an. Response for Guest: Thank you, Sasha's appearance will certainly have rippling effects which is all I can say without being spoilery. Whether those effects are positive, neutral, or even negative will remain to be seen! Glad you felt Sasha and Kara's collision was in character. I have never been one for immature drama, especially between women, and especially between professionals who take their responsibilities so seriously. Also, I do appreciate your review on El Norte too! And that you caught the Virginia reference :) I need to work on that one, but right now most of my inspiration has been gripped by this one.

Every December

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December 25th, 1997—Chandler Residence, Richmond, VA

Cathy stilled in the kitchen; the Tupperware she'd been filling with leftovers forgotten. Instead, she watched. Her three kids, all grown now, gone from her nest full time were sprawled throughout the family room in the oversized sectionals and armchairs watching Katie's favorite movie. Gremlins—again. Not an unexpected or extraordinary scene. Typically repeated every year, provided they were all in the same country, and the plus-ones would ebb and flow. From pseudo-orphans, as Jed called them; friends or acquaintances in need of a place to call home, to girlfriends, boyfriends, fiancées, and now, in Katie's case, husband… and none of that was the reason Catherine Chandler froze.

"Jed," she whispered.

Her husband, who sat at their kitchen table with his face buried in a newspaper, peered up.

"Look."

He did. Confusion and begrudged annoyance over being disturbed melting from his rugged features when he figured out why.

Their eldest was laying with his leg resting in his girlfriend's lap. A recent addition to whom they'd been introduced at thanksgiving, and it had been easy to see at surface level what had captured their son's attention. She was stunningly beautiful, quite charming, and that was all good and nice, but their son was currently allowing her to massage his knee. The one he unequivocally refused to acknowledge still caused him significant pain. An injury sustained in Bosnia that earned him an expeditionary medal, killed three of his closest friends, almost took his life—and his leg—and put an abrupt and destructive end to his career in special warfare. An experience that Tommy bottled up and pretended as though it never happened. Just like his father, choosing stubborn silence and freezing out anyone close enough to help. Even his sister.

Beside her, Jed set the newspaper down. More emotional than he'd ever admit, and Cathy put down the ladle, hand now clutching his shoulder. They were oblivious. Katie, her husband James, Matty… all so engrossed they didn't notice it. Sasha's fingers worked absently; attention fixed to the screen like this wasn't unprecedented, leading Cathy to believe Sasha had no clue how significant she was, and Tommy?

Well, he wasn't watching the movie at all. He was settled, lids heavy and drifting into sleep with a look of simple peace. Cathy looked down at Jed. His gruff, if rare, smile echoed upon her own face, and he bobbed his head, patting her hand and giving it a short squeeze before returning his nose to his paper.

December 13th, 2013—Florida Panhandle, Safe-Zone—2035 hours

They were a good group of people, but there weren't enough of them. Tom had determined that within ten minutes of arriving. Still, Tex was doing exactly what he'd hoped—cracking endless jokes and charming the group into better spirits. Even Diaz. And while this mission was two-fold, to establish the viability of the safe zone, and gather more intel on the immunes and opinions of 'the people', Tom couldn't say there wasn't a third factor here. A moment that he could take while Doctor's Scott and Milowsky obtained a biopsy from Neils, and Slattery had the watch. A moment where Tom could decompress and compartmentalize before committing everything to eliminate that submarine, and a way for him to give Sasha the best that he could; things to keep busy. The reason he'd chosen her as their third gun for this little scouting trip above anyone else.

Sasha had taken up residence in the bed of a pickup, the ground wet underfoot and available camp chairs all occupied. Really, the zone was little more than a self-made RV park. Way off the beaten path, self-sufficient, and self-contained. Exactly the kind of place you'd want if the goal was to isolate. Still, those same factors left them all vulnerable. Too vulnerable for Tom to feel comfortable leaving a bunch of kids behind.

Tom said nothing when he approached, satisfied that a constant watch on the permitter was unwarranted, and he could sit his very weary ass down. Sasha's legs hung free over the lowered tailgate laying back against the bed, with her rifle propped within a hand's reach. She craned her neck to watch as he scooted back against the cabin, extending his legs, and crossing his ankles. Laying his weapon parallel to his thigh and settling in. She offered him a quiet smile before returning her attention to wherever she'd gone, and it was that specific action that triggered Tom.

