an. So this update took a little longer because work has started picking back up. A good thing, but also leaves me with a lot less free time between useless zoom meetings. There are even rumors that we may be returning to an office soon! I can't believe it's been a year already since we went into lockdown and almost a year since I stumbled upon this show. Anyway, this is a ramble. I am pretty excited about this chapter, it's been planned since the beginning of Halcyon.

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Saturday, February 9th, 2019—Chandler Rental, Mayport, Florida

Very few things had the ability to dumbfound Tom Chandler. Render him mute, and without thought or ability for reaction. Morbidly, he thought perhaps the only way he could ever be more shocked, would be if Darien showed up alive at their doorstep. She was no Darien, that much was sure—and though he'd never met, or even seen this woman before—there could be no mistaking her identity. No possible question whatsoever, because he was staring at the face of his wife in twenty or so years. For a few very long seconds, Tom truly considered slamming the door. This could not come at a more disastrous time, but the idea died quickly under the knowledge that if she'd been this persistent, as to find out where they lived, she likely wasn't leaving empty-handed. Further, if Sasha inherited her level of stubborn from anyone, Tom had the sneaking—and sinking—suspicion he was looking at whom.

"Tom?" He heard from the hallway, concern evident in her tone, footsteps drawing closer, and he could only picture the car crash about to ensue. Stood there, waiting for it to unfold rooted to the spot. Dumbfounded.

Sasha's frown grew deep when she rounded the hall and saw him rigid in the doorway, knuckles white where he gripped the door handle. The feet of what appeared to be a woman were visible through the gap in his legs, couldn't tell who though, because his body was blocking their torso and face. She picked up the pace, ducking around his left shoulder. "What's goi—" her mouth stayed open, but the words stopped. Couldn't even blink for the monumental mind-fuck she was experiencing.

"Hello, Aleksandra."

Tom felt a chill run down his spine. That voice still laced with a Russian accent. Those eyes, one hundred percent identical to his wife's save for the cold, hard, deadness behind them. Fuck.

Sasha felt the tremor starting steadily in the depths of her body, blood pressure dropping until she feared she'd pass out. There was a distinct narrowing and blackening of her vision as if she'd arisen too quickly from a bed, a telltale buzzing in her ears that pulsed with every pump of her heart. More than anything, Sasha did not want to drop because her mother had shown up on their doorstep. With stark clarity, as Sasha stared cold and unrelenting at the woman who'd broken her so irreparably, she found there was only one thing she could say.

"Ты должна была остаться мертвой, мама." Sasha snatched the door from Tom's grasp, forcefully enough to cause the adjacent paned windows to rattle in their frames, and whether the registering of her comment or the resounding nature of that slam, Tom was ripped from his stupor. An all-encompassing dread engulfed him as he watched her tear a path through the hallway and up the stairs. Fuck.

Sasha's hands shook as she splashed ice-cold water on her face and took deep breaths to dispel the light-headedness. Hunched over the sink, she tried to reconcile how she was so affected—still. A light tap on the door and the sound of knuckles dragging against it—likely to test the door handle, she assumed—told her Tom was outside. And while part of Sasha wanted to open it and start wailing for him to fix it like he did everything else, the larger part wanted to act like this wasn't happening. Go back to five minutes ago when their Saturday had been perfectly benign, leading to a far more productive outcome for all.

"Sasha."

"I'm fine." It was flat. Decisive. She stared into the mirror only to see her mother's eyes burning back at her, and she couldn't stand it. Snatching a hand towel, she dried her face and rejected her treacherous reflection to lean against the vanity, attempting to comprehend, well, anything. How this was even possible.

"Sasha—" Every syllable of that word was dripping with care, and she hated it. "You just told your mother she should have died… you're not f—"

The lock turned; door ripped open to reveal Sasha in a picture of stark fury. "Are you serious?" She pointed at him. "You can't tell me I'm not fine when you won't even talk to me! You've barely said two words to me since that op—you won't sleep, you won't call Grantham, and you're telling me I'm the one who's not fine? The only thing that isn't fine is you, Tom—so don't try and 'Sasha' me, and ma—"

Tom held up his hands to cut her off mid-tirade. An attempt to placate and prevent this from spiraling beyond control. "Okay," he assured her. "It's okay—I heard you. We'll talk."

Sasha scoffed. "Just like that?" Venomous as much as sarcastic. "I've only been asking you for a month and now suddenly you'll talk."

