Sasha couldn't remember the last time she'd been this hung-over. Well, she could—but didn't want to. There'd been a time in Hong Kong at Jesse's penthouse. When finally, she'd been able to reach Chris' phone months after the fact. The voicemail recording had played. She missed his voice, it had pretty much gone downhill from there. She'd drunk herself into oblivion while Jesse did the same and then woke up the next day and pressed on.

"There's water and Advil on the nightstand—trashcan next to you if you need."

How did he do that? Know she was awake before she'd even opened her eyes or moved for that matter.

Tom watched as she took his not-so-subtle advice and retrieved them, movements sluggish and careful, probably thanks to the nausea.

"What time is it?" she asked, voice hoarse as she propped herself up against the headboard and clutched the glass.

"A little after eight."

She didn't respond, took another sip instead, and frowned against the way her gut churned. With eyes closed again, she let her head fall back. Thoughts floating and hazy while she connected the dots. Him coaxing her to leave not long after she'd given up. Walking back to Mike's—his place was only a fifteen-minute jaunt, and somewhere in that period between leaving the bar and waking up, the memories ceased. Stiffening, Sasha opened her eyes again, wearing her mortification. "Did the kids—" he shook his head, cutting her off.

"They were already asleep by the time we got back. Still are."

He'd propped himself on an elbow, and only then did she notice how tired he looked; like he hadn't slept at all. Wasn't under the covers with her but resting on top of them, and though he wasn't dressed for the day yet, he'd clearly been awake for some time… or maybe he really hadn't slept.

"I'm sorry."

His frown wasn't what she'd expected.

"For what?"

Nor the question.

Was it not obvious? Acting like an out-of-control teen who'd broken into their parent's liquor cabinet was a poor look. Nor did it embody the image she wanted for herself. The one she convinced herself personified being strong. Sasha squinted, her lips quirking in a way that asked if he was being serious, and Tom sighed in response—through his nose.

"You're a human being, Sasha. You're not perfect." The reminder was gentle.

How many times had she said this to others? Him, even. Yet still, Sasha couldn't accept that. Not with this subject, at least. Swallowing, Sasha trailed her gaze down to study the comforter. An action that typically meant she wasn't going to internalize what he was saying but wouldn't argue either.

"How come you never told me?" he asked softly.

There was hesitation before she shrugged. Flutters of her eyelashes. "Because it doesn't matter. I'm hardly the first person who had a screwed-up childhood, Tom."

There she was. Classic Sasha. Minimize and deflect. And if everything about her hadn't started to make so much damn sense, Tom may have been frustrated. Perhaps even annoyed that she always seemed to go in circles when it came time to deal with her shit.

And god damn it, she could already feel her throat getting tight again. A flicker of something passed across her face before she wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Took another sip of water to shrug off the way her skin crawled whenever she was exposed like this. Clearly, she had more issues than she'd been willing to admit. Deep-rooted ones and she was more than aware this would remain untouched had the world not ended. Sasha always thrived best in burying her hurt. Problem was, burying didn't work anymore, not with him at least.

Tom's hand came to rest on her thigh through the comforter, and he squeezed. A move that was comforting in nature before he sighed and dropped the subject. She'd tried. She'd communicated, and he didn't have to force it out of her. That was progress. The Sasha of old would have bailed to go drown her sorrows alone and come back the next day more hidden and polished than ever... and maybe he was being selfish, but the redness in her eyes was getting worse, and he just didn't think he could take it again less than eight hours later. He was still rubbed raw from watching it last night. The real tears hadn't started until they'd left—he'd already been half carrying her when she'd crumbled and after twenty minutes of that, stopped somewhere between Mike's and the bar, he'd decided to pick her up. Bridal style because throwing her over his shoulder would surely end with vomit on his back, and Tom was reasonably certain Sasha didn't remember that part. Nor when her alcohol loosened lips had outright asked him what was so wrong with her that her own mother didn't love her, followed by an hour of holding her hair back while she sobbed over the toilet.

"You think you can eat? Mike made eggs—"

"No, I'm okay. Thank you, though."

"Alright." He drew his hand away and left the bed. CNO didn't get the luxury of Christmas eve, not during war anyway. Tom should have been there over an hour ago, but everyone important had seen Sasha tucked into his side when they'd left—he was due a little grace.

"Tom—"

He paused, turning back when she grabbed his forearm. A move very unlike her. She appeared to debate her next words; readable and transparent in her fear.

"Are we okay?" His confusion must have shown because she quickly elaborated, "About what happened… with Martinez." Torn by the shadow which passed over his features at the mere mention of it.

Tom let his face soften and moved to cup her cheek. Ran his thumb across it as he felt his heart pull. She was so goddamn beautiful, and he wished she could see that.

"We're okay, Sash," he reassured.