"You think they're still alive up there? On the space station."

Her voice jumpstarted his brain. Huh. Hadn't crossed his mind once, despite the number of hours he spent looking up, wondering if his kids were doing the same. "Can't imagine how, unless they figured out how to make food."

"Little ironic that the one place it can't go is a guaranteed death sentence."

While it was out of left-field, random, even, the world had never been big enough for Sasha and Tom had to figure she'd spent hours trying to wrap her mind around escaping this thing. Deducing in the end that there was nowhere to go. Not when being pregnant meant you couldn't go completely off-grid. Go hide in a cabin without access to any number of potentially life-saving things, and there was the battle. The impossible position of trying to balance your best odds—and Tom had spent hours thinking about what he'd do. How he'd make that choice all the while knowing Sam was only alive because of medical science.

In fact, the more things percolated, the more Tom reconciled that being on the ship, the not knowing, had made it easier to keep on. Easier to compartmentalize and gamble with high stakes, but the more time he spent around Sasha, the faster it slipped away. The carefully constructed barriers that left processing the concept that Darien had died largely untouched because it would drown him. Even if the logical, pragmatic part of his mind had been preparing for some kind of loss since discovering the scientist's true mission. His kids. His wife. Potentially all of them. He was blessed, but the problem was Sasha made him feel everything, and while Tom knew the result of that would be cathartic, he couldn't allow it. Couldn't let it cave him in.

"It is beautiful, though. Without the light pollution? Even in the middle of the ocean they were never this bright," she continued.

That was true, and he'd noticed it too. Tom took a deep breath and shifted so his bones didn't bite so hard against the unforgiving metal. "Before I left, I told the kids it didn't matter where I was because we'd always be lookin' at the same thing." He paused for a beat. "I used to go to bridge wing every night—back when we first found out. I stopped after a while. Don't really know why."

Sasha listened, letting it rest before choosing humor. "Do they know their dad wanted to be an astronaut?"

It warmed him, spreading first inside until he felt it at the corner of his mouth and in his eyes. Self-conscious to this day that Katie's first choice upon meeting Sasha was to take her on a trip down memory lane. Show his far superior girlfriend that her dork brother idolized Neil Armstrong. "No, that one hasn't come up yet."

Sasha snorted softly.

"What?"

"Technically, you'd still be a Commander of a ship—how ridiculous is that?" She tilted her head back, quirking a brow that communicated the enjoyment she found in ribbing him.

"Cute," he grumbled.

Her response was razor quick, eyes fast when they flittered up and then down his form. "Thanks—I just thought of it." The brow settled, and she was gleaming at him. Irradiating things Tom hadn't the vocabulary to describe.

He hadn't appreciated how little he smiled until the muscles protested their under-use. Like there was stone in his cheeks, and she was still so damn beautiful when she did that. Supposed if asked, those smiles were his strongest memories. The ones imprinted like photographs in his mind. Like sitting on a beach while she lay in the sand, looking back at him almost exactly as she was now.

Something shifted in her features, the quick wit ebbing until it was softer—mouth parting a fraction while she breathed and then withdrew to the sky again.

In contrast, Tom found himself stuck.

"How much longer are we staying?" It was quiet and Tom couldn't say how long he'd been staring, but he was glad that she hadn't seen yet.

Taking a deeper breath through his nose, he glanced at his watch before turning his attention to the center of the camp. Both Tex and Diaz were listening to someone playing guitar next to the fire. "I think we can stretch it another hour," he said, bringing his gaze back to Sasha like a slow caress.

It radiated from her eyes this time rather than lips. In fact, her cheek was barely creased. "Sounds like a plan."

December 25th, 2001—Tanah Merah, Changi Naval Base, Eastern Singapore

There'd been a careful dance, one of complete avoidance. An unspoken agreement that they weren't going to be as obtuse as to pretend that 'friends' was a possibility. Instead, there had been distance. A chasm. An abyss that was open and bleeding, with a seemingly endless supply that simply refused to heal. She'd had a birthday, her twenty-sixth—and that had been a hard day—one of the worst. A day where she'd tried not to hope that Tom might acknowledge her existence. Knowing why he could not, and that it was for the best that they stick to this non-verbal agreement to make a 'clean break'. He'd had a birthday too—his thirty-third. That was a hard day too, but by far the worst was the impending port call to Pearl Harbor, on January 8th. The Vinson's victory lap to reward its sailors for their seventy extended days in support of Operation Enduring Freedom, and one hundred and eleven consecutive days spent at sea. It was a Tiger Cruise, and some nine hundred plus family members were set to embark for their last leg toward Naval Base San Diego, and then finally, Bremerton Naval Station. Her stop.

