to why he's got the Airstream parked out front. "I'm not convinced I'm what Payson needs right now," he says. He means as a coach but his words suggest a broader scope that is probably more accurate.
"You were earlier this week," Kim counters.
Sasha scratches his stubble. "Payson's made the national team now, the situation's changed. After today..." he pauses, the shadows of the other girls falling around him. "After today, I think Payson needs to make a fresh start. She can't do that with me still in Boulder."
"So this is goodbye?" Kim tips her head to one side and studies him.
Sasha shifts in his seat. "I think it has to be."
"Why?" Kim asks him softly, one hand lightly drumming on the table top.
The coach and the mother contemplate each other across the table. A horn blares from the road, a likely objection to Sasha's temporary trailer park.
"Because of me, Payson will be tainted by gossip for the rest of her career. If I leave now it at least gives her an opportunity to distance herself as much as she can from me and get back into the good graces of the NGO," Sasha says, voicing the argument he's had playing in his head for weeks. "Besides, she needs to train at the Rock and I somehow doubt they're going to be welcoming me back with open arms anytime soon."
"Ok," Kim starts, sitting back in her chair, "putting aside the fact that once Steve Tanner gets over his ego and realises he can't pull another world-class coach out of his ass he'll be begging you to come back, do you honestly think Payson gives a damn about gossip?"
"She will when it affects the NGO's opinion of her," Sasha shoots back.
"The NGO's opinion of her seemed pretty great this afternoon when they put her on the Worlds team."
Pushing out a breath through his nose, Sasha looks away. This is not the simple 'I'm sorry, goodbye' he had planned.
"I think you're giving Ellen Beals far too much credit for the influence she has, Sasha. The rest of the board don't share her vendetta against you so I don't see why they would ever penalise Payson." Kim gestures behind her at her daughter's bedroom door.
Sasha pauses. He had a list of arguments describing why leaving was essential when he was gunning it up the interstate; why can't he think of any of them now?
"And what about the other girls?" Kim prompts. "I'm sure they don't want to lose you as coach anymore than Payson does."
That question - at least - Sasha has an answer for.
"I've never been able to reach Lauren," he starts, looking Kim square on. "And for a coach to get the best out of her Lauren needs to feel a connection, a bond. I don't think she'll ever let me in enough for us to be able to have that. Kaylie needs her family right now. She needs to fix herself outside of gymnastics and I can't help her with that. And Emily...I have no idea how to help Emily anymore," he sighs, all the breath leaving his body. That's the failure that probably hurts most.
"Which leaves Payson," Kim says, watching Sasha.
"Which leaves Payson," Sasha repeats.
The water system clanks loudly within the walls, a rasping gurgle. "Old shower," Kim dismisses the rumble with a flyaway hand. "Sasha, if you want to leave because of what happened with Payson, please, just say so. I'll understand: it was a very difficult and very awkward situation for you to be in."
Sasha shakes his head. "No. I mean yes, but no." He presses a thumbnail into a knot in the wooden surface of the table and sighs. "I don't want to hurt her, Kim." He opens his mouth to say more, then realises that there is nothing to add. The simple truth is he's leaving because he's scared of hurting Payson again.
"Can I be honest with you, Sasha?"
Wondering how much more honest this conversation can get, Sasha warily nods.
Kim looks away, her smile turning a little shamed. "There is still a part of me - please don't ask how big - that wishes Payson hadn't had corrective surgery. That way she'd still be in high school, having fun with kids her own age, no pressure. She wouldn't be pushing herself to the limit every day; wouldn't be risking breaking her back again every day."
Blinking, Kim looks back at Sasha, eyes sparkling with tears. "But that's not what my daughter was meant for." Kim sniffs, wipes her eyes harshly and drags her fears back inside. "She was meant to do this. No matter the cost. Payson's a fighter and fighters need a battle. And, as much as Mark and I might wish she'd pick a different one, gymnastics is the battle she's chosen." There is passion in Kim's eyes as she stares right into Sasha. "Sasha, you are the only one I trust not to hurt her; the only one I trust to keep her safe. After today, I'm even more certain of that."
This maternal plea, or perhaps order, hangs in the air. The day's events swirl round the room, invisible but solid. Sasha's pulse quickens. Instinct recognises instinct, and the need to protect Payson is an impulse both these adults share, though Sasha is still unsure why this instinct is so strong for him.
He stands, shoves his hands in his pockets, looks out the window, and tries to get his breathing back under control. Kim, taking the cue, leaves him there, bustles into the kitchen and hollers to her youngest to come set the table or they'll be no garlic bread for anyone. Becca comes running. The drone of talk radio suddenly adds to the clatter of crockery and cutlery and Sasha takes the opportunity to slip out the front door.
A clear day has given way to a clouded night and Sasha can taste the promise of rain as he inhales two large lungfuls of air. There's a stone pillar, half covered with ivy, which supports one side of the Keeler's porch. Sasha lets his head fall back against it, ivy and bricks prickling at his neck. It may not be his Californian cabin, but if he closes his eyes, smells the rain and the plants, he can pretend for a moment he's back in the simplicity of the wilderness.
An extended squeak and then quiet click signals the front door being pulled open then eased gently shut.
"That needs oiling," he says, suspecting whose voice will respond.
"It's our burglar alarm," Payson says.
Sasha, eyes still closed, smiles.
"So," Payson starts, in a tone that make Sasha open his eyes, "you're leaving, then."
Twisting his head sideways, Sasha finds Payson standing on the porch a few feet away. Her hair is hanging loose and has been dyed mousey-brown by water. She's wearing baggy sweatpants and a tank top.
