an. Dear guest, thank you so much for the review. It's so hard when I'm sitting here basically thinking "now kiss!" but, you're correct, it's not right when put into the timeline's context. Sasha has only been back in the picture for two days, and Darien died less than three weeks ago. Only I could find a way to come up with 40K of words for 2.5 days of real-time events *facepalm*. Also, you're so right, Rachel has the benefit of leadership being pre-occupied… leaving her free to do whatever it is that she's doing.

Also, MGL88, thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment! I so enjoyed hearing your thoughts on each chapter. "Tripped and your dick fell in" was one of my fav lines too. Ha. And I agree Michener is a total creep. I didn't even realize how much until I wrote this and felt like I needed a shower after. LOL.

Show Me Your Pieces

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December 13th, 2013—0548 hours

Cody belonged to the harbor now, dropped, and weighted in a cadaver bag far oversized for his immature body, and for the duration of the ride back, beneath the encroaching sunrise, Tom did nothing but watch over Ray Diaz. Ravit alternated between averting her gaze, and being unable to look away, Lieutenant Burk forlorn and affixed to her profile, and Sasha concluding that they still thought America could be saved. That delivering a cure meant everything would go back to normal. She viewed the horizon, light pink and dusty blue now, while sea spray and wind whipped at her skin in a way that seemed semi-therapeutic. Tom's crew was still trying to comprehend that the fabric of society had collapsed, or maybe it was easier to live in denial than jaded pessimism? After all, they hadn't been there—not the way she had—and Sasha wondered if that was easier, or equally bad.

When they reached the James, after ascending the long ladder that led to the deck, Ray Diaz threw his harpoon upon the awaiting ready tables, ignoring every set of eyes to sink down against the hull of the hangar bay. When a crewmember tried to approach, Captain Chandler merely extended a hand, a near imperceptible shake of his head communicating his directive to give the boy space. Tense when he removed his vest, handing it to the awaiting sailor along with his gun before moving toward the three trailing members of Cobra Team.

Ravit and Burk paused, directing their attention to the Captain.

"We'll debrief at o-nine-hundred. Get some rest." It was gruff. Quiet.

"Aye, sir." It was Burk who'd responded on their behalf, Ravit ripping at the Velcro of her gear with sharp aggressive motions, ejecting the extra ammo in her clips with similar vigor. Tom glanced, his gaze flitting up and down the Israeli while Burk kept his own fixed upon the table.

Only briefly did Tom allow a glance left. To her. Sasha, for the first time since she'd saved his sorry ass from being taken. What she found there was heavy. He averted. Fast. Turning and striding toward the bay door, and she couldn't help but watch him go, shocked by how much she already wanted to follow.

"You good, Ravit?" Burk kept it low but Sasha overhead, trying to mind her own business while unloading ammunition.

Ravit unhooked the radio, throwing it down in a way that stood in stark contradiction to her words. "Yeah—why wouldn't I be?"

Sasha peered up in time to see Burk struggle to respond while Ravit finished ripping off her thigh holster, sparing him but one glance before making a beeline out of the bay. Lieutenant Burk watched her go, appearing almost soldiered to the spot and really, that was all Sasha wanted to know—if her hunch was correct. Huh. It seemed Tom was turning a blind eye to more than one budding relationship within his command, and here she thought he had the perfect Navy record—outside of her.

Saturday, January 13th, 2001—Mission Beach, San Diego, California

"Are you ever going to tell me about her?"

Tom frowned and turned his head, slow and with caution. "Who?"

"The girl you're hung up on." Darien's smile was a little melancholic but still kind, the wind whipping strands of blonde hair into her lashes that she tucked back.

He felt bad. Almost defensive, lips pursing when he swallowed against the way his throat seemed to close at the mere thought of Sasha. He ducked his chin in an unconscious move and studiously focused on the ocean. A habit Darien had become accustomed to whenever Tom didn't want to divulge. For the most part, Tom was a relatively straightforward man, but there were two topics he refused to discuss: the events which led to his injury, and her—whoever she was. In fact, Darien only knew there was a 'her' because she'd been piecing it together for weeks. Painting the picture after her brother-in-law invited Tom to family brunch one Sunday, later citing his new bunkmate was going through a tough time and could use some community. That had been just fine with the Jerome's, after all, that's what military life was about.

"It's okay. I kind of figured." She sounded resigned.

Loosening his rigid stance, Tom sighed, "Darien—"

"You can't let things go if you keep holding space for them, you know? At least give me a name?"

Tom couldn't seem to do that, and he couldn't even begin to fathom why.

After realizing that was a step too far, Darien tried again. "Was she your girlfriend?"

He didn't like that term. It didn't fit, and if he couldn't be honest with himself, at the very least, he could see that Darien deserved the truth. "She's the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

Darien's smile was unexpected and kind. "You know, anyone else would sound like an ass telling someone they're a rebound, but you almost make it sound noble."

