an. Guest responses below:

References: 1997 standalone flashback.

MGL88 Omg, I was blown away by my inbox when I checked it this afternoon. I'm so excited you're back. Thank you so much for your comments and thoughts, I could write you a chapter responding to all the things you said, so forgive me for pulling the highlights here, but THIS!? "Tom is grieving Darien as a good friend who he loved because they were family. Sasha is grieving the man she fell in love with and their baby." Slow clap. I can't express how happy I am that this concept came through without needing to blatantly write it out. It's one of the main 'fixes' I wanted to explore in this verse because Tom is supposed to be such a moral character, but the TLS writers appeared determined to force romance way too soon. If they wanted that, they should have made him divorced or simply unmarried. I decided to write a scenario where I *could* see an honorable family man get twisted on the 'forbidden fruit' concept in the condensed timeline. If Tom had simply moved on with Darien at a natural pace in this fic's storyline, he wouldn't be conflicted at all, nor entertaining the concept of moving on with Sasha in the future until he was done serving the mission and processing the loss of Darien. Also, I'm so sorry I made you cry :( that scene also gave me a lot of feelings. Glad you're on board with the slow burn because it's the only way for them to move forward, and you're likely getting another 100K words in the verse to do it right, lol. Though, I will need to break it into a sequel.

Guest 1 I laughed when you mentioned craving more Tom/Sasha by the end of exploring the wider view because that totally happens to me when writing. I enjoy the challenge of exploring the minds of the other characters, but my gosh, it's hard to balance when there's so much going on in a short period, and so many layers. Sasha is trying to find a way forward, and I think she's doing better (she is 4 months further in the process than anyone in the crew, after all), but of course, grief doesn't just disappear or move in a linear fashion. There will always be ups and downs and regressions. So glad you like the changes, I have no interest in adding more guilt to Tom's plate in this verse, and I was kind of excited to read that you loved the quick reference because I liked it too.

Guest 2 Pablo/Sasha do have a brother-sister vibe which I love. She was DIA for 5 years, so they have a solid history and foundation of trust. I did laugh at your comment about Tom seeing Pablo leave the room... not going to lie, I considered it but ultimately nixed it. It's funny, I agree with you about Rachel. I couldn't care less that the actress was fired/written out. I was far more interested in how the crew worked together and the pandemic scenario. The death that makes me most sad was Tex, and without the BTS set drama, he would have been in Season 3 more. I see why Rachel had a crush on Tom, but I saw nothing from Tom's side other than him wanting to return to his family until that hallway scene. Perhaps the show watched differently in real time versus streaming, but the timeline was pretty evident, and that scene was weird out of nowhere in a bad way. My gut feeling is the writers didn't originally write it like that, but because of the on-set issues, they pushed the narrative to make a big TV cliffhanger that left room to deal with who wasn't returning (Rhona or JP) and appease the shippers. Either way, I was very 'ew' why would you want to sleep with a man whose wife of more than a decade died 3 weeks ago, who also wanted to hand you over to authorities the week before? No thanks. Hard pass. If they had not written Sasha as having a significant past with Tom, I would have had the same issue in Season 3 for pushing romance too fast. As the show decided to write her, I didn't have insta love with Sasha either, but I really came to appreciate her potential as a character premise. I wish that the writers had treated her as more than a prop after Season 3, and that's how I ended up being pushed to fanfic. The choice to put her on the chopper, and for him to admit it was for personal reasons, along with the hand-shoulder thing in front of his crew, stole my heart. So subtle, but considering his level of black-and-white morality and commitment to duty, it spoke volumes. Re: my job, you're so sweet, ha, thanks. If I could make a good living writing fanfic all day, I'd try. Certainly less boring than my work.

What It Means to be Human

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December 26th, 2013

"Why don't you wear it down? You look so pretty with it down." Debbie reached over and Kara swatted her hand away.

"Mom, stop."

