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Sasha was parked in the lot of a nearby clothes store—if—you could call it that. It was closer to a secondhand exchange of sorts. Post-plague fashion, like many other things, left a lot to be desired. Mayport was still re-developing. Better now that the base was employing so many folks and bringing traffic to the area. The small strip of restaurants and bars catered to its residents, along with a few retail stores, but the amenities were less robust than those in St. Louis. Even Norfolk at this point. Still, she'd found a few workable options that, most importantly, covered her neck. She keyed the passcode to Tom's phone and scrolled until she found Danny. It rang only three times before he picked up.

"Admiral."

"It's me."

There was shuffling, movement, and then silence. She imagined he'd relocated to a more private space.

"Hey, are you good? I caught the press briefing."

"Yeah. I'm good. I had to tell Reiss, but he doesn't know you were there. I told him I did it alone, and he didn't question it."

Danny let out the breath he'd been holding. Ever since Kara shared what had transpired after Sasha was taken, it had plagued him, and now they were stateside? Well. He'd seen the video just the same as everyone else. Kind of impossible not to... and he'd lied. Be it fear that she'd reject him, judge him, or regard him differently—he'd lied. Blamed his problems on all the other shit they'd endured, and he was scared shitless that his decision would come back to bite him in the ass. "And he just went with the spin?"

Sasha didn't need to be there to perceive Danny's skepticism. No one on the inside would label Reiss the picture of solidarity when it came to his military. "Of course not. He threatened to court-martial me, and then Tom basically told him if he did, he'd go to the press with everything. His part in covering, how long we've known Tavo was a threat, and that Reiss turned down the op to take him out."

There was a pause while Danny digested it. "Wow."

"Yeah. Anyway—that's not why I called. I have something for you and Rambo. I'm trying to bring Martinez up here, and if POTUS agrees, I need twenty-four-seven coverage. No one in and no one out."

"You're using him as bait?"

"Yup, and you know I don't trust anyone here."

"Alright. We can handle that. Just tell us when and where and we'll be there."

"Never doubted it. You guys figure out Christmas yet? The kids said Debbie was headed your way?"

She heard the smile and happiness in his voice when he answered. "Yeah, she just got here with Frankie. He's getting so big I hardly recognize him. Kara said she's almost done signing off on the repairs. She's catching a ride up on a cargo run tomorrow. What about you? Are the kids coming down?"

Sasha smiled, "They'll be here tonight. We're staying at Mike's for a while—until we can figure something out."

"How is he?"

"He's—coping. Andrea—" she broke off, trying to find a way to describe what it had been like to see her that way. "She's in bad shape. No change since they operated on her."

The silence hung between them. He didn't know what to say in response; Sasha understood that on a deep level because she didn't either. "Anyway, I'll let you know once I find out about our guest. I'll see you at the ceremony?"

"Yeah, we'll be there. I'll catch you later Coop."

She hadn't expected Ashley's tears nor the fierce hug from both kids that evening. An action which confronted her with reality. It hadn't been just Sasha for a long time now. She had two children that she'd spent three years helping to raise in the most heartbreaking of circumstances, and she loved them.

Loved.

An emotion heavier than the care and action toward their well-being and happiness she'd demonstrated. She, who'd lived more than twenty years believing such maternal feelings impossible in the wake of her own shattered childhood, understood. An extreme sense of responsibility and fierce protectiveness rose, moving mountains within her, and in the space of seconds, there was an epiphany. She was different. Changed. Her priorities had shifted, and she'd come dangerously close to losing her family.

Mike hadn't been able to hide the glassiness as he bore quiet witness from the kitchen. The four of them stood embraced in his living room. His gaze had drifted to the photograph of his own… lost, gone, missing.

Dead.

And he was glad, and jealous, and resentful, and relieved all at once that Tom still had that much love in his life.

Sunday, December 23rd, 2018—Naval Station Mayport, Florida

They were turned out, uniformed, and dressed in their best. There'd been speeches, eulogies, and posthumous awards for acts of gallantry. Their ships loomed, still anchored in their spots, scaffolded, and scarred from the acts of terror they'd endured. A befitting backdrop to a dock that bore witness to more than a thousand deaths.

