an. Delete every visual/detail shown about the hotel in the show. Since, ya know, this is set in actual St. Louis not filmed in San Diego *wink*. Also for the purpose of rebuilding/going with something more feasible than 80-90% of the world's population being dead, remove that canon going forward too. If that were the case, we'd be watching the Walking Dead. This concept will be expanded upon in further chapters.
Guest review responses below:
Guest 1 It's okay, I feel insane for thinking this hard about a fictional show LOL. First, no you're not reading too much into the honorable comment. I did a little clap when I read that in your review, it's totally shotgun, and Tom is seeing the parallels between Danny and Kara to both he and Sasha but also, Darien because he essentially shotgun married her on Vinson thanks to 9/11. There is more coming in future chapters on this point :) I do want to course-correct Tom at the root too. They (the writers) did so many random things with his characterization that completely contradicted who they established him to be. The ambivalence to the rest of the crew (and even Mike, Sasha, and his kids) was a major issue for me. I get that they were trying to blame PTSD, but they executed it horribly. When they decided that Tom not only left but chose to ghost everyone for 16 months, they killed his character and never redeemed it IMO. I watched a BTS video where Steve states they chose to end S3 that way because of a ceremony they witnessed in San Diego while filming. It kind of speaks to the randomness of some of their very out-of-character choices. No spoilers on the chapter, and things going forward, but I am curious to hear your thoughts on the direction I chose here with T/S and the inauguration.
Guest 2 Tex on the show for sure is also my fav male character closely followed by Mike and then Miller. They remained solid and well-written for the whole thing. Tom could have been my fav character had they not ruined him which I guess is why I write him, lol. Pablo is like a mini Tex! I think he has a little more tact (just not with Sasha cause he doesn't care), but those two together are trouble, and I love it. They balance out the seriousness of everyone else so well. Glad you liked the flashback, I miss them being happy together. :( Also - I totally agree with you! Danny & Kara is the one relationship that started in crisis (but they were fooling around before that, so the feelings were already well on their way prior) that I believed in, and felt worked because they're both 20-somethings and it fits their characters. The writers were so smart in nixing the insurmountable issue that is Tom's loyalty (and the fact he's a 40-something with enough self-control to lead a mission at the risk of his own family) in making Sasha someone he'd loved in a way that crossed the line into family. It was totally in character, and then they wasted all that potential and didn't commit to it. Drove me nuts, but it's also kind of crazy how clearly the writers managed to establish the depth of their feelings with so few meaty interactions in canon. Rant aside, you're also right in that Tom has barreled ahead with this concept of a future relationship with Sasha, and it's not the healthiest thing he's decided to fixate on. He'll come back to reality but I don't think Tom ever stopped holding space for Sasha in canon or in this verse. It's truly his vice and I think losing Darien supercharges it because now he has the chance to 'fix' something he screwed up. Sasha meanwhile... well where she is, is very clearly revealed in this chapter :)
And You're Gonna Have to Let It Go Someday
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December 23rd, 2019—St. Louis, Missouri
"Where'd ya'll find this?" O'Connor asked, hopping into the bed of a Humvee to assist Miller in hauling a large storage crate to its edge.
"We hit pay dirt at Fort Leonard." Miller's voice was strained with exertion.
Pay dirt an understatement—more like gold.
Major General Bonner had chosen the unconventional; defied direct orders and shut it down. The citizens within Fort Leonard's bounds were given a simple choice; stay or leave. A decision informed by the failures that Bonner observed in the enforcements across the coasts—heeded their valuable lessons. He, along with his soldiers, had implemented a strict border, with no exception. If you left, you were on your own. If you arrived, you were on your own. It worked. Eight thousand survivors were living in a single pocket comprising families and, most crucially, commissioned officers of the United States Army.
Doctor's Scott and Milowsky had been flown in at o-eight hundred to begin spreading cure to Fort Leonard's citizens and General Bonner, to St. Louis. She'd been a part of that debriefing, the last she supposed to be held on the Nathan James. Such affairs would take place in the courthouse or hotel now… or perhaps White House was the more appropriate term.
There were hundreds of people.
Erecting chain fencing around the zone—Sasha figured it must have come from a construction site or failed quarantine—crew and civilian alike. More in the gateway grounds at various pop-up stations; food, water, radio communications. Then, within the hotel's lobby, a meandering line of people snaked through its front doors, bundled tight against the withering cold.