Of the curveballs since May, this made Sasha consider pitching Rios' need to certify her insane. Precisely eight months and twenty-one days prior, she'd been the one irritated by her mother's hovering, staring in the mirror with a face full of product, wearing 'the dress'. On that day, a single bridesmaid had occupied the suite while she downed mimosas and tried not to notice the damn photographer. Laura Cooper; Jesse couldn't swing it, though she'd tried. As Sasha recalled, her contract with the Montclair Expeditionary Trust required the transport of a Saudi Arabian oil tycoon to the ice.

Keeping a small circle had been Sasha's choice in life, but now she was reconsidering—well—everything. Kara's suite was full and joyous despite two of her four bridesmaids being relative strangers. That wasn't the part Sasha couldn't comprehend.

It was her own feelings of happiness.

Hope.

Excitement to see Kara walk toward Green when her pre-pandemic stance would strike indifference, and she'd been sleepless that night, anticipating waves of sorrow. The kind she'd seen etched upon Tom's face until it beckoned the pieces left belonging to him. Made them yearn to help ease it.

Kat entered the room still in her robe, as they all were, with a stack of magazines in hand. "Here, Kara. These have some samples in them."

Beaming, Kara left the desk turned vanity. "You're so sweet, thank you."

They'd all been stumped by Kat's resourceful genius in locating perfume. Apparently, the axe body spray usage was out of control amongst the younger men at Michener's inauguration. And it might have something to do with the younger girl wanting to impress Diaz. If Sasha were not intentionally focused on taking it slow, she'd be planning how best to recruit Nolan already.

Someone knocked and then hollered, "Ya'll decent in there?"

"We sure are," Andrea called, loud enough to be heard over Alisha's music.

Tex entered wearing some kind of tweed affair that pushed Sasha's brows to the stratosphere.

At once his attention went to Kat. "What the dang hell is on your head?"

Her hand came up to touch the mass of hair twisted and smoothed around a rolled t-shirt. "It's for waves, Dad. Blowouts make it frizz and no one has a curler."

Approaching, Sasha took the bottle of champagne from his hand while he peered vacantly at Kat.

"You'll see when it's finished," Kat said.

His mouth was still lax when the door opened wider, and Sasha heard glass tinkling against itself. Tex moved and Pablo emerged behind with five flutes.

With a noise of sarcastic intrigue, Sasha's lips curled down in a shrug. "You found the barber." Gone was the near shoulder-length mess; standard short back and sides in its place, and he'd buzzed down the scruff to respectable stubble. "Forgot what your face looked like."

"You can admit I'm handsome," he quipped effortlessly, moving toward the table where he set the glasses.

"Ma'am," he acknowledged Debbie, who, if Sasha didn't know better, appeared to be quite taken with his appearance.

"I'm Debbie—" she thrust out her hand, which he took "—mother of the bride."

From the vanity, Sasha saw Alisha pivot, intrigue clear. Kara had tucked her chin and seemed to suppress laughter. Alisha too, the pair stealing glances in the mirror.

"An honor to meet you."

"Ooooweee," Tex yipped. "Got your game face on today, boy."

Ignoring completely the room, Sasha was now transfixed on Nolan's feet. "Are you wearing snakeskin cowboy boots?"

"Why yes ma'am."

Andrea was now chuckling. "Trust me, they get uglier the longer you stare."

Kat had sunk onto the bed and covered her face with her hands.

Leaning in, Tex whispered, "Think I'm embarrassin' my best girl there. Probably best I get goin." Straightening, he directed attention to Pablo. "Sweetheart, let's leave these fine ladies to it."

From the bed, Sasha heard Kat groan. Silence reigned after both men's departure until Alisha, in disbelief, made a sound between a laugh and a scoff. Covering her mouth, Kara dissolved into laughter.

Russ performed the ceremony; short and sweet in the event space on the eighteenth floor. Debbie gave Kara away. Javier bore the rings. Ended on the winning side of the crew's open bet—would Danny Green cry? The answer was yes. Crumbled when he saw the dress. Off-white, lace cap sleeves with an empire silhouette long enough on Kara's frame to sweep in the back. Andrew had reacted similarly; the moment Sasha felt the 'big day' held worth. Paid off the guest list, larger than she'd desired. The incessant meddling from her mother and discomfort with being the center of attention.