She was right. Tom knew that. Knew it was hypocritical, but there was no choice but to move forward with honesty. "Yeah, Sash—if it stops you from doing this, I will." It did little to dampen the flames.

"This?" she prompted, raising her brows.

"Burying—"

"Oh—" came her sarcastic chuckle, "—that's rich Thomas. Truly."

He didn't take the bait, knowing well by now the tricks of her trade. The only way to de-escalate fire was to add water, not more gasoline. A concept that had taken them quite a few tries over the years to figure out. Taking her face between his hands, Tom implored her. "I promise I will talk to you—but we need to deal with this... not pretend like it didn't happen."

Seemingly on cue, the doorbell chimed again, and her mother's voice came dulled, but discernable nonetheless.

"Don't be a child, Aleksandra. Open the door."

Sasha's nostrils flared, and she pushed past Tom with a ferocity rarely seen, leaving him little option but to follow. With the door open again, Sasha addressed her mother. "I don't know why you're here, I don't care, and I'm not interested in talking—so leave."

Tom stood at her side while he struggled to come up with a game plan rapid-fire to deal with this bombshell of a revelation. Ideas that we interrupted when he saw her mother's reaction—if Tom thought the physical similarities were unnerving, the mannerisms were even more so.

Completely un-perturbed, Sasha's mother merely tilted and then shook her head, made a 'tst' noise in the back of her throat. "You were always too emotional. I see it hasn't changed—"

"Hey." His voice came in a raspy warning, reeling over her harsh and demonstrative nature. He peered down at her, noting that she was roughly two inches taller than Sasha. "I think you're a little confused about how this is gonna work." Her mother's brow quirked, and that icy gaze affixed itself to him, almost eviscerating with its scathing hollowness. Oddly, Tom was having a hard time remembering the last time anyone had been able to acutely unsettle him with a single gaze. It had been a while, probably since he'd looked Alison Shaw in the eye and found nothing but death. Tom told himself it was because he knew the kind of damage this woman could do, but there was something else he couldn't put his finger on. Displaying nothing but insurmountable composure, he continued. "She said she doesn't wanna talk—so go."

There was an almost rolling of eyes. "Fine." But instead of walking away, she pulled out her cell and began dialing.

Sasha clenched her jaw "What are you doing?"

"There's a reporter, they've been aski—"

Sasha snatched the phone out of her hand. "Stop," she bit out, mouth clenched tight while she fought to remain in control. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk—now let me in, or you want to keep making a scene?"

Tom was quietly considering pinching himself to verify his reality. Sasha's mother, in their living room, making no attempt to hide her blatant pursual of their surroundings. Behavior which gave Tom the immediate urge to correct by way of removing the dozen or so photographs adorning the room; decoration that had only been added a week ago.

Her mother was strikingly beautiful still, even in her sixties. A little more square in the jaw, harsher angles, and more prominent cheekbones—kept in good shape, silvery-gray hair fastened into a neat, low chignon. If he had to guess, she'd had work done prior—good work—subtle, yet enough to remain more youthful than nature intended. Her style was elegant, age-appropriate but not aging. Classy. Had the same ability to make simple pairings, in this case, a three-quarter length, cashmere Tom thought, and basic well-tailored trousers seem elevated. She sat perfectly poised on their sofa. Legs crossed, hands clasped over her knee—back straight as a rod—austere, and utterly devoid of soul.

It became apparent as he observed, waiting with low-grade anxiety for what would unfold, that Sasha's mother had been dead inside for a very long time. Those normally positive attributes like elegance and beauty only added vast juxtaposition to her stark frostiness. Whatever she was here for, it was clear remorse would not factor.

Unsure whether to sit or stand, Sasha oped for an adjacent armchair, prompted by prevailing lightheadedness. Behind her, Tom loomed. Formidable, arms folded across his chest. Her mother was scrutinizing him as if expecting him to leave, or perhaps waiting for her to command it—Sasha wasn't quite sure, but it wasn't a pleasant expression.

Returning those caustic eyes toward her daughter, she drawled sarcastically, "Вы нашли телохранителя." You've found a bodyguard.

"Ты точно знаешь, кто я.," Tom fired back. You know exactly who I am.

The brow moved again, this time with a modicum of interest. "He speaks Russian."

"Why are you here?" Came Sasha's blunt response, giving no energy toward the games.

With a bored look, it seemed her mother accepted that she wouldn't control this visit entirely, and she seemed to settle for moving to the point. "Because I want to know how they got you."

Sasha couldn't help the squint of confusion. "Who?"