Foster, Mason, and a few others from CIC whom Sasha couldn't name without reading badges worked behind the check-in counters. The granite surfaces were laden with mountains of paper. Never-ending lists documenting survivors' basic information and relevant skills. Beside them, Granderson and two civilians appeared to program keycards before sticking post-its to them and laying them out for collection. Throughout the lobby, personnel moved dollys laden with boxes that Sasha recognized from the federal reserves, same ones that had lined the tiers of Doak Stadium…
It was maybe thirty-five degrees, yet her skin felt clammy. Itched like it was charred by a sunburn.
Sasha told herself the walk from Nathan James—only point three miles—was the source. A result of underestimating her oppressive limitations, but it was also loud. Too loud. A cacophony of voices echoed from every hard surface and the cavernous ceilings; the air tinged with the muggy wet-clogged stench of a gym bag abandoned overnight.
"Sasha?"
She diverted attention. He stood with her backpack slung over one shoulder, the only reason he was beside her at all. It weighed more than the five pounds permitted by Rios, and Sasha doubted she could handle anything over three. A few meager possessions had still been strewn throughout her stateroom, the blanket, a laptop, and cell she couldn't stomach charging… some clothes. A few toiletries pilfered from the last hotel she'd occupied. It had all needed packing and Sasha couldn't do more than keep her torso artificially straightened, or assume a variety of standing, laying, or sitting uncomfortably. The staples were beginning to hurt more than the injury itself, something she couldn't get removed for two more days.
The idea of asking Pablo, knowing he'd be compelled to focus on the blanket she clutched desperately at night, was insurmountable. So she went to him. Tom. For within Tom lay a universal fact—the world didn't need to end for him to be there—if she'd surfaced from her exile to summon him across an ocean for help, he'd show.
That's who he was.
"What?"
"Are you alright?" he repeated, the knot between his brows deepening.
"I'm fine."
Her skin prickled anew when his gaze traveled her form. Today, there was a negligible difference; a cold-weather turtleneck beneath the collar of his working uniform. Gloves, but no jacket, and she wondered how he wasn't freezing. Tom held eye contact for a few moments more before approaching Granderson, and she pushed her hands deeper in their pockets. Clenched them to quell the tremor. Swallowed and cast her focus across the lobby once more.
Bacon emerged from a different room, one of the event spaces Sasha knew from the blueprints. With his Galley staff, they approached a stack of boxes and began taking stock. Made notes on a clipboard, and though she was too far to hear, she imagined Bacon was deciding where to move them.
"You ready?"
Again, she stiffened. Hadn't heard or noticed Tom re-approach. Her pulse flew rampant in her throat, a single nod her sole response. Together, they traversed the lobby at a considerably slower pace than Tom would otherwise take. Well, either of them, until reaching the elevators.
When he pressed the button, she glanced at him. His brow quirked, returning the gesture through his peripheral.
"You're trusting an elevator?" she drawled.
A gentle smile that radiated mirth wasn't the response Sasha expected. "It's a pulley system—anyone in engineering can fix it."
The tone chimed, the doors opened, and he extended a hand to hold the sensor while she debated the sanity of using it. An issue that seemed to amuse Tom. With a sigh, she stepped in, settling against the wall. After selecting the fifth floor, he mirrored her position on the opposite side.
Half rolling her eyes, she caved. "What?"
His playful smirk grew. "You know it can't fall? Even if the power goes out?"
She couldn't decide which part affected her most; that he'd so easily read her thoughts, his enjoyment, or that she felt like a midshipmen crushing on her directly superior lieutenant when he teased her. "Forgive me for my lack of general knowledge about elevators."
This time, he flashed a smile. "You're forgiven."
It was crazy but unbidden, the ghost of his lips seemed to caress her skin. Long distant memories becoming vibrant; smudged with red and delicate lace. The tightness in her lungs morphed, slipping away from the threat of blackened panic into something entirely different. Equally dangerous. She dropped the eye contact, landing on a spot near his boots, and then actively stopped herself from dragging her gaze up the sturdy length of his legs. The doors couldn't open fast enough, and when they did, a wash of cool air flooded the space.
The hallway also hummed with activity. Three consecutive suites were propped open, cleared out, and turned into a functional med-bay. Rios, who'd been between rooms, acknowledged Chandler and gave them authority over the corridor despite its width. It was still jarring to be reminded of the behaviors she'd once embodied. Sure, she still followed orders, but her work kept her mostly solo. Allowed flexibility over rigid protocol and tradition.
Her room was at the corridor's end—no accident—the assignment of floors had been determined on Nathan James. Level four housed ten conference rooms and a second event space. Level five, senior officers with the Captain and XO occupying the executive suites, leaving six and above for crew and family until a suburb was cleared. So far, barring Russ and Tex, only Cruz had established contact; his sister Maria, and her children, Manny and Christopher.
