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Tuesday, February 12th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

She hadn't said a single word about it. Not for three days. The initial shock had waned, the immediate burn eased into more of a dull ache, and now, nothing. Apathy. Numbness. Went about her days as if nothing had happened at all—but she'd stayed, and they'd talked or rather Sasha had attempted to convey that she was not somehow destined to die, despite the loop of self-fulfilling prophecies Tom seemed to be stuck in, and he'd finally agreed to call Grantham, but only for something that would let him sleep because he was running on barely three hours a night. Sasha had the sinking suspicion his decision to re-neg on his prior insistence that he was fine had more to do with her than him. Frustrating, but if it pushed him to act, Sasha felt it was the lesser of two evils.

There were of course the lies she'd been telling herself every time she opened that portal on her desktop. The one that had her fingers hovering over the keyboard exhorting her to dig. Run her father's name, her mother's alias… just to see what would come up. Probably nothing at all. Those records would be close to fifty years old at this point, and that's if they'd been uploaded and converted to digital copies correctly and not lost, misplaced, or damaged over the years. Unless, of course, her mother was a known agent. If she was, the records would be there. Maybe she could find a name, make a timeline, or maybe she could search for Richard Jennings in association with Liliya and Peter Martin and something would pop up. Or maybe Richard Jennings, the well-respected Principal of Lower School at Milton Academy, was known. Then there'd be something else to follow.

Sasha's grip on the ballpoint between her fingers loosened as she registered the sting in her bone from squeezing too tightly. Realizing that she'd read the same line four times now without digesting a single word of it. A comparison produced by one of her analysts of Dr. Manuel Montano's teachings, his 'manifesto' amongst others compared to the war plans recovered from Panama. Working her jaw, she set the pen down. Firing up her desktop and typing in the password with finesse, tactile keys clicking loudly in her otherwise silent office. Pointer moving, hovering over that portal with hesitation.

A heavy sigh, worried fingers pulling themselves away from the mouse to knead against her forehead instead. Eyes scrunched shut against the obsessive notions. Vibration broke the spell, traveling through the wooden panes of her desk until she felt it under her palm. Glad for the distraction, Sasha picked up her cell only to frown when she read the text.

'911. Come find me, room 204.'

Sasha secured her files in her locked cabinet quickly and left the room, not bothering to grab her blazer from the back of her chair. The eerie, unsettled feeling only intensified when she strode across the upper gallery of the war room, catching the glances thrown in her direction from a few of the personnel below. Particularly jarring, though, was the way Danny—whom Sasha was still not used to seeing dressed in service khakis—looked at her. He stood leaning against the railing on the opposite side, coffee flask in hand, with some kind of sympathetic tone that made her skin crawl. An expression that Danny immediately rectified upon receiving the sarcastic scowl—she obviously didn't know yet. Probably why Chandler had just stalked into that conference room looking so morose.

"I take it you know why everyone's looking at me like someone just died?"

She hadn't meant to be so clipped, nor so terse. Firing off those words the second she'd closed the door behind her, but it was a by-product of nerves. Nerves which only intensified in the presence of Tom's woeful demeanor.

"You should probably sit," he urged softly. For once in her life, Sasha listened to him and did as he asked. More on reflex while her heart galloped unchecked behind her rib cage.

Tom perched against the table next to her, having already determined how he planned to go about this. A plan formed when his mid-morning meeting with Master Chief Jeter and Ensign Swain regarding fixing communications was interrupted by his assistant, Amanda.

"She went to the press." Tom handed her his phone, which Sasha merely blinked at. "Story hit fifteen minutes ago." Tom watched with mounting dismay as she sucked on her cheeks, bit down the way she did every time something hurt. After a few more seconds of staring at the phone, she took it from him and scanned the news article already pulled up on his browser.

'Exclusive: Sasha Cooper's troubled childhood revealed in bombshell from anonymous source close to family.'

