an. Response for Guest: Thank you, Sasha's appearance will certainly have rippling effects which is all I can say without being spoilery. Whether those effects are positive, neutral, or even negative will remain to be seen! Glad you felt Sasha and Kara's collision was in character. I have never been one for immature drama, especially between women, and especially between professionals who take their responsibilities so seriously. Also, I do appreciate your review on El Norte too! And that you caught the Virginia reference :) I need to work on that one, but right now most of my inspiration has been gripped by this one.

Every December

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December 25th, 1997—Chandler Residence, Richmond, Virginia

Cathy stilled in the kitchen, the tupperware she'd been filling forgotten. Instead, she watched. Her three kids, all grown now, gone from her nest full time were sprawled throughout the family room in the oversized sectionals and armchairs watching Katie's favorite movie. Gremlins—again. Not an unexpected or extraordinary scene. It was one repeated every year, provided they were all in the same country, and the plus-ones would ebb and flow. From pseudo-orphans, as Jed called them; friends or acquaintances in need of a place to call home, to girlfriends, boyfriends, fiancées, and now, in Katie's case, husband… and none of that was the reason Catherine Chandler froze.

"Jed," she whispered.

Her husband, who sat at their kitchen table with his face buried in a newspaper, peered up.

"Look."

He did. Confusion and begrudged annoyance melted from his rugged features once he saw why.

Their eldest was resting his leg across his girlfriend's lap. A recent addition to whom they'd been introduced at thanksgiving, and it had been easy to see at surface level what had captured their son's attention. She was stunningly beautiful, quite charming, and that was all good and nice, but their son was currently allowing her to massage his knee. The one he unequivocally refused to acknowledge caused him significant pain. He'd sustained the injury in Bosnia; same event that earned him an Expeditionary Medal, killed three of his closest friends, almost took his life—and his leg—and put an abrupt and destructive end to his career in special warfare.

In response, Tommy had chosen stubborn silence, just like his father after Nam. Bottled it up and froze them out. Even his sister.

Beside her, Jed set the newspaper down, more emotional than he'd ever admit, and Cathy relinquished the ladle. She clutched his shoulder.

They were oblivious. Katie, her husband James, Matty… all so engrossed they didn't notice it. Sasha's fingers worked absently. Attention fixed to the screen like this wasn't unprecedented. That girl had no clue how significant she was, Cathy thought, and Tommy? Well, he wasn't watching the movie at all. He was settled, eyes heavy, and drifting asleep with a peace she'd feared he'd never feel again. Cathy peered at Jed; his gruff, if rare smile echoed upon her features and he nodded, patting her hand before giving a short squeeze and returning to his paper.

December 13th, 2013—Florida Panhandle, Safe-Zone—2035 hours

They were a good group of people, but there weren't nearly enough of them. Tom had determined that within ten minutes of arriving. Still, Tex was doing exactly as he'd hoped—charming the group into better spirits. Even Diaz. And while this mission was two-fold: establish the viability of the safe zone, and gather more intel on the immunes and opinions of 'the people', Tom couldn't deny the additional factors. A moment while Doctors Scott and Milowsky obtained a biopsy from Neils, and Slattery had the watch where he could decompress and compartmentalize as to eliminate Ramsey's sub... and a way for him to give Sasha the best that he could. Methods to keep busy, the reason he'd selected her as their third gun for this scouting trip above anyone else.

Really, the zone was little more than a self-made RV park. Way off the beaten path. Self-sufficient, and self-contained. Exactly the kind of place you'd want if the goal was to isolate. Still, those same factors left them vulnerable. Too vulnerable for Tom to feel comfortable leaving a bunch of kids behind.

With the camp chairs occupied, and the ground wet underfoot, Sasha had taken residence in the bed of a pickup. When he approached, Tom said nothing, satisfied that a constant watch on the permitter was unwarranted. Translation: he could sit his very weary ass down. Sasha's legs hung free over the lowered tailgate while she lay against the bed, rifle propped within a hand's reach. She craned her neck to watch when he climbed in, scooting until his back was supported by the cabin. His knee cracked when extending his legs, crossed them ankle over ankle, and then laid his weapon parallel to his thigh. She offered a quiet smile before returning her gaze to the sky, and it was that specific action which triggered Tom.