Tom didn't know whether to laugh or cry over how much she'd sounded like Sasha just then. The universe was taunting him. A sucker punch may have hurt less, and now all he could do was picture Sasha's smile when she woke in his arms. Hear her laugh when he tickled her and then spent hours with her pressed into his sheets. Feel the ghost of her touch on his skin... he hadn't known it was possible to miss something so profoundly and for so long.

Unsure what to say, and apprehensive of the grace Darien was extending, he peered. Generally, Tom understood women, and women didn't like to be told they were competing with an ex, and considering he'd been playing this game for almost three months—the one where he pretended to be 'moving on'—he expected some variation of being told to go screw himself. More than that, he figured he deserved it.

Darien did none of those things, and her next question was delivered with such delicacy it frankly confused him. "Is she—" Tom frowned, which only seemed to add to Darien's difficulty "—did something happen to her?"

What?

After more beats of silence, it clicked. Darien thought something tragic occurred—more tragic than being broken up with, which Tom identified sounded pathetic when put into context—and even more upon realizing he was indeed acting like a grieving spouse. "No. She's alive."

While Darien seemed relieved, she also appeared more troubled. "Well, do you still talk her?"

No. Yes. Sometimes, but not really? The last time she'd called was Christmas day, and before that to wish him a happy birthday—but nothing on New Year's—and none of those calls had ended with a love deceleration, nor had she mentioned anything more about his. But that didn't matter, because he was convinced Sasha was pretending just the same as him, and the larger stubborn part of his being lived and died on that hill. It was all about timing. He'd give her space, let her do the things she felt needed to be done, and in the meantime, he'd wait until he could convince her that what they shared was the elusive 'it'. He was going to marry her; knew that with a degree of certainty sure to land him in psych if he'd tried to explain.

Tom hadn't answered that question either and only realized it when Darien spoke again.

"I like you, Tom. You're a great guy, and I think you mean well... but you're not ready for anything serious, and for me, at least—" she broke off and shrugged "—I want serious. Or at least someone who wants to move on, and I think deep down you know that you don't." Darien pulled her shawl a little tighter against the stiff breeze blowing in from the Pacific. "Whoever she is, I hope she figures it out—but—if anything changes and I'm still around, you're welcome to call me."

He felt sadder than expected, more so that he couldn't be the kind of semi-boyfriend or actual boyfriend Darien deserved. Her heart was like his mother's. Patient, open, kind. He could see now why it was so easy to fall into her comfort, but nothing she'd stated was untrue. He wasn't ready to give up on the future he'd planned, and those were the facts.

"Is your brother-in-law gonna beat me when I get back to base?" It was said with a lopsided smirk, and Darien laughed.

"No. And you're still welcome to come for dinner. Honestly, between my sister's kid and him talking about that—" she paused, searching for the correct term.

"Five Inch," Tom supplied for her.

"Right—Five Inch—I'd rather hang out with you. Even just as friends."

Tom smiled, feeling relieved in a way, and looped his arm around Darien's shoulders, squeezing in a gesture of something he couldn't convey. Gratitude, though he felt like shit because she was too good for him, and he knew it. "I can work with that."

Darien placed an arm around his waist while they meandered up the beach toward his truck, and the realization that he shouldn't have been seeing anyone when he knew damn well he wasn't emotionally available sank in. "I'm sorry, Darien."

"Don't be. I don't regret anything."

December 13th, 2013—USS Nathan James, 30NM Offshore, St. Andrew Bay, Florida—1308 hours

Mike flattened himself against the p-way and out of Sasha's path, but not before catching a glimpse of her eyes. It sent an unexpected and rather unpleasant sensation through is body. He knew that look. Saw it in the mirror every morning and night when he ran out of ways not to think about Lucas. His boy. His boy that was dead. Didn't take a genius to put two and two together, and when he stepped into the wardroom as intended, finding Foster rigid and bewildered, his hunch was confirmed.

"Sir," she greeted.

"At ease, Lieutenant."

Mechanically, Kara set her tray down next to the abandoned one—a tray Mike assumed belonged to Sasha.

"Everything okay?" He'd tried to make it sound casual, but Foster seemed to see right through it, and since they were alone, there was little reason to pretend.

"Permission to speak freely?"

Mike nodded, brow furrowed.

"I don't know what I did. I walked in here, and Cooper completely froze. I tried to ask if she was okay, or if she needed medical attention, and she just—she basically ran out of here." Foster's eyes were round, and she was clearly unsettled, and if Mike had to guess, running through a list of variables that would provide an explanation, probably landing on the most obvious difference between her and any other member of their crew. Mike had to figure, too, that Foster already felt like a misfit, and while they'd strived to treat her no differently than before, he could imagine it was difficult. Isolating.