Her eyes rolled in disgust, unable to stop the muttered, "God," from escaping under her breath. A picture. She'd really been heartless enough to give them a picture—something Sasha didn't even have—one of Peter Martin. Another of her and that bear he'd won on her eighth birthday. Within seconds Sasha's apathy evaporated, and her eyes ignited with the sting of tears. Pushed her tongue hard against the roof of her mouth to stop the way her lips wanted to tremble. Stubborn moisture clung but did not fall as she scrolled, eyes moving rapid-fire, taking in sentences. Skimming over paragraphs.

Given name Aleksandra.

Alcoholic Father.

Mother killed in fatal accident.

Foster care at age twelve.

Three different homes.

Never adopted.

The scoff was devoid of any amusement, jarring and torn. Lips pursed into a sorrowful line as she put the phone down and looked aside. Scanning the conference room for anything that might help her remain in control. Her head shook in disbelief.

Died in a car accident.

All this, just so her mother could cover her own ass and keep her identity buried. "Did you read it?" Hadn't meant to sound so pitchy, and stilted but she did. Her elbow was resting on the table, and she started chewing her fingers absently, shifting her gaze to peer at Tom, waiting for his answer.

"No." Came the resolute reply. He'd thought about it—that headline like Pandora's box containing the answer to every question he'd ever had—but therein lay the problem. If it wasn't her telling him, he didn't want to know, and judging by the gratitude in those awfully sad, bloodshot eyes, he'd made the right choice.

This is why she loved Tom. Because he understood her, whether or not he meant to—he just did. Knew what she needed, sometimes before she'd even figured it out for herself. Where everyone else had clearly jumped at the chance to know the juicy details, the man who'd been waiting for over twenty years to find out, looked the other way. It wasn't often, but sometimes Sasha really thought those notions about some people being made for each other might be true.

She sniffed, moving her fingers to swipe at her nose instead, and blinked a few times again. He was looking at her tenderly, head resting at an angle while she rose from the chair, standing now a head taller than him. Close enough that her right thigh brushed his and in a move reminiscent of her impromptu visit to his cabin on the James, Sasha leaned forward, capturing his lips in a chaste, fond kiss.

"Thank you," she whispered, hand caressing his cheek for a moment. Tom swallowed, saying everything he needed to with his eyes alone. The unspoken, I love you and I'm here for you and I'm sorry this happened.

With his right hand, he caught her left wrist, thumb brushing back and forth on its sensitive underside. "If you wanna leave, we can. Meylan can cover for me."

A quirky headshake brushed it off, though she appreciated the offer. "No. I'm okay—" her eyes cast off, spanning the frosted glass as if she could feel the latent hum of conversations surrounding her. No. If she left, it would only confirm that it bothered her. That she wasn't in fact as okay as she was projecting. Forcing a small smile that felt wrong—and probably looked it too—Sasha turned her wrist to squeeze Tom's hand. "I'll be fine."

When Tom came home, it was to a warm meal—entirely too domestic and not something he planned to expect. If the kids weren't there, Sasha didn't cook. Tom had no issue with that. They were so busy these days anyway, essentially living on take-out from the canteen and the few local restaurants, that the fact that she had cooked and then baked—actually baked—was alarming. Cookies of all things; she had a surprising talent for it. Then she'd left to run. Pounded the pavement like it was a punching bag until her lungs burned and legs became jelly to the tune of her favorite playlist. And it wasn't until they were both showered and lounging in comfortable clothes that she approached.

The TV was still on downstairs, canned laughter floating up and down the hallway as it bounced against walls. The kind those sitcoms favored and Tom suspected it was a re-run of Friends. Every time he heard it, he was assaulted by a vivid memory: Thanksgiving in 98. Sasha on his sofa, crying with laughter over Monica wearing a Turkey. Happy and carefree, and he'd loved her so completely while she sat there clutching her sides in his t-shirt. Understood that he wanted her for the rest of his life. Then and now. Again and always.