"You think they're still alive up there? On the space station."

Her voice jumpstarted his brain. Huh. Hadn't crossed his mind once, despite the number of hours he spent looking up, wondering if his kids were doing the same. "Can't imagine how, unless they figured out how to make food."

"Little ironic that the one place it can't go is a guaranteed death sentence."

While it was out of left-field, random, even, the world had never been big enough for Sasha and Tom had to figure she'd spent hours trying to wrap her mind around escaping this thing. Deducing in the end that there was nowhere to go. Not when being pregnant meant you couldn't go completely off-grid; disappear to a cabin without access to any number of potentially life-saving things, and therein lay the battle. The impossible position of trying to balance your best odds—and Tom had spent hours thinking about what he'd do. How he'd make that choice all the while knowing Sam was only alive because of medical science. The more it percolated, the more Tom reconciled that being on the ship, the not knowing, had made it easier to keep on. Easier to compartmentalize and gamble with high stakes, but every moment spent around Sasha, weakened the barriers that left processing the concept that Darien had died largely untouched. Even if the logical, pragmatic part of his mind had been preparing for some kind of loss—his kids. His wife. Potentially all of them, Tom was numbed by shock; unable to grasp the scope of what was happening. Paradoxically he felt spared—he'd saved his children, but the problem was Sasha made him feel. Everything. And while Tom knew the result would be cathartic, he couldn't let it cave him in.

Not until the mission was done.

"It is beautiful, though. Without the light pollution? Even in the middle of the ocean they were never this bright," she continued.

That was true, and he'd noticed it too. Tom took a deep breath and shifted so his bones didn't bite against the unforgiving metal. "Before I left, I told the kids it didn't matter where I was because we'd always be lookin' at the same thing." He paused for a beat. "I used to go to bridge wing every night—back when we first found out. I stopped after a while. Don't really know why."

Sasha listened, letting it rest before choosing humor. "Do they know their dad wanted to be an astronaut?"

It warmed him, spreading first inside until he felt it at the corner of his mouth and in his eyes. Self-conscious to this day that Katie's first choice upon meeting Sasha was to take her on a trip down memory lane. Show his far superior girlfriend that her dork brother idolized Neil Armstrong. "No, that one hasn't come up yet."

Sasha snorted softly.

"What?"

"Technically, you'd still be a commander of a ship—how ridiculous is that?" She tilted her head back, quirking a brow that communicated her enjoyment.

"Cute," he grumbled.

Her response was razor quick, eyes fast when they flittered up and then down his form. "Thanks—I just thought of it."

The brow settled, and she was gleaming at him. Irradiating things Tom hadn't the vocabulary to describe. He hadn't appreciated how little he smiled until the muscles protested their under-use. Like there was stone in his cheeks, and she was still so damn beautiful when she did that. Supposed if asked, those smiles were his strongest memories. The ones imprinted like photographs in his mind... like sitting on a beach while she lay in the sand, looking back at him almost exactly as she was now. Something shifted in her features, the quick wit ebbing until it was softer—mouth parted a fraction, Sasha breathed and then withdrew to the sky again.

In contrast, Tom found himself stuck.

"How much longer are we staying?" It was quiet and Tom couldn't say how long he'd been staring, but he was glad that she didn't notice.

Taking a deeper breath through his nose, he glanced at his watch before observing the center of the camp. Both Tex and Diaz were listening to someone playing guitar next to the fire. "I think we can stretch it another hour," he said, bringing his gaze back to Sasha like a slow caress.

It radiated from her eyes this time rather than lips. In fact, her cheek was barely creased. "Sounds like a plan."