There were a few faces she didn't recognize this evening. Two people with Russ, she guessed, in their mid to late sixties—maybe his parents? But their coloring was lighter. Perhaps his in-laws? He wore a ring… and Javier's sister Maria had arrived yesterday, along with her children. Sasha wasn't privy to their names yet, but what she was relieved to note was Jeffrey Michener's absence. Bonner and Oliver's too.

And then there'd been Tom. To whom she'd not spoken since her admittedly reckless choice to force certain topics. He was giving her space, she recognized that. It's what she'd wanted after all.

Entire continents of it, as she recalled.

But she got it now, why he'd come to her that night on Vinson. It was hard to sit in ignorance, watching someone you'd loved drown. Knowing you held power to shelter them—even if kindness brought risk.

For three days, he'd been lost in his mind. It needed to happen, but so with it came troublesome questions. The self-honesty and reflection that most, including himself, avoided. Like whether he'd feel this conflict had Sasha appeared in normal circumstance. If none of this happened, if he'd succeed at keeping thoughts locked in their tomb.

The answer should be yes.

But he'd been trying to reach 'should be' for a decade and never mastered it. December always surfaced scars, and tonight was no different. Haunted by a smell, a cool spot on his shirt, the dying logs in his parent's fire. A smile and simplistic understanding of purpose.

Before, nostalgia loomed in subconscious. Intrusive when surfaced by unavoidable relics, like Darien's propensity to stop channel hopping if Friends was re-running. To this day, Tom believed she'd stop gushing about Monica and Chandler had she a single clue of Sasha's appearance. He had Katie to thank for that unforgettable comparison, blurted out within minutes of their meeting. But there were fresh memories now; new ways with which to torture himself. Like the sun catching her eyes on the deck of his ship. Watching stars from the bed of a pickup. The weight of her body where it rested next to his. The feel of her skin beneath his lips. Two parallel lives lost. Loves. Homes. Places of meaning. One real and the other intangible—all the runaway thoughts—and in the moment if Tom could, he'd choose lobotomy.

Never did it cross his mind that he'd be tormented by the intangible one. Not while trying to accept the loss of his wife.

Those pieces were wrapped in a dress and giving grace to Tex, entertaining his insistence to dance with every woman in the room, and it was gentle. A loose hold and light sway as not to overexert. Maybe that was okay, but then it ended, and she went back to sitting with 'Pablo'. Threw back her head and laughed over something he said, and Tom felt the wrenching.

This was the part where he'd call Katie—the sole person in which he'd confide, just as he'd done when driven insane by a voicemail—he'd tell her that Sasha was back and it was everything he'd wanted, except she'd married someone else, intended to risk her life for some guy, Jesse, and didn't want a future with him so he still hadn't found it yet. The alternate life. His sister would find his agony romantic, fail to admonish him for fixating on fantasy and commensurate instead. He'd bask in her acceptance, then resume what he'd done. Continue on, unable to vanquish a painful dream he'd seldom examined.

Her's was a contract Tom couldn't seem to void, nor fulfill, and sometimes it was excruciating.

Averting attention would be prudent. Putting down the glass might help, but fixation had always been his vice.

"You know, if I didn't know what year it was, I'd think you were livin' on my couch again." Mike's attempt at humor fell more than flat. It shattered the last piece.

"Mike." He'd never let this drop. Not since that night, and Tom regretted divulging at all. Mike never did understand the way he loved Sasha.

Ignoring the warning, the frustrations he'd felt brewing from Mike finally jettisoned. "The hell does she have on you!?"

"It wasn't her!" Tom hissed through gritted teeth, vehement enough for Mike to back down, but now he couldn't stop. "It was me. I told her I'd wait, and then kept sleeping with Darien, and she came back. It was only four months since we'd talked, she called me and I missed it." There was a beat. "They went radio silent."

It was like a plate dropped between them. Mike was stunned, then putting it together rapid-fire as evidenced when his eyes darted left to right.

"They got pulled out of Kabul after nine-eleven and assigned to Vinson. I didn't know she was there… I didn't even get a chance to explain—the XO asked about my baby and wife to be right in front her—in the middle of CVIC." The anger was gone, and he became raspy. "I married Darien