Kids.
Another issue; where to house the orphans, hundreds in addition to Ray Diaz and his group. A task Michener and Oliver were working to solve. The last she'd heard, once Drury Plaza reached capacity, the next plan was to fill the Hilton one block north and hold school classes in the conference spaces until a more permanent solution was found.
Tom got the door and held it open. She stepped through; the room was exceptionally clean. Free of dust. Sheets smelled freshly laundered. It prompted recollection of a sit-rep detailing concerns and advisory on maintaining health and sanitation, paramount with dwindling medications. She herself had been warned that something innocuous, like a sinus infection sans spleen and antibiotics, could kill her. Much the same for Ravit or anyone going forward who got injured.
Tom set the backpack on the leather-padded bench at the bed's foot, all traces of the light banter they'd shared gone. "You need me to unpack?"
"No, it's okay. Thank you, though."
He softly blinked but gave no verbal response, and now they were standing; the unsaid glowing hot like a poker between them. Again.
"Have you ever been here before?" she asked, rounding the bed to sit on its right side amidst wondering if Tom still slept on the left…
It took a moment and then he answered, stepping into a more comfortable line of sight for her. "To St. Louis?"
Sasha nodded.
"No—you?"
She shook her head. "Most traveling I ever did stateside was with you." Within the second, she regretted it; questioned why it fell from her lips. For a person who didn't want to keep digging up the past, she couldn't seem to stop engaging in it.
Something fond but subtle graced Tom's features. "You always were more interested in the rest of the world."
His sentiment tugged a little wistfully. "True. Though I think I may have seen enough of it now."
"Where have you been?"
Her lip quirked. "Acting like you haven't picked my file apart?"
"You mean the one that says you ride a desk at the Office of Naval Intelligence?" he shot back with his brows creased upward.
She refrained from folding her arms out of habit and tried not to smirk. "Eastern Europe, Middle East, most of South America… Southeastern China, Japan, the Philippines…"
"So everywhere," he surmised.
"Between port calls and missions, yeah—pretty much."
"Just like you wanted." His tone was tinged with something, may have felt nostalgic were it not for the hint of regret she detected.
The ache she carried flared with potent viciousness. It was times like these that she needed Andrew; the happiness she'd captured without Tom, and she was unprepared when Tom hit her with it.
"Did you tell him?" The same question she'd asked two days prior. "About us?"
The burn behind her eyes came almost instantly, prickling their backs. Words got stuck, so she settled for shaking her head.
Silence answered, the near imperceptible squint of Tom's gaze. "Why?"
That was the million-dollar question. She'd glossed over Tom like he was a boyfriend from college and for three hundred sixty days of the year, that worked. It worked very well—unless she was confronted with him—like Changi. Like the outskirts of St. Augustine. Like now.
Sasha could only shrug, and Tom examined it, his gaze laden with the burden of indecision. She solved that, however, by doing something equally reckless.
"Why didn't you tell her I was on Vinson? Or that you saw me in Changi?" Chin lifting in a mark of defiance. His indecision lingered, and she chose the opposite—spurred by a notion that Tom had embedded with such permeance because of every question left unanswered. That if she got them, tied the loose ends she'd stumbled over, she could be done with him. For good. "They're dead, Tom. It's not like they can hear us."
He remained steadfast for several seconds before caving, the release of tension in his shoulders signified it. A mark of defeat or acceptance, she couldn't decide. Like he knew exactly where this would lead, and he was going to allow it anyway, even if he didn't like it.
"Because I agreed to stay away from you—no contact," he breathed.
There it was again, that damn look, and steadily Sasha felt the pressure rising. The darker, more human part of herself couldn't shut down the resentment, nor the flare of hurt that he'd allow Darien—a woman he'd known less than six months—to dictate what he could do when she'd loved him for years. "You had no control over me showing up on Vinson."
"I know—I didn't want every call to be about you, and her projecting things that weren't true."
She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin again. "Like what?"
"Like you'd convince me to change my mind."
How ironic.
"Obviously didn't know you very well."
"Not back then, no." He let her get away with that mildly caustic comment, and she was very aware of it. Aware that she was treading a line that could make him defensive.
She dropped her gaze and studied the carpet, passing her tongue across her teeth. She'd pushed Tom away because of insecurities, right into the arms of another woman who couldn't see that he'd chosen and committed. A thing that she herself had comprehended too late.
"You were seeing someone too, Sash," he spoke gently. Facts, not an accusation. Ones she very well knew and chided herself for.
"And I stopped. After that night, I stopped because I couldn't keep using someone else to replace you." She returned her gaze, allowing the anger she'd thought vanquished to shine.