Damn. The obvious solution was to discreetly clue Foster in; however, Mike rapidly concluded that wasn't his place. Wasn't any of their places, but leaving Foster uncomfortable wasn't a long-term option, nor conducive to maintaining good order amongst the crew.

"I'll follow up. Appreciate you bringing it to my attention."

Kara blinked a few times, her lips pressed together in a fine line. "Yes, sir."

His attempt at a reassuring smile was closer to an awkward squint. "I'll let you finish your lunch. Leave the tray, I'll have the galley save it."

She nodded once, throat bobbing when she swallowed. "Sir."

After informing the galley and verifying where Cooper had gone, Mike approached CO's cabin, taking a moment to prepare himself before knocking. There was shuffling before Chandler appeared, stepping aside in silence.

Once in, Tom re-approached his desk where sit-reps were strewn, still evidently burdened by the boy's death. After the debrief, leadership had remained to determine how best to interrogate their new prisoners and where to find safe harbor for the remaining kids—keeping them on a Destroyer being hunted by a submarine, wasn't it—and last he'd heard, Ray Diaz was still sitting in their helo bay, refusing to see or speak to anyone.

And now this.

With a regretful sigh, Mike clamped both his hands and lips together before speaking. "You didn't tell her about Foster?"

He got his answer in the way Tom stilled before sinking against the surface with an exhale. For several moments, he observed. Tom's eyes wandered, lingering at a spot on the floor before he scrubbed a hand across his face, and braced himself by clutching the desk. His head absently bobbed. "How bad?"

Mike's lips curled down at the corners. "Pretty bad. Foster's shaken, knows something's up and Cooper… didn't seem so great."

Cheeks hollowed, Tom's mandible bulged while he blinked and tried to think. More than kicking himself for failing to warn Cooper of the most glaringly obvious trigger living on Nathan James—at least that's what Mike assumed.

"Did you say anything? To Foster?"

"No—didn't think it was my place—but it'll need to be addressed. Soon. Before any assumptions are made that could affect the crew." They hadn't discussed the incident any further, and Mike didn't much like being on the other side. The side where he didn't know how Tom was going to react or what he'd do because Sasha was a wild card, and the situation was delicate at best.

"She doesn't wanna talk about it, Mike." It was delivered quietly.

While unsurprised that Tom's first response was defense—even understood it—facts were facts. "Can't say nothing either, bound to get in Foster's head and it's not like they'll never run into each other again. You don't think it would be worse if she confronts Cooper herself? Or says something to Green, and he gets the wrong idea?"

Tom was still peering, though at the opposite wall now. Looked like he'd just been handed a two-ton weight; like he'd rather crawl through shit than go talk to Cooper about this.

"Could give her the choice? Ask if she wants us to clear that up—discreetly—or if she feels up to doing it herself?" Mike's suggestion was tentative. Uncharacteristically so. Enough to garner a side glance from Tom, who considered it for several moments before pushing himself up.

"Where is she?"

"Her room."

Tom inhaled and rectified his posture. Mike mirrored the action. "I'll take care of it."

"Her lunch is with the galley."

While the glance was subtle, it contained enough for Mike to know he'd reclaimed a little respect where Cooper was concerned.

"I'll be in CIC—Gator said we have a few options in terms of safe zones."

They both moved toward the door.

"Find me when you have one," Tom instructed.

Tom spent the small trip to the officers galley and subsequent state rooms trying to prepare himself. An action that seemed futile because truly, he had no frame of reference for this. Couldn't help but remember the last time he'd felt the same weight, mere weeks ago, approaching Andrea Garnett. He supposed tears were expected, anger perhaps. Blame. Things he'd endure and surely deserved.

He rasped his knuckles against the metal with his left hand, the tray in his right. No response and he couldn't say that surprised him. Still, cabin doors were to remain unlocked, and he took a breath before entering. In the dark his eyes strained, the p-way providing enough illumination to see that Sasha was on the bed facing the wall. That wasn't the part that undid him. It was the blanket. The one she was clutching with small elephants on it—her child's blanket—that put an instant lump in his throat usually reserved for his kids, and kids alone.

For several seconds, it became very hard to breathe. Tom closed the door, setting the tray on the desk, knowing how to navigate the narrow room from muscle memory. She hadn't moved or made a sound, but she wasn't asleep, rather staring at nothing. He'd seen that too.

"Sasha," he breathed. So quiet he barely heard it himself.

"I know I need to explain." She'd whispered it. "I just—I need a little time."

He wasn't prepared for that either. Tom had known Sasha was strong, but this? This humbled him. And for what felt like minutes, Tom could only stand there rooted to the spot. Long enough for his eyes to adjust, the rectangular silhouette of light behind him providing sight. The backpack was open at the foot of the bed, and now he knew why she'd rather die than leave it behind. In silence, he slowly approached, then sank into the small triangle of space where her knees bent, and she'd curled.