Her mother tilted her head again, taking a long enough moment to study that Sasha was about to ask again.

"You don't know?"

Unable to stop the frustration, Sasha rolled her eyes. "I don't have time for this—"

Her mother appeared to be genuinely perplexed. "They didn't recruit you... you work only for America?"

Sasha felt—or sensed, rather—the massive shift behind her. Tom let out a long breath that was more of a groan, arms unfolding to curl his hands around the wicker chair hard enough to make it creak. "You're were a plant," he rasped. "You're goddamn KGB."

Oh, the irony.

Sasha waited with bated breath for the reaction—no more than a steady blink and an almost imperceptible nod, and when it came it was like wind being kicked from her lungs. In a breathy way, Sasha clarified, stunned. "The whole time?"

"I was sent because your father had clients of—particular interest," she responded, delineating the boundaries on how much information she'd divulge.

There was that buzzing again, blackening of vision. It fit. It made sense. She'd been born in the heart of the cold war. Mouth open, as if wanting to speak, Sasha shook her head. "So none of it was real—"

"It was a cover. You ought to understand given your choice of profession—ironic, no?"

Sasha's eyes fluttered, and her brows rose. "No, actually. I can't—"

"This—" her mother pressed undeterred, sweeping her hand in a vague gesture toward the room, those pictures, to Tom, "—this is real?"

"Why wouldn't it be," Sasha responded clipped. "I am nothing like you."

A hint of amusement seemed to pass across her mother's features, and it was wrong. "Don't be so sure. You were willing to die for your war—throw this away. Where I'm from that is admirable. I did my job, and I did it well." Her gaze flickered up to Tom, a small shift where Sasha's mother observed the way his chin lowered. How the muscle in his jaw bulged while he clenched.

A feeling of nausea washed over Sasha, and she ground her teeth. Feeling itchy and uncomfortable. The magnitude of coincidences that had to occur seemed impossible. Sicked by discovering she'd effectively chosen the same path as her mother.

"Did he know?" Sasha finally prompted after a time. There was a look that she couldn't quite interpret before her mother answered.

"No. He thought I was having an affair—"

"With Richard—" Sasha interjected. Everything was starting to make sense. Vague recollections shifting with this new perspective, like pieces in a kaleidoscope—the image becoming clearer and clearer with every passing focus. "He was your handler." It wasn't a question, more of a statement, but her mother responded nonetheless.

"Yes."

"And the night Dad died?"

"I had to report in."

Sasha leaned back, folding her arms while she processed. Her shoulder touched Tom's fingers, and she willed herself not to react because the way his thumb was now stroking in a small gesture of comfort threatened sentimentality she couldn't afford. "He was a good man, and you never cared," Sasha ground out. "And me? Did you think you could just leave me at the church, and I wouldn't be a problem for you anymore?"

Her mother gave a negligible external reaction. A slight puckering of her lips. "We tried to leave. He had a plan to get us out—"

"Richard?" Sasha's tone was indignant, blinking against the fiery hurt that bloomed in her chest. "You were together? You wanted to get out, and you didn't want to take your own child with you?" Her pitch constricted toward the end, and Tom shifted on his feet.

"I gave everything to my country—you have no idea the sacrifice involved. You cannot imagine what they do—"

"You're my mother!" Sasha wasn't able to stop herself, hoping against reality that she might get something out of this conversation other than the same empty rejection she'd always received. Foolish, in hindsight.

"That's supposed to matter to me?"

Something glacial and close to hatred flaring steadily throughout Tom's system, and he removed his grip, placing his hand on Sasha's shoulder instead.

Her expression twisted at those words. "I was twelve—you wouldn't even let me keep a picture." Hating the way her voice became tight and low. How deeply it cut. Stung. Like salt in a wound.

Her mother responded quickly and sharp, "Saška, I made you strong—you would have wallowed. His drinking was his own problem, not mine." Definitive—almost like she was proud.

Sasha's jaw ticked, but she said nothing. Effectively rendered mute. It's not that she didn't know her mother's propensity for cruelty, but something deep in her soul had wondered—hoped—that she wasn't this devoid. Sociopathic. Sasha's heart, if anything, was a stubborn creature; it refused to surrender certain notions—the minuscule hope that she'd been wrong about what happened being one. But Sasha could see it now, clear as day. Her mother didn't love her because she wasn't wanted. She was the product of a mission. Nothing more. In some ways, that concept was more difficult to swallow than simply not knowing at all.