A flicker of recognition passed across his face. "I never replaced you," he rasped, that infuriating blanket of stoicism finally lifting. He never used to be like that, not with her. So guarded to where she saw only fleeting glimpses of the man she'd once known.
Softly, Sasha scoffed, keeping the force in the back of her throat so it didn't disturb the incision. "Come on, Tom. You sure found it easy to fall in love with her. I mean, whatever was going on between you was too good to walk away from… clearly." Her bitterness felt foolish, closer to childish, but maybe five days spent beside Darien's picture had supercharged it.
With a heavy sigh, he approached the bed, lowering until he was crouched before her, left knee braced against the carpet. "That's not true, Sash. I told you, we broke up in January, she wanted to know why I was holding back."
"And what did you tell her?"
"That I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."
Her features pinched in disbelief, nose tingling under threat of tears. "So she shows up pregnant and you just what—decide you're getting married? After you told her you're in love with someone else? Why would anyone want to do that, Tom? Even with a kid…" Sasha made no secret that it hurt, but she didn't expect it to feel so fresh. Couldn't reconcile how she'd regressed twelve years in twelve days. The easy excuse was grief. The truth pointed out that she'd struggled after only four hours in Changi and then lost Tom all over again.
"It didn't happen overnight, we'd stayed friends. Her brother-in-law was my roommate on base…" he hesitated, "we talked about… the options…"
At first, she hadn't understood the additional layer of softness, a tone she imagined he'd take with his children, but the implications cleared her confusion. And now she felt hollow. Yet another subject she couldn't touch without drawing parallels, and it was dark, but already the comparisons surged. Had Darien also considered termination like she? Or was Darien so perfect the thought never once crossed her mind? Somehow, Sasha was willing to bet on the latter.
A gloved hand tentatively encircled her own where it rested in her lap. She kept her gaze stubborn on the towering arch beyond the window. Heavy clouds were encroaching on an already sunless day… wondered if that meant snow was incoming?
She heard him inhale, or felt, couldn't decide, but she recognized it. That sound meant he was worried about doing the wrong thing. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about thi—"
She jerked her hand away. "No. That's exactly the problem, that's why we're still doing this—because there was never any closure. All you did was inform me of the decisions you'd already made, and that was it—I just had to accept them." Her vocal cords were strained, and his level of patient calm infuriated her. "You don't get to decide what I can talk about anymore."
"Sasha, please—"
"No—I want answers."
"To what?" his expression was wrenched now.
"Why the hell you called me and then kept sleeping with her!" she hissed, on the cusp of losing the battle against the water marring her sight. This was the detail she'd examined beyond rationality and never found resolution for. How he, the king of righteous, could fuck up so badly.
"I don't know!" It seemed to rip from his chest, not a shout, something deeper than that. "You don't think I've been asking myself that for years?!" he ground out. "I was being selfish! I wanted a distraction, I didn't know how to be alone when all I needed was you, and it didn't matter how many times I told you I love you, you still got it in your head that you can predict the future!"
She pressed her lips tight to prevent the quivering.
"Why? I would have done anything for you Sasha—I still would." It seemed to burn from his eyes, the blue glowing prominently against reddened torment… but at least this was a version of Tom she recognized.
"Because I didn't fit," she rasped. "I'm not the wife that stays at home, and cooks your meals. Raises your kids and then shows up to all your promotions and makes small talk with the Commander's trophy piece. I don't plan Christmases, or birthdays, or all the stupid luncheons, and dinners, and base warming parties… I don't buy gifts and then wrap them and send them to all your nieces and nephews, and make sure the card says love Uncle Tom."
He was breathing more heavily through parted lips, the tip of his nose suspiciously red. "I never wanted that from you." It was torn.
"But that's what people expected from me! All the people in your life!? And what about your career? There's no way you'd be the Commander with the wife who's always AWOL. Can't tell anyone what I do or where I am? Meanwhile, Sally down the street starts the gossip mill because her husband's XO and he's vying for your promotion. It's an institution, Tom. Your life is part of your brand—"
His jaw became tight and somehow, she'd failed to notice when exactly his hand had curled itself around her lower thigh. "You really think I would have stood by and let anyone put that on you? That I would have picked the Navy if that's what was making you unhappy? All you had to do was talk to me," he interrupted. Hovering somewhere between anger and anguish, she thought.