He was getting too good at this, Tom thought. A singular idea at the forefront of his psyche while offering condolences; performed his duties front and center. Shook hands. Talked about the heroes... dying for the cause... Gave carefully crafted statements to the press and stood united with Josua Reiss, addressing the nation. But he was running on empty. His heart so heavy, he no longer remembered a time when it wasn't. The weight was an anchor; it dragged him down. But he'd abandoned his crew once before in his own selfish need to survive—he'd sworn never to do it again, and so he stood outwardly strong. Gave comforting looks, offered an understanding ear—served as their leader, and lifted them up when he wasn't sure how much more he could take—or give.

Later, after the formal engagements, the prying questions—'When did you marry your wife?', 'How did you meet?'—Tom stared at the amber liquid swirling within his glass, the different weights of fluid—melting ice vs. whiskey—battling in squiggly lines in its boundaries. He'd changed into some jeans and a black long sleeve which he'd pushed up to his elbows. Looked like a regular man, sat at a bar with a group of people who'd saved the world a few times over, albeit at great personal cost.

The owner was a patriot.

Drinks on the house, service members, and family only for the entire night. Unequivocally no press allowed, and the crew was making good use of it—they needed this. A moment to blow off steam in the five days' reprieve. A chance to decompress and reconnect before committing everything to another war.

The usual suspects were rowdy, loud, and drunk. Pablo fit right in. Couldn't believe how good he felt, and with liquid courage, he eyed that beautiful leggy brunette they called Brawler where she stood propped against a pool table. Always did have a thing for women like her. Feisty and deadly. Preferably with the face of an angel. Debbie was minding kids in a nearby home, along with a few others who didn't frequent bars, and Kara was still shocked by how dramatically her mother had changed. The Pandemic, for some, had almost been good. A catalyst for positive change that may otherwise not have occurred. Danny was here, he was safe—and he'd promised something special for their anniversary night. Something she hoped to receive in the early hours of midnight. So, while her heart ached, in particular for Alisha, she was also overwhelmingly grateful for what she still had. The gift of her husband and son that had been given in her darkest hour.

Now that Tom observed, the immediate grief had eased into a celebration of life. Maybe they were all getting too good at this. Without flinching he downed the drink and inclined his head at the bartender silently. Another round appeared mere seconds later, but before he continued, he frowned. He scanned the bar but came up empty. It was crowded, more bodies than seats and probably over fire code, but Sasha was unmistakable, and he'd find her anywhere. There was the immediate spark of concern, one that he curbed labeled as overreaction. For all he knew, she could be in the restroom. Gave it ten more minutes before letting that worry set in.

Sasha was usually in the thick of it—either hanging with Danny and Co. or Mike, but now, she was nowhere. Come to think of it; she'd been quiet and withdrawn. Remained hidden behind the Ray-bans he'd packed, thinking he might get some beach time—a laughable idea in hindsight—long after the ceremony. He'd chalked it up to stress, a touch of obvious melancholy. The nation was in mourning after all. But maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should have asked instead of assuming she'd been as steadfast as she always was at these events.

From his seat next to Kara, Danny noticed both Admirals move as though looking for someone.

Kara noticed his distraction, eyes hazy from the one shot too many, and she bit her lip, hiccupping slightly. "What?"

Her hand was suggestive at his thigh and were it not for curiosity and the hint of concern, he'd be hard-pressed not to capture her mouth in response.

"I don't know. Something's going on." He mumbled, indicating with his head for her to look.

When they reached the bar's patio, Tom spotted her. Down across the boardwalk and on the beach. The immediate fear settled. The irrational one that panicked and conjoured implausible, horrific scenarios that were frankly insane. Mike briefly touched his shoulder and ducked back inside.

Now on the sand, Tom reached out. Her shoes were off; jeans rolled up past her ankles and feet in the sand where the water lapped. They were buried, every wave sinking her deeper as they drew inland. It was cool out, low-sixties, and if Tom considered it cool, that meant Sasha was cold. The thin fitted turtleneck couldn't be doing much, even though it was long-sleeved. And her feet? Well, those had to be numb, and judging by the way she recoiled before she relaxed—she hadn't heard his approach.

Heat radiated at her back while Tom's hands settled on both the curve of her hip and her right bicep. Sasha kept her arms crossed, but she leaned into him, the scent of his rarely worn, and carefully conserved cologne so achingly familiar next to the sound of an ocean, it could almost have been twenty years ago. Her eyes squeezed shut against the surge of nostalgia as it tingled in the very tips of her fingers.