He set the file down on the nightstand, waiting while Sasha hovered in the threshold. All the things she'd wanted to say escaped her. After spending so many years silent on these issues, it seemed her mouth didn't want to work.

"Hey," he greeted.

She looked down, leaning her left shoulder against the frame while she spun the gold band on her finger—not consciously aware of picking up that habit from him. It was stilted when she found a way to start. "I don't know how to answer my phone. Everyone keeps calling and texting me."

It came out as a raspy sigh when Tom replied, "I know." He paused before expanding, "I already took care of the kids—they were worried, wanted to know if you're okay—Green too."

Okay.

That word. It percolated, jaw grinding, absently thinking she'd need to see a dentist because she was in danger of screwing her alignment at this point. More hesitation—indecision while she blinked and chewed on the inside of her cheeks. How to explain that it hurt so much she couldn't even cry? "I don't think I am."

He was off the bed now, walking toward her.

And then, like a dam cracking, it all tumbled out. "She didn't want me. She never wanted me. I don't know what I expected, why it would be any different now. I know the kind of person she is—I'm not even surprised—she probably got paid and now no one will look for her—she's obviously trying to hide—" She inhaled. Attempting to get her voice back under control, trying to pull her features back to neutral from their horrible anguished state. Futile. It was futile, the weight was too heavy. "Tom—I don't even know why I care," she squeezed out. Only stopping the furious spinning of that band because both of his hands had enclosed hers.

She was avoiding direct eye contact, and he stooped to catch them, waiting until he knew she would hear him this time. "Because it's who you are. Your kind, you're loyal and your heart always tries to forgive—especially when it's not deserved—and you have no idea how special you are, Sash. I hate it. I hate that you can't see that you're beautiful."

Oh. Sasha didn't know what to say in response, because it was the most profound Tom had ever been. Ironically, she sometimes overlooked his ability to communicate so eloquently. Such instances typically reserved for delivering rousing speeches that re-affirmed people's belief in the mission—themselves—each other. For a moment, all she could do was bask in the steady warmth of his comfort, entranced by the look he was giving her. Wondering how it was that she'd gotten so lucky.

"She lied—in the article. She said she died in an accident." Shook her head again as the difficultly passed over her features. Tom squeezed her hands and tugged on them. Pulling her away from the limbo and coaxed her to lay beside him.

"I came home about a month after the funeral and she was packing things. She told me I had to stay with someone else for a while because she needed to work and there was no money. I didn't get it at the time, but she'd waived her rights—I ended up in the system." His thumb brushed her cheek, cradling it while propped up on an elbow. "Even then, I think I was hoping she'd come back and say she was sorry, so I could forgive her."

Tom didn't get it, how you could do that to your own child. How many sleepless nights had he spent agonizing over Ashley and Sam? All they'd endured, while he'd be gone. Alone. Scared. Vulnerable. It still haunted his soul; drove frequent obsession over what would happen if both he and Sasha died... and yet, there was always the comfort of knowing there were a dozen people who'd step in. Mike, Andrea, Russ, Kara, Danny—the list went on. But this? Tom couldn't imagine the pain.

She was staring up at the ceiling, lips downcast in a sorrowful grimace, and Tom wasn't sure his heart could break more over it, but it did when she whispered, "I just wanted a mom." The truth. A truth Sasha strove to convince herself was a lie, but the coping mechanisms for burying the grief no longer reconciled.

Tom winced; a knot caught in his throat. "I'm so sorry baby." Hated that overused statement, but there was little else to say, and not a damn thing he could do. Remorse and a heavy dose of guilt flared within for the way he'd left after Shaw. Despite her forgiveness. She and Kathleen... cursed himself for not thinking deeper when her voice wavered over those words... 'you haven't even gone to see her'. He watched as a few tears escaped the corners of her eyes. They trailed a short path down her temporal bones and over her ears before disappearing into hair. Without thinking, Tom wiped them.