At least, the end was in sight—as in tomorrow. Tomorrow Vinson would conclude its three-day port call in Changi and set course to Pearl Harbor—without her. Had fixed it so she could stay on base and join a different ship because the one thing she couldn't do was be on Vinson with not only Tom but his wife and child. The child he hadn't even met yet.

And so, Sasha had occupied the cheap shitty bar, which stayed open year-round, situated just shy of a mile from base, raw, miserable, alone and nursing some whiskey. Counting the hours until he'd be gone, closer to praying than she'd ever been to reach that milestone without needing to look for this impossible thing called 'closure'. The universe, it seemed, would not be so kind. Spencer walked in, jovial and joking and if Spencer was here, that meant Tom was too. She downed the rest of the drink, throwing some cash on the bar-top, and kept her head down. Almost made it, but Tom rounded the doorway and instead of just keeping her damn head down, she'd looked up, only for their eyes to collide.

It was a mistake.

Despite how fast she'd disengaged and left, that damn uncanny sixth sense of his ended the careful dance in which they'd engaged for fifty-one days. At least, that's what Sasha assumed when he finally tracked her down. Found her, though she'd strolled over ten minutes into the beach park. Or maybe he was just pitying her—it was Christmas, after all.

She said nothing when Tom approached, kept fixed on the horizon that was steeped in inky blue. He wasn't. He was fixed on her, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, emitting an air of precedence that didn't quite fit… unless he'd somehow figured it out.

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question. The two words were flat. Stretching between them with a finality that echoed like stone casting against marble.

Did her best to maintain calm, even breaths while seeking him through her peripheral. Slow, cautious. Starting first at his feet, stood at the edge of the sand just like her, up his legs and then torso. Then to his face. Drenched handsomely in shadow by the streetlights erected at intervals throughout the park until finally meeting his eyes. Impossible, captivating, getting red in their whites and still feeling like home.

"Yes."

He blinked and then swallowed. The action seeming difficult for him like it had hurt before he bobbed his head in a kind of forced acknowledgment.

Angling her body to face him, she breathed, the last remnants of indecision escaping into the temperate air before plunging headfirst into the thing she was both afraid yet desperate to know. "If I hadn't missed your call at the beginning of March… if we'd been able to talk… would it have made a difference?"

That seemed to hit him, the crease in the center of his brow deepening while visible weight appeared to settle upon his shoulders. It took what felt like minutes for him to speak, and it held the force of a thousand words when it came. "No."

Oh.

Despite her efforts, Sasha's lip twitched, and she could feel the muscles quivering around her eyes. She looked toward the ocean again. Waiting for the knife to stop cutting. Acting as if the sound of the waves could somehow soothe the pain. Sat for the hundredth time with hardened regret and the knowledge that she should have been honest back in November, when he'd called on her birthday. Should have told him she had no idea what the hell she was doing. Admitted she was scared and felt inadequate. Tom would have listened—more than that—he would have understood it and then offered her yet more of his un-yielding but steady calm. His love. The very thing that both terrified and captivated. Could see that now.

"Not because I don't want you." His words stilled her breath, every cell in her body standing on end. "Because I figured out that it wouldn't work." He let that sit between them for several seconds before continuing. "Us is one thing, but a daughter?"

Cautious, Sasha made eye contact again. "You have your whole life ahead of you, Sash. All your dreams… being stationed overseas? Traveling in your downtime, trying a new city every couple years? I wouldn't be able to do that with you. Not with a kid whose mom lives in the States, who needs stability. Friends, grandparents, community. Two parents to provide that for her… and I have never wanted to be the reason you can't be exactly who you are. Even if that means letting you go."

Her tongue was wedged hard between her lip and teeth, nostrils flared while she fought with deep grit not to start crying again.

"You deserve so much more than I can give you. Someone who can make you their priority… and I can't. No matter how much I want to, I can't do that for you anymore."