Tom let his thumb brush her arm—a comforting gesture. Something was happening for her, something deeper than obvious events, and more than anything, he wanted to help. His desire to share in her burdens ingrained as surely as the duty he upheld. It mattered to him. It always had. "You okay?"

Sasha shook her head. She wasn't okay, and she didn't want to lie about it this time. She was drowning. That drive, which pushed it all down in favor of running from mission to mission, wasn't enough right now. This was something she hadn't felt since Kathleen, coupled with the day's events and her epiphany all culminated into an intense, broken sadness. One that left her exposed and feeling every bit like the twelve-year-old girl. But she wasn't twelve anymore. This was thirty years later, and though she chided herself—it didn't help. Problem was, she didn't know how to express this or where to start, and her throat was lodged so tight she struggled to speak at all.

Tom waited, patient, his hand moving from her arm to her shoulder. Thumb brushing the bump of her spine. Listeening as she breathed, and the waves crashed, and the world turned.

When she did speak it was soft. "I didn't know he had a daughter." Almost lost to the night.

Tom did. He'd known for years. After making port in Norfolk, he'd endeavored to speak with each crew member regarding their families. Believed it right when they'd remained loyal with nothing but blind faith to serve the mission. A different kind of ache flared in the center of Tom's heart. In the twenty-two years since they'd met, Sasha had talked about her childhood precisely twice. Once when she'd coldly explained that her father was dead, and mother estranged, and the second a little over two years ago—when she'd offered that they never reconciled.

Sasha felt him shift behind her until his arm encircled her waist and the other covered her still folded arms. His warmth was all-encompassing. A physical reminder that she wasn't alone anymore, despite how keenly she felt it at times.

"This is about your dad?" It was quiet, his cheek now resting against her crown while he sat with the uncomfortable feeling of not being able to heal these particular wounds for her.

Yes, and no. Though she didn't say that. Had swallowed against the horrible knot instead. Her father wasn't the problem. He'd died, she'd been angry, and then she'd accepted it. Her mother was. And as Sasha watched that little girl sat in a chair, alone, holding a flag and her father's service medal—a posthumous purple heart—all she'd been able to see was herself.

Twelve. Lost. Scared.

Heartbroken and so terribly lonely. Silent while she waited for someone to hold her. Someone to tell her it was going to be okay. It never came, and Sasha couldn't believe how much that still hurt. Despised that a ghost could still hold this kind of power. The night she'd discovered her father, her mother had offered no comfort. Left her to go visit a 'friend' after the police had taken his body. Sasha had cried and clung to a bear he'd won at a state fair when she was younger. Waited all night for her mother's return. She didn't for over a day. After the funeral, shortly after his casket was lowered, and the small group of mourners disbursed, Sasha had sat alone on the church bench—told the priest not to worry because mommy would be back soon—any moment now… she'd clung to the bear. Waited long enough that the priest had to make a call and she'd been handed back sometime in the early hours of dawn. There'd been no explanation, not to her at least. And when the police left mommy had only said—'You're too old to have bears'—and taken it from her before removing every trace of her father from their home.

When Sasha didn't answer, Tom peered down, seeing her difficulty. Her jaw was clenched tight, nostrils flared and wobbling as she stared out at the ocean. "She left me at the church right after the service." The strain in her voice—the sheer sadness of it—broke his heart. His brows knotted. Her mother left her? She'd spared no specifics in the past about their 'difficult relationship' the exact verbiage she'd used to describe it. In his wildest dreams, he hadn't imagined this as their story.

"She said she'd be right back, and I waited for hours… she never came—I was all alone—the police took me back, but she never—" she halted. "I don't know why." Broken questions she'd only ever asked herself clawed at her throat, the ache of them unbearable. The harsh, stabbing nature of abandonment reducing her to a point where all she wanted to do was cry like the broken child she'd been. Her heart yearned for it, eyes burned, felt how her entire body fought with her to do it. But she refused. Didn't want to give her mother that power. Sasha loved Tom's kids, yet her own mother didn't want her. Flesh and blood. She didn't want it to matter, but it did.

Saying 'I'm sorry' in response seemed trivial. The concept was incomprehensible. His childhood had been filled with nothing but love—even his perceived difficulties with his father were rooted firmly in the knowledge that William Jedidiah Chandler only wanted the best for his son. Tom may have rebelled, felt pressured, or unheard at times, but not for a second did he doubt that his father loved him.