He leaned forward, resting both elbows on his thighs, hands hanging loose between his knees, glad for the dark. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." It sounded rougher than he'd like.

The bed protested when she shifted, rolling so her back was no longer turned.

He had neither the courage nor composure to reciprocate.

"It is what it is."

Swallowing was hard, maintaining an even pace of breathing more so.

"I'm not holding you responsible, and you shouldn't either. For this—or for Cody."

He lost control. Had to screw his eyes closed not that she could perceive that, but when her hand tentatively enclosed his own, he figured she knew. Tom tried every trick in the book, the ragged breath that was forced through his nose ringing loud through the room. And then he had to clear his throat in an attempt to hide the subsequent spasmed ones while he clenched his jaw hard enough to make his temples throb. He laced his fingers through hers. They were cool—but not frigid—in a soothing way. Like resting a cheek against the fresh side of a pillow, and Sasha squeezed.

It took a while for the unbearable pressure in Tom's skull to ebb away. For air to flow through his lungs unhindered, though the longer he stayed, the more he risked Sasha saying something else that would pierce his armor clean in two. With his free hand, he wiped his face before bringing her palm up, fingers still interlaced, to place a chaste kiss on the back, and then let go. Stood and moved to the door, pausing for no more than a second to make sure he was collected before stepping through.

1643 hours

Sasha forced herself not to wring her hands while she waited; no more than fifteen seconds before Lieutenant Foster excused herself, heeding Sasha's quiet request for a moment of her time. They stayed in CIC, out of earshot. A conscious choice on Sasha's part, a place that provided enough structure and stimuli to make this easier.

"Miss Cooper," Foster politely acknowledged, and in a way, Sasha found comfort in knowing this was just as awkward for her.

Offering what she hoped was a warm smile, despite the nausea rolling in her gut, Sasha began. "Please, call me Sasha." Foster looked confused, and she quickly pressed on. "I owe you an apology—I—" she hesitated before scrapping the overlong explanation she'd planned, finding now that ripping the Band-Aid would suffice. "I lost a baby."

The lieutenant's stance immediately thawed, her lips parting softly and brows knotting in a kind of universal empathy. "I'm… I am so sorry."

Sasha briefly bit the inside of her cheek, casting her focus to a radar screen before nodding. "Thank you. I—I didn't know, and so—"

"No. I—I completely understand—" Foster's words came in a rush, cutting her own off, and after holding her gaze for a few awkward seconds, Sasha found the only thing she could do was laugh. Breathy, something closer to an exhale than not.

"This is really awkward," Sasha said.

For a second Foster's eyes grew rounder, before she too let out a relieved breath, her grin a little lopsided, Sasha noted. "Yeah—yeah, it really is."

Sasha's smile this time was genuine. The knot that had been suffocating her all afternoon inexplicably eased. "Okay, well—now that we're clear and there's no misunderstandings, I'm going to suit up."

Foster nodded, her own expression warm if bemused. "Absolutely."

Chin lowered with her cheek still creased by a dimple, Sasha grew more serious. "Congratulations, by the way."

The lieutenant's expression softened, and Sasha could see why Green was a sucker for that. She was a beautiful woman, but her eyes were kind, innocent in a way that tended to wrap men around fingers, and could sure as hell figure out why Tom hadn't thrown the book at them.

"Thank you."

Sasha gave another warm gesture of acknowledgment before leaving the space, needing only a moment once she'd stepped over the knife's edge and into a more secluded p-way to take a few deep breaths before completing the journey to hanger one.

When she arrived the Seahawk was on deck undergoing final pre-flight checks, and Tom was showing Diaz around a weapon—just a sidearm for protection. Loaded the chamber before turning it, along with the thigh holster, over to the teenager and Sasha wondered if he realized yet how much of William Jedediah Chandler he embodied.

"There she is."

Reluctantly Sasha rolled her head left and quirked an eyebrow when Tex approached with her vest in hand.

"For the lady," he said, over-exaggerating his presentation.

"You don't give up—do you?" It was said in jest. She'd seen enough to know this was harmless entertainment; mindless distraction that they all needed. She'd been around his type too, the ones that buried all their hurt and anger with a special brand of outrageous.

"Not a chance." He backed away toward a ready table with his arms outstretched. "Ain't no fun in that, sweetheart."

Sasha only caught the look because she'd scanned to figure out which table housed her weapon of choice. A very particular look Tom would extend frequently in the past. Like he'd never seen anything more beautiful. Sasha wished she could say it didn't make her feel anything anymore, but it did. It truly did, and for a few seconds, she let herself bask in it, unaware of Tex observing with interest from the sidelines.