"You'll catch cold," he warns, looking at her hair. Her frown of 'don't change the subject' is illuminated by the porch light she's standing under. Sasha sighs and looks back out at the road to where the Airstream sits. "What makes you think I'm leaving?"
"I don't know, maybe that your truck and everything you own is parked outside my house, or maybe that you look as guilty as Becca does when she steals my eyeliner."
"Maybe that's because I stole your eyeliner?" Sasha offers.
"Not funny," Payson tells him, without amusement.
"I know," Sasha concedes, pushing off the stone pillar and turning to face her, hands still in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"So?" Payson prompts, folding her arms as she steps to stand a foot in front of Sasha. The move takes her out of the yellow cone thrown by the porch light and into the shadows where he's been hiding. Wet tendrils of hair frame her face.
Sasha opens his mouth, closes it, scrubs at his eyes, scrubs at his jaw, opens his mouth again, then gives up entirely and drops to sit on the step at the edge of the porch. After a moment, Payson sits beside him, knees hitched up to her chest, the hems of her too long sweatpants pooling around her ankles. With her fingers, she works the knots out the ends of her hair.
"You deserve better than I can offer you, Payson," Sasha says finally, elbows on his knees, staring at his boot laces which are starting to come undone.
"Isn't that up to me?" she shoots back, calmly fierce.
Sasha starts to speak.
"And if you tell me you're doing this for my own good and that one day I'll understand, I will hit you over the head with that flowerpot." Payson points at a particularly large stone tub sitting at the edge of the path.
Sasha huffs a laugh. The thing must weigh two hundred pounds. "Is that right?"
"Yes," she says, punctuating the affirmation with a sharp nod. Sasha feels some dislodged water droplets spatter his cheek. He leaves them there.
A car whips down the road and veers to avoid the Airstream so fast that Sasha flinches in preparation for the scrape of metal on metal that's sure to come screeching through the dark. But the night remains quiet, just a slight throb of music that flares and disappears. The porch step is narrow. Sasha feels Payson's arm brush against his. He has no idea what the right thing to do is anymore.
"How long have you known about Kaylie?" Payson asks, voice thin.
Sasha looks across at her. She's picking at the calluses on her fingers and still staring at the potential weapon of a flowerpot.
"I've been concerned for a while," he admits, frowning down at his shoes, untying and then slowly re-tying the laces.
"I had no idea." Payson's voice is hollow, a catch in her throat.
Sasha puts a hand on her shoulder without thinking. He gives a slight squeeze then releases it awkwardly. Payson sniffs, steadies herself.
"I know you're planning on leaving now but Dad says Pike's is rented until the end of the month. Maybe...maybe we could train until that time's up and then..."
Sasha tips his eyes to the sky. He was expecting tantrums and instead Payson's about to give him alternatives. Maybe she's more mature than he gives her credit for.
"And then, I don't know, depending on how things go, maybe we could..." Payson pauses again. Sasha can feel her gaze on his profile. She's offering a compromise, how can he throw that back in her face?
"Re-evaluate?" Sasha concludes, twisting his head slowly to meet Payson's eye line.
Her eyes spark and a memory of the joy he feels when they're training together, working toward the Olympic dream, flickers through Sasha's mind.
"And if you still want to leave then," Payson says hurriedly, sitting up straighter, "that's your decision. I promise I'll respect it."
The cabin's been empty for a year, another month isn't going to hurt it, and the Airstream will be just as happy in a trailer park as she has been in a parking lot. Sasha frowns out at the street, concentrating on the practical because he's sure as hell had enough of the emotional today.
"A month." Sasha confirms it with a nod.
When Payson spits on her palm and sticks her hand out, grin relieved and beautiful and determined, the protectiveness Sasha's inexplicably felt for this girl since she seemed so shocked he knew her name the day they met spikes another notch.
The places life can take you, he thinks.
With a deliberately cocky smirk, Sasha loudly spits in his own hand – Payson's nose wrinkles as she laughs – and grips Payson's to seal the handshake.
"Deal?" Payson says.
"Deal."
"Er, did you guys, like, order pizza?" A drawl interrupts the moment. They both look up to see a teenager in a Pizza Shack uniform hovering on the lawn, pizza boxes stack in his arms, bottles of coke balanced precariously on top.
"We sure did," Sasha says, helping Payson to her feet then fishing in his jacket for his wallet.
Displaying impressive hearing range, Becca bundles out the front door, whoops of joy sounding over the telltale squeak.
"Don't shove," Payson rebukes her little sister, taking charge and dividing the boxes and bottles between them, the pizza guy happy to hand it all over and get his tip.
"I'm not shoving, I'm helping," Becca squawks.
"Of course you are," Payson says, dourly, as Becca trots into the house. A thud indicates one of the soda bottles didn't survive the journey to the kitchen undented. Payson rolls her eyes affectionately.
Handing over what seems an exorbitant amount of money for pizza, scowl daring the boy to question the size of the tip, Sasha repockets his wallet. The kid scurries back to his van.
"Sasha?"
Sasha turns, finds Payson standing on the threshold. "Thank you." She's haloed by the lights from the hallway, blonde hair shining, eyes sparkling.
Sasha pretends to miss her true meaning, giving her a carefree shrug. "Next time, you're buying."
Payson shakes her head with affectionate annoyance. "Ha ha." She pushes her way into the house, pizza boxes balanced on her hip.
When a drop of water bounces off Sasha's nose he automatically looks up. The night sky is starting to fall. He stands out on the lawn as the rain turns from trickle to torrent, watches it roll down his leather jacket, feels it patter on his head, wonders if he'd have made the state line by now; then, like a dog, he gives his hair a good shake and jogs back onto the porch, answering Becca's shout of "hurry up, Coach, it's getting cold!"