Tom was stunned. He got it now. Where Sasha came up with the—at times—insane tenacity against letting anyone in. Why she strived to leave everyone before they could leave her. It wasn't that she wouldn't trust, or didn't want to—she simply couldn't. Where before, he'd wondered if that was a stubborn choice, for the first time in his life, Tom felt he understood exactly how Sasha came to be.

Her body felt disconnected as if she were watching from the corner of the room. Calmly, Sasha smoothed her hands over her jeans and stood, Tom's hand falling away and trailing down her back. "I don't even know your real name, do I?"

Her mother mirrored the gesture, also standing, chin held high, with her dignity seemingly intact, and Sasha scoffed; refused to process how that made her feel. To know that her mother wasn't affected at all by their past or this interaction. The pain was almost unbearable.

"No. You don't."

Sasha rose her brows and tipped her head a fraction in acknowledgment while running her tongue across her teeth. Folded her arms. "We're done here—I don't know what you're running from, or what you're trying to achieve... and I sure as hell don't care." She paused. "You got what you came for."

They regarded each other. Sasha worked incredibly hard against the vice in her throat to remain externally composed. Her mother cast her gaze down and then up, inspecting her before she agreed. "Yes."

Tom moved toward their front door, which he now held open. Sasha watched, fighting against the urge to cry. Her mother made eye contact with him, appearing almost satisfied by the heat of his hate-filled gaze. The ringing in Sasha's ears was back, providing its own soundtrack to their intense exchange, and while Tom had a plethora of things to say, his main desire was for this woman to leave his house.

Now.

Amusement seemed to touch her mother's features, and she addressed Sasha once more. "You should get out while you can, Aleksandra—before you lose him." There was something profoundly honest in her tome, and it gave Sasha pause. Made her gaze up from studiously considering the floor. "If it's real—that's what you should be fighting for. Not another war."

Appearance stilted, Sahsa watched her mother—this woman—whom she'd never really known, walk away as abruptly as she'd arrived. The soft click when Tom closed the door, loud as a gunshot when it filled the dead silence. The tremor in her body intensified.

With his hand still lingering on the silver handle, metal cool and sturdy under his palm, Tom took in her expression. Taking a bullet would have hurt less. "Sash—"

"There's nothing to say." She swallowed and did something with her features that let him know she wasn't about to engage. It was quiet—empty. Tom dropped his hand, letting it hang loose at his side while he waited for the next thing he suspected would come. "I'm going in—I have some stuff on Montano I need to get finished. I think he's your guy—"

"Baby—"

"Tom." Her head shook, small and sharp. "There's nothing to talk about."

He was close now, a realization that disconcerted because Sasha wasn't sure she'd registered him move. Troubled blue pursued her, disbelieving and gentle.

"Stay," he implored, somewhere just above a whisper.

Her heart clenched. "I can't. I have too much to do." There was regret, an apology as much as a warning in her tone. Cautious, when she peered up, lips pressed into a thin line. Somehow, she wished he'd get angry. It would be easier to deal with than the aching look he was giving her. The sinking knowledge that she was doing what she'd always done—failing to make better choices, being a hypocrite, running—dawned on her, even as she did it. As she committed to avoiding. Doing what Sasha did best.

Why.

She didn't know why.

"I'll call you." Unfolding her arms, she crossed the short distance from the living space to their kitchen, intent on retrieving her keys.

"Sash."

She hovered, taking a moment to collect herself before glancing over her shoulder.

"It's the same dream. Every time."

The fixation on leaving faltered. She turned around, waiting for the insight she'd so desperately sought for a month.

"The Helo lands—you're dead. I sit with your body for hours, staring at a hole in your head… your skin's the wrong color. Your lips are gray. Your hands are stiff—cold—and no matter what I do, I can't wake up until I put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger." He clenched his hands, knuckles stretching the skin until it turned white, though he maintained constrained eye contact. Kept the bulk of his distress shielded from view, but he felt it, and she saw it. Just as surely as he did every time he closed his eyes.

Her features morphed into something profoundly sad. The action of Tom keeping his word akin to a slap in the face. One that she'd sorely needed. Wetting her lip, she moved away from the kitchen, away from the flight response, and into the fight, until she stood toe to toe. She wound her arms around him, savoring the solace when he responded in kind. Buried her face against his chest, the smell of his soap, and him signaling home that sometimes floored her. Tom pressed a kiss against her hair, and Sasha was very aware that he could feel her shaking.

His words came in a whisper, "You're not alone anymore, Sash. Remember that."

She clenched her eyes shut.