Tom rubbed her back and pressed his lips into her hair. "It's okay to cry, Sash," he murmured, and for a second, he thought she would. Instead, she shook her head. The movement sharp.

Pain rocketed through the nerve in Sasha's molar when she bit down, a welcomed distraction from the agony of her mother's rejection. She was pulling herself away. Not harshly, but with purpose. Digging her feet out of the sand and moving until Tom had no choice but to let her go or find his shoes and socks drenched.

For a moment, he'd almost chosen the latter.

"Let's just go back inside," she said, gathering up her boots and making a beeline for the street.

Tom hesitated, torn between unease and the relief that she'd at least communicated with him, but if this is what she wanted, he wasn't going to argue. They paused on the boardwalk, long enough for her to dust off her feet and put her shoes on before they re-joined the group. Mike inclined his head when he spotted them. He was still at the bar minding Tom's abandoned drink. The crowd parted as he led them through, a benefit he supposed of his rank. Mike was accompanied by Russ, who graciously offered his seat, a gesture Sasha would typically decline, but her ankle throbbed from standing all day.

She acted like she didn't see the silent exchange between the three men. Guess it must be written on her face then. She gestured for the bartender, focus upon forgetting. Forgetting would happen at the bottom of a bottle—that's how it worked.

By the third round in fifteen minutes, Tom's worry had engulfed his soul as he watched Sasha stare at that glass like it held answers to questions she couldn't find. She said nothing, and at some point, Tom made the decision that if this was what she needed, they should be in a booth and not sat at the bar. Gesturing to Mike, Tom side-eyed the one unoccupied by Diaz, Kat, and some newer enlisted in favor of a game of pool. Mike went and claimed it, while Tom sighed and coaxed Sasha to move.

"Come on," he said.

Now seated in the booth, from her peripheral, Sasha saw Tom go back to the bar. There was a brief conversation with the bartender before two bottles were produced. They made a clink when they hit the table, and something about that was satisfying to her. Or maybe she was just looking for any distraction. Trying not to focus on how much it touched that he'd figured out what she needed from him. Sasha drowned her remaining whiskey, and before she'd been able to reach, Tom was unscrewing the cap on one of those bottles and topping her up. Her lip trembled. Vision blurring until it was nothing but a jumbled mess of colors. Amber, walnut, and black. All swimming. Still, she fought. Bit back on that tooth just to jostle the nerve.

Opposite her, Mike's head bobbed. His expression was a little pained but not pitying, and he poured some for himself. Tom declined without speaking—a small shake of his head when Mike tipped the bottle toward the only empty glass left. Now settled back against the leather-padded bench, Tom crossed his arms. The table was just high enough for him to prop one foot against the opposite side underneath, so he did. Stuck in for the long haul. He'd strategically sandwiched her between him and the exposed brick wall. Protection—as much as she'd let him provide—from prying eyes.

In the end, that's what got her. Or so she tried to convince herself.

Perhaps the next half bottle had helped; decimated what little remained of her fight.

Mike tended his own business, keeping focus on the room while sipping, but Tom remained steadfast beside her. Knowing. Loyal. Patient in his comfort, and it was everything she so desperately loved about him that forced her to surrender. In silence at first, staring at the glass. Was this number Six? Seven? She'd lost count, and that didn't include the drinks from before. Figured she'd probably vomit soon.

Tom, who'd been unseeing as he stared at a spot beyond Mike's head, noticed the change in his friend's expression. Profoundly sad. It prompted him to glance left. Felt heat behind his own eyes when he saw there were tears streaming down Sasha's face, and that same need to protect meant he couldn't sit passively anymore.

Gently he pried the glass from her fingers. "It's alright," he murmured.

She took a shuddering breath and pushed her face into his shoulder. Mike withdraw to give them space, and Tom shifted until his back was turned to the room, and she was secure in his arms. Sasha made a small noise; one she hadn't been able to contain that shot through him, so he placed a kiss on her temple and cupped the back of her head. "It's okay."

Danny approached Slattery once he was clear and away. He'd been watching for a while—nursing his beer and politely continuing with the surrounding conversation but distracted. Sobered, even. Out of earshot, somewhere close to the restrooms, Danny leaned against the wall. Every inch of his concern reflected.

"You know what's going on?"

Slattery clenched his jaw and shook his head. "Hasn't said a word."