December 25th, 2001—Tanah Merah, Changi Naval Base, Eastern Singapore

There'd been a careful dance, one of complete avoidance. An unspoken agreement that they weren't going to be obtuse as to pretend 'friends' was a possibility. Instead, there'd been distance. An abyss, open and bleeding, with a seemingly endless supply that simply refused to heal. She'd had a birthday, her twenty-sixth—and that had been a hard day—one of the worst. A day where she'd tried not to hope that Tom would acknowledge her existence, while knowing he could not. It was for the best that they stick to this non-verbal agreement to make a clean break. He'd had a birthday too—his thirty-third. But by far the worst was their looming port call to Pearl Harbor. On January 8th, the USS Vinson would reward its sailors for their seventy extended days in support of Operation Enduring Freedom, and one hundred and eleven consecutive days spent at sea, with a Tiger Cruise. Some nine hundred plus family members were set to embark for their last leg toward Naval Base San Diego, and then finally, Bremerton Naval Station.

Her stop.

At least, the end was in sight—as in tomorrow. Tomorrow Vinson would conclude its three-day port call in Changi and set course to Pearl Harbor—without her. Had fixed it so she could stay on base and join a different ship because the one thing she couldn't survive was staying on Vinson with not only Tom but his wife and the child he hadn't even met yet.

And so, Sasha had occupied the cheap shitty bar, which stayed open year-round, situated just shy of a mile from base, raw, miserable, alone and nursing whiskey. Counting the hours until he'd be gone, closer to praying than ever before to reach that milestone without needing to look for this impossible concept of 'closure'. The universe, it seemed, would not be so kind. Spencer arrived, jovial and joking, and if Spencer was here, that meant Tom was too. She drained the rest of the drink, threw cash on the bar-top, and ducked out. Almost made it, but Tom rounded the doorway, and instead of keeping her damn head down, she'd looked up, only for their eyes to collide.

It was a mistake.

Despite how fast she'd disengaged, that damn uncanny sixth sense of his ended the careful dance in which they'd engaged for fifty-one days. At least, that's what Sasha assumed when he finally tracked her down. Found her, thought she'd strolled over ten minutes into the beach park. Or maybe he was just pitying her—it was Christmas, after all and how pathetic she was to realize that pity, was something she'd take. That's how much she missed him. She said nothing when Tom approached. Kept fixed on the horizon that was steeped in inky blue. He wasn't. He was fixed on her, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, emitting an air of precedence that didn't quite fit… unless he'd somehow figured it out.

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question. The two words were flat, stretching between them with a finality that echoed like stone against marble.

She did her best to maintain calm, even breaths while seeking him through her peripheral. Slow, cautious. Starting first at his feet, stood at the edge of the sand, up his legs and then torso. Then to his fac, drenched handsomely in shadow by the streetlights erected at intervals throughout the park until finally, Tom's eyes. Impossible, captivating, getting red in their whites and still feeling like home.

"Yes."

He blinked and then swallowed, the action appearing difficult then nodded in a type of forced acknowledgment.

Angling her body to face him, she breathed. Those last remnants of indecision escaped into the temperate air as she plunged headfirst into the thing she was both desperate yet afraid to know. "If I hadn't missed your call at the beginning of March… if we'd been able to talk… would it have made a difference?" That seemed to hit him. The crease in the center of his brow deepened while weight depressed his shoulders. It took what felt like minutes for him to speak, and it held the force of a thousand words when it came.

"No."

Oh.

Despite her efforts, Sasha's lip twitched, and she could feel the muscles quivering around her eyes. She looked toward the ocean again. Waiting for the knife to stop cutting. Acting as though the waves could somehow soothe the pain, and sat for the hundredth time with hardened regret and the knowledge that she should have been honest when he'd called on her birthday. Should have told him she had no idea what she was doing. Admitted that she was scared and felt inadequate. Tom would have listened—more than that—he would have understood it and then offered her yet more of his un-yielding but steady calm. His love. The very thing that both terrified and captivated her. Sasha could see that now.

"Not because I don't want you."

His words stilled her breath, every cell in her body standing on end.

"But because I figured out that it wouldn't work." He let that sit between them for several seconds before continuing. "Us is one thing, but a daughter?"

Cautious, Sasha made eye contact again.