Slowly she nodded, and it stung more deeply than Sasha had words to express to realize he was right. The last thing she wanted to accept as the truth, was. Tom was right. In the end, playing families with another woman's child at twenty-six when she'd barely lived yet, wasn't it.

Her jaw was clenched hard, and her response was forced through quivering lips. "I would have tried though."

That nearly broke his resolve. He'd lost the careful control over the set of his brow for a second and it had wrenched into something profoundly painful. "I know," he rasped. Needing to breathe and swallow before he could finish. "That's exactly why I'd say no. You and I both know you'd never be happy. Not like that."

She felt the two fat tears roll down her cheeks, too heavy to remain where they'd stubbornly clung. "But I could have been—with just you—I could have. I think it works for us. In another life."

His nostrils quivered, and he ducked his chin for a few moments before lifting it again. "Yeah—I think it does."

Unburying her hands from her own pockets, Sasha wiped her face. Taking a deep and steadying breath before smiling, the very act of it ripping her in two. Cautiously she approached, wanting at least to end this with more than a bitter heart aching statement. His eyes tracked her, but he didn't move. Peered down when she stopped, standing with mere inches of space between them. Watched her push onto her tiptoes, with one hand braced against his chest as she pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek. And maybe she lingered for a second more than was friendly—just to savor his essence, before drawing herself back. Placing a stride of healthy distance between them again. She was still human, and if that's all she could have, she wanted to take it.

"Goodbye, Tom." It was horribly strangled, and she forced the smile to stay. A brave face. A gesture she hoped would communicate that despite this all, she did love him and wish him the best. Hoped that one day, she could feel happy for him and truly mean it.

He looked like he was suffocating for air, and something snapped in his eyes. She saw it. An expression so earnest it shattered her, and in one stride he was framing her jaw and crushing his lips against hers. Desperate, and overwhelmed, and more, and for two seconds she waged a battle between head and heart, before letting herself be lost in it. In their last time. Melted into his embrace, trying to catalog every minuscule detail so she'd never forget—could brand her mind and keep it forever and have it be hers. Bereft when he found the strength to leave her lips, but not her—not yet, please, not yet—destroyed when he littered reverent, tender kisses against her face. Her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her forehead, everywhere he could reach skin while cradling her head between his hands like this was his dying breath, but then he forced himself to stop.

Tore himself away.

Walked with purpose in the bar's direction without looking back, and she knew he'd heard the awful little sound because his entire body tensed and he stopped. She hadn't meant to let it out, the peak was just unbearable and she held her breath while Tom seemed to take several of his own—shuddered and uneven based on his silhouette before he started walking again. Away. Away from her.

That was it.

It was done.

It was over.

December 13th, 2013—USS Nathan James, on course to New Orleans, Gulf of Mexico—2215 hours

Captain Chandler handed his vest to an awaiting sailor while Mike waited, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet with arms clasped behind his back, hiding in part the report clutched within his hands. Cooper acknowledged him politely when she passed. No more than a nod and facial gesture, as was customary, but the action of respect was appreciated, nonetheless.

"How was it?"

Tom answered with fatigue in his voice. "No go. It's run by good people, but there aren't nearly enough of them and they're starting to hear rumors about the immunes themselves—" Mike kept pace with Chandler as he moved through the bay "—how are we looking with those prisoners?"

"They're still not talkin' yet, but they will. In the meantime—somethin' came up while you were gone—"

"It usually does." Shot back dry.

"Neils is dead." That got Tom's attention, the Captain pausing and pivoting until he'd turned to give Mike his undivided attention. A move that drew a glance from Cooper, who was unloading ammo.

"How?" Tom asked quietly.

Mike made a 'hm' sound while his lip curled though devoid of humor. "Well, that's just it. Two of our three Doctors cannot concur whether it was an unanticipated reaction to the biopsy, or an unfortunate side effect from that blood transfusion we gave him. I'm having Garnett oversee the op rep, but—" Mike shrugged "—seems to me it's just an unfortunate situation… or not so unfortunate."

Tom's eyes flickered up and then down while he processed the implication of Mike's statement. The Captain pressed his lips into a line from their previously parted state and held his XO's gaze. A look that communicated he understood where this was going. That fatigue slipped beneath a growing vexation and without speaking, Tom stalked out of the bay toward, Mike assumed, the adjacent lab.