"Oh. Hey," Sam called from the sofa. He was playing a video game on an old PlayStation Mike had tracked down as his gift. Given early to make up for them all being busy over the past few days. He grabbed the remote and turned it down, "Sorry, I didn't know you were still here."

It was a little past mid-day. She still felt like shit, but the immediate nausea had eased enough for her to get up and around. "Believe it or not, I have the next two days off," she said, raising her brows when he glanced in a move that stressed how exciting that prospect was. Sam grinned in response, but his attention was quickly drawn back to his game, thumbs hammering at buttons with intent concentration, but apparently, whatever he'd intended to do, hadn't gone well because he let out a frustrated moan, and the screen read 'wasted'. Sasha sat beside him, spreading the available throw over her legs.

"Where's your sister?"

"She went to hang out with Diaz and Kat… and probably face-time with Justin." The second part of his response said with a conspiratorial tone. He put his controller down on the coffee table.

Sasha's smile was knowing. "So that's still a thing, huh?"

Sam's eyes got round and big and he nodded in an exaggerated manner, not hiding that he wasn't a fan of their over-the-top declarations of love. After letting her smile linger, and her amusement show, Sasha sobered a little. "I heard about what happened—with that kid at school..."

Sam's demeanor changed. Features shrinking like he was trying to tuck in on himself. "Ashley said she told you…"

Sasha gave what she hoped was an encouraging look. "You really wanna move to St. Louis?" Sam studied her for a moment, before giving a small nod—seeming regretful and very guilty. Reaching out, she patted his shoulder; didn't want him to feel that way for expressing what he wanted. "It's okay. You don't have to feel bad, Sam. I get it."

After taking time to think, Sam's skepticism softened and he decided to just be honest. "It's nothing to do with Dad. I just miss being around my friends there, and it's kind of easier, you know?"

Sasha tilted her head to show she was listening, though maybe not fully understanding. "How so?"

"Most kids at that school have parents that served or still do. Everyone expects me to be more like him. Like… smarter than I am or something. No one did that in St. Louis, they really didn't care who I was."

Sasha gave a soft nod, could see how Sam would struggle under that kind of pressure. He was a sweet and sensitive soul, more like Darien, she assumed. Ashley had been the one to inherit her father's tendency to dive headfirst into impassioned decisions. She was not easily steered; entirely stubborn and cared little for others' opinions of her—but at barely seventeen, she still had a long way to go in learning to control those passions, use them for good instead of destruction.

"Well, your Dad and I are gonna need to be here for a while—I was thinking I'd have a chat with him. Steer him in the direction of you going back with Ashely?"

Sam's brows rose, his whole expression hopeful before he seemed to temper that reaction a little. "Really? You don't think he'll be upset?"

"I think he'll understand that it'll be easier for you to be somewhere familiar than in Florida. Especially given the way things are right now. I know I don't like the thought of you being here alone if we both need to leave for a mission—reality is, that's not really our choice anymore. Not when we're at war."

Sam communicated his understanding nonverbally and chewed his lip a little. "You think he'll be okay though?"

Her smile was reassuring. "He'll miss you, I will too. It's not ideal. It's not what we want, and you know we don't agree with some of the changes Oliver made… but if it's good for you, and it makes you happy—that's what matters." She paused to let him digest. "Plus, you'll be graduating in seven months—you were planning on going to college there anyway, right?" The more she thought about it, the more it made logical sense. Even if she still couldn't grapple with sixteen now being considered an 'adult' by legal definition. Nor wrap her head around the idea that he'd reach that milestone next July.

Sam nodded again. "I know. I just don't want him to think it's his fault. I wish Ashley never said that thing about Mom." He mumbled the last part, eyes sad. Sasha sighed, the damage that fight had done to Tom still ached. Probably always would.

Sasha reached out and ruffled his hair. "Me too, Sammy. But he'll be okay, I'll make sure of it."

Tuesday, December 25 th, 2018—Slattery Residence, Mayport, Florida

Mike and the Chandlers were gathered around the table, sufficiently full and engaged in a game of cards when the call had come. Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd been so scared to pick up his phone, knew there could be no other reason for it. Tom didn't need to ask; the loss of color was enough to clue him in. Sensing the dramatic shift in mood between their Dad, Sasha, and Uncle Mike, Ashley and Sam quieted the banter they'd been having over the last round.

"This is Mike Slattery,"

"Sam, Ash—" Tom said, gesturing with his head for them to follow. They did without question and moved into the living room to give Mike space. Sasha hovered in the threshold with Tom, waiting. Hoping this wasn't the call they'd been silently dreading.

"I'll be right there."

Sasha sucked on her cheeks, the set of her brow empathetic and worried. A quick glance at Tom showed he was right there with her before Mike stood and turned to them both. His eyes were misty, and Sasha's heart plummeted.