"You have your whole life ahead of you, Sash. All your dreams… being stationed overseas? Traveling in your downtime, trying a new city every couple years? I wouldn't be able to do that with you. Not with a kid whose mom lives in the States, who needs stability. Friends, grandparents, community. Two parents to provide that for her… and I have never wanted to be the reason you can't be exactly who you are. Even if it means letting you go."

Her tongue was wedged hard between her lip and teeth; nostrils flared while she fought with deep grit not to start crying again.

"You deserve more than I can give you. Someone who can make you their priority… and I can't. No matter how much I want to—I can't do that for you anymore."

Slowly she nodded, and it stung more deeply than Sasha had words to express to realize he was right. The very last thing she wanted to accept as the truth, was. Tom was right. In the end, playing families with another woman's child at twenty-six when she'd barely lived, wasn't it.

Her jaw was clenched hard, a response pushed through quivering lips. "I would have tried though."

Tom lost the careful control over the set of his brow, and it wrenched into something profoundly painful. "I know," he rasped, needing to swallow before he could finish. "That's exactly why I'd say no. You and I both know you'd never be happy. Not like that."

She felt the two fat tears roll down her cheeks, too heavy to remain where they'd stubbornly clung. "But I could have been—with just you—we could have. I think it works for us," she whispered. "In another life."

His nostrils quivered, and he ducked his chin before lifting it again. "Yeah—I think it does."

Unburying her own hands, Sasha wiped her face and smiled, the very act of it ripping her in two. Cautiously she approached, hoping to end this with more than a bitter heart aching statement. His gaze tracked her, but he didn't move. Peered down when she stopped, standing with mere inches of space between them. Watched her push onto her tiptoes, one hand braced against his chest until she placed a chaste kiss upon his cheek, and maybe she lingered for a second more than was friendly—just to savor what she'd lost before retreating a healthy distance. She was still human. If that's all she could have, she'd take it. Tom had been her's first, after all.

"Take care of yourself, Tom." It was horribly strangled, and she forced the smile to stay.

Something snapped.

She saw it in his eyes; an expression so earnest that it shattered her, and in one stride Tom was framing her jaw and crushing his mouth to hers. For two seconds she waged the battle between head and heart, then let herself be lost in it. Their last time. She melted into his embrace, trying to catalog every minuscule detail so she could brand her mind and keep it forever and have it be hers. Bereft when he found the strength to leave her lips, but not her. Not yet. Destroyed when he littered reverant tender kisses against her face. Her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her forehead, everywhere he could reach skin while cradling her head like this was his dying breath, but then he stopped.

Tore himself away.

Walked with purpose in the bar's direction, and she knew he'd heard the awful little sound because he tensed and hesitated. It was unintentional, but the peak was unbearable, so she held her breath while Tom seemed to take several of his own—shuddered and uneven based on his silhouette—before he started walking again.

Away.

Away from her.

He didn't look back... never turned.

And that was it.

December 13th, 2013—USS Nathan James, on course to New Orleans, Gulf of Mexico—2215 hours

Captain Chandler handed his vest to an awaiting sailor while Mike waited, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet with arms clasped behind his back, hiding in part the report clutched within his hands. Cooper acknowledged him politely when she passed. No more than a nod and facial gesture, as was customary, but the action of respect was appreciated, nonetheless.

"How was it?"

Tom answered with fatigue in his voice. "No go. It's run by good people, but there aren't nearly enough of them, and they're starting to hear rumors about the immunes themselves—" Mike kept pace with Chandler as he moved through the bay "—how are we looking with the prisoners?"

"Still not talkin' yet, but they will. In the meantime—somethin' came up while you were gone—"

"It usually does." Shot back dry.

"Neils is dead." That got Tom's attention, the Captain pausing and pivoting until he'd turned to give Mike his undivided attention. The move drew a glance from Cooper, who was unloading ammo.

"How?" Tom asked quietly.

Mike made a 'hm' sound while his lip curled though devoid of humor. "Well, that's just it. Two of our three Doctors cannot concur whether it was an unanticipated reaction to the biopsy, or an unfortunate side effect from that blood transfusion we gave him. I'm having Garnett oversee the op rep, but—" Mike shrugged "—seems to me it's just an unfortunate situation… or not so unfortunate."