Sasha's sinuses tingled, thick and stuffy under pressure while she studied the wood grain of the ceiling fan. "I think it was better when I didn't know. I don't want to end up like her." A thought shared under her breath like a stream of consciousness. Like she hadn't meant to say it out loud.

With his right hand, Tom drew her closer until they were entangled on their sides facing each other. "That won't happen. You're nothing like her."

There was a distinct conviction in that statement, but she didn't fully believe in it. The huff of breath against the column of his neck was sardonic in nature. "Did you forget that I tried to ghost you on Saturday?"

"But you didn't." Firm. Precise. "You stayed."

Not the same. Her plan had been simple: work until her eyes bled, perhaps spend the night in her office, and then devote the week to avoiding him until she'd crafted a new wall. "Yeah? And what if I hadn't—"

"Then I would be here, exactly where I am, waiting until you were ready to come home."

Sasha didn't want to be that person anymore, the one who kept pushing away because she was terrified of being abandoned by anything she loved. "You should read it." The thumb that had been stroking her cheekbone stopped, and Sasha felt his breath become shallow.

"Sash—"

"It's okay, Tom. I want you to know. The rest of it's true and you've always wondered," she mumbled against his shirt. "You deserve to know."

She couldn't see that his eyes were distinctly red-rimmed, but she did feel it when he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Heard what it meant to him when he whispered 'okay'. After another moment of silence, she spoke again. "Tom?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you."

He rubbed a hand up and down her arm. "I love you too, Sash. Always."

The bed was plush and comfortable. Soft and warm and oh so good when Sasha woke the next morning. The space beside her was empty and judging by the tone of the light peeking through the curtains, it was decently late in the morning. Odd. Their alarms were set for six-thirty, and while her phone had been abandoned downstairs, Tom's was on the nightstand when she'd fallen asleep. That should have woken her. The lactic acid in her system made itself known, having failed to appropriately stretch and warm down after that particularly punishing run. It was only then that she noticed the distinct but low husk of his voice—talking to someone downstairs, enough sound dampening walls between them for words to remain indistinguishable.

With arms folded around herself, barefoot, Sasha went down, realizing he was talking to someone in command. Their dining table looked like a bomb of papers had dropped on it. Wondering how so many files could be allowed off base or if he was taking certain liberties in this post-plague system. Likely the latter. Tom glanced over his left shoulder, moving from facing the little square windows, aware as ever when she'd walked into a room. Sasha still wondered how he did that.

"… Send it to Meylan's desk, he's been briefed… Yes… Thank you."

Tom ended the call, putting the cell down on the table. She was sad, the heaviness still there, but it lifted somewhat when Sasha saw his demeanor change. It was nice to be that loved. "Hey, I was just about to bring you breakfast."

She tilted her head while leaning against the open-framed archway between the hall and their dining room. "We're home?"

There was a hint of trepidation in his stance, just a fraction of hesitation before he answered. "I made some calls. We're taking a day."

Unable to resist giving him a hard time, Sasha quirked a brow. "We are?" Though in honesty, she was glad. It was something she needed, probably something he needed too. Wasn't particularly thrilled with the idea of fielding the various questions, nor dealing with those awful sympathetic looks she'd been plagued the day before. Tom moved until he was standing before her, and Sasha unfolded her arms, straightening and placing hands on his hips as he took her face between his.

"Yeah, we are," he mumbled before kissing her. It was loving, his mouth moving against hers in a leisurely manner, and she responded in kind. Content to live in this moment, in this bubble with him for a day. She pushed herself closer, onto tiptoes, trailing hands until they wrapped around broad shoulders while her heart swelled. Enjoying the contact until the need for air gave reason to separate, though she lingered in his arms all the same.

The small curve of her lip was akin to the notes of a favorite song when Tom saw it. Always had been the simple things that mattered to him.

"Okay," she agreed. Maybe feeling that eventually, it could be. It might hurt, and it might suck, but at least she had him.