A slow smile spread over his face. "She's waking up. There's brain activity."

The relief was night and day. Audible as both she and Tom exhaled in unison. Sasha made a noise akin to a scoff. Couldn't believe it. All the things she thought to say were silenced in favor of embracing Mike in a fierce hug. A triumphant laugh came from Mike; it was a miracle. A goddamn Christmas miracle—and he ducked his head into her shoulder while Tom came over and grabbed his shoulder. Sam and Ashley were beaming on the sofa.

Rightfully, Mike left for the hospital—would still take a few days for Andrea to fully come around, and there was still the matter of what kind of shape she'd be in when that happened. But he'd walk this path with her—however long it took. Nothing like a life or death situation to fix your priorities—at least that's what Mike told himself. The first thing he intended to do was tell Andrea exactly what she meant to him. How much he loved her, preferably in the form of a proposal. Maybe seeing his best friend lose it all for that hellish sixteen hours had helped. Hell, maybe the whole thing. If anything, Columbia's attack had solidified one fact: tomorrow wasn't guaranteed, and Mike wanted to live in today. For the first time in a long, long time, he wanted to move forward. And he was ready to do that—with Andrea—preferably for the rest of his life.

He wasn't stuck anymore.

After Mike left, the Chandlers paid a visit to the Greens—a short ten-minute walk south of Mike's. There was a standing invitation. Come any time after five and stay as long as you'd like. Judging by the turnout, it was quite the place to be; they were sprawled in the garden—their home was a little more modest than Mike's but had the benefit of Debbie living next door. Miller and the Burk brothers were already there hanging with Pablo; by the laughs and ruckus, it seemed he had no trouble fitting in.

Ashley mumbled something about texting Kat and Diaz to see if they were planning on coming and excused herself. Sam, who still thought Carlton and Danny were the coolest people to walk the earth went over to sit with the group.

Tom swept a hand down Sasha's back. "I'm gonna grab a drink—you want anything?"

"No, I'm okay." In truth, she was still feeling a little green around the gills. From the other end of the Green's yard, she could hear Frankie giggling. Danny pushing him on the swing set he'd built for Christmas. Sasha walked over, a look of content upon her face. "It came out great," she offered in greeting. He'd been working on it for months in-between missions, more than anything had wanted to make it back in time to assemble it himself and experience first hand his Son's excitement. Apparently, Danny had been so engrossed, he hadn't noticed her approach. Something about that warmed her soul, that he was present enough to be engaged in this one-act completely.

"Hey. I didn't see you come in." Danny straightened, looking around until he spotted Chandler on the deck talking to Kara. Sasha watched the concern morph his features which had been happy and relaxed before he spoke low. Like they were about to have a secret conversation when really, they weren't—it just seemed like the natural thing to do because he was unsure.

"Is everything okay?"

For a second Sasha was confused until she remembered everyone had still been at that bar. A vague recollection of standing next to Tom—or maybe being held up by him—and Danny being there came to mind. When she didn't answer, he elaborated.

"At the bar I mean… you were pretty upset—I tried to ask but—" he trailed off, caught somewhere between minding his own business but wanting to know because he cared. "Admiral wouldn't let anyone near you. Slattery either."

There was the barest shake of her head, a soft exhale through her nose—nothing about that surprised her. Tom was… well, he was Tom. Fiercely protective of the things he loved and highly vulnerable over anything that dealt with his family. She smiled, small and grateful for Danny's concern, and then did something different. Opened up a little and told the truth. Seemed silly in hindsight to hide when he'd been there with her in Panama at her worst.

"I'll be fine. Rios' daughter got to me—" she broke off and sighed, looked over to Tom who chose that moment to shift his eyes away from Kara toward her. It still made her feel special when he did that and the warmth she found there chased away the chill. "I guess it just caught up to me." She finished, turning her attention back to Danny.

His eyes narrowed in understanding, and then a hint of amusement colored them. "Well, you need to hurry up and get a phone—cause I have to tell you, calling the CNO to speak to his wife? That's awkward as hell."

Sasha laughed. She'd known Tom so long the enigma of his rank had zero effect. Nor his admittedly commanding, reserved, and authoritative demeanor. It hadn't since they'd crossed that line, but she sometimes forgot how other people saw him. That they couldn't see that he was more than anything, a gentle and patient man at his soul. Even all these years later, Danny couldn't shake the air of intimidation he felt around Chandler. Probably good because it led to healthy respect, and that's how it ought to be—despite being close with his wife.

"I'll pick up a temporary one this week. Reiss approved the op late last night."

Danny pushed Frankie back, bending at the knees to put his weight behind it, and the little boy squealed in delight. With a smirk and quirk of his head, he looked at her. "Go time."