"I didn't know how to explain that before, Tom! I was twenty-four. Why do you think I came back?" she croaked out. "Because I finally realized what was right in front of me—I made a plan." She shrugged her shoulders self-consciously. "Once my contract was up, I was going to switch branches so we could get married without it blowing your whole career. If we'd waited a few years command could suspect all they wanted, but there'd be no proof. Mike was the common denominator; we could have lied and said I was friends with him, and he reintroduced us… that's what I called to tell you." She had to swallow against the lump. Her surge of pent-up anger evaporating as surely as the burden she'd passed back to him; deep enough to ponder if that stubborn moisture might spill over his lashes. Something she'd never actually seen from Tom—the few shuddered breaths after Cody's death in a darkened stateroom aside.
"That's how naïve I was—I thought I could come back like it was some kind of fucking fairytale—I couldn't even trust myself after that, Tom. Let alone you, and I'm still screwed up enough to be doing this with you when my husband died less than six months ago! That's where we are right now."
She'd rendered him speechless. Softening, she unfolded her arms and did something else she probably shouldn't do; framed his jaw with her right hand delicately. "I'm not the answer. That girl is gone; I left her on a beach in Changi… and you can't make declarations right after I almost died, and your wife actually did."
"That's bullshit," he whispered. "You're sitting right in front of me, and we've had this argument before." Her features scrunched, but Tom continued before she could interrupt. "I know exactly what I'm saying."
She dropped her hand and sighed. "You can't know anything when she died less than a month ago."
"Sasha." The hand on her thigh squeezed. "The way I feel about you has nothing to do with Darien being gone. It never has, and if you ever decide to believe a single thing I say again—believe that."
Pursing her lips, she blinked away the remaining moisture and focused instead on the point… which seemed to elude her. What she'd hoped to achieve by bringing up circular topics that always ended the same; with the method to break her affinity hidden, and an impasse of stubborn wills. Only thing that ever worked was distance.
Entire continents of it.
"I'm not staying. You can't change my mind," she uttered, meeting his eyes again.
He merely blinked. "I never said you were—and I think I know by now that I can't make you do anything if it's not what you want."
Rendered mute, all she could do was stare. "So what—your big plan is to sit around waiting for me to ignore reality?"
"It's called having faith." That flair was back, the thing Tom did whenever he'd committed to an idea.
"It's called denial."
"If that's what helps you sleep at night," he drawled, a mildly arrogant spark lighting his eyes.
"Jesus Christ, Tom," she mumbled, exasperation laced in her tone.
He canted his head, insisting now on demanding her gaze. "I'm not holding you here, Sasha. You'll do whatever it is you think you need to do—but if you're asking me to act like I don't care about you, I won't. I'm done playing games."
Against her ribs, her heart hammered; the root of her need to change his mind clarified. "You can't put that on me. I can't be responsible for you ending up happy or—"
"You're not, and you can't hurt me, Sasha. I did that to myself already. If you decide not to come back, then I'm still exactly where I was... and that's on me."
Her brow knotted. "But I'm the one that left," she breathed.
"And I forgave you," he answered. "A long time ago."
Sighing, he squeezed her thigh once more and then pushed himself up—kept the bulk of his weight in his own frame—and then lingered, debating again whether to say more. "If you need forgiveness, you've already got it, Sasha. Then and now. I told you, I'm not asking you for anything—but the one thing you can't do—is convince me that I don't love you."
No longer trusting herself to speak, Sasha remained quiet, his statement resting between them. After holding the contact, she practically felt the moment his gaze traveled toward her feet. "On or off?"
She'd forgotten Tom laced them, and it was a detail she'd overlooked. Another nap was her sole engagement this afternoon, had zero intention of attending Jeffrey Michener's Inauguration. "Off."
Like the dutiful soldier he was, Tom returned and made quick efficient work of the threads before removing her boots and placing them next to the nightstand precisely. Easy enough to reach but outside tripping range—exactly the kind of menial shit Tom paid attention to. God, it wrecked her heart every time something familiar like that happened.
"Keycards on the table," he said, standing once more.
"Thank you," she muttered, observing the arch by default.
It made it easier, or so she told herself—to focus on something else. The paradoxical tug of war whenever he was near. He ushered both turmoil and peace, and the single constant was an emotion she refused to embrace for it threatened her commitments. To Andrew. To the life they'd created, and she'd lost. Tom at present was inexorably wrapped within concepts she'd never wanted to believe in. Universal human ideas that some things were 'meant to be'. It was abhorrent to imply something so terrible occurred through greater design, and yet every time she started pondering, the thoughts entered her psyche.
Jeffrey Michener needed destiny.
Absolution from his sins.
Sasha Cooper saught the opposite. Someone to see that she was at fault so she could atone...
The very last thing she deserved was a path to future happiness.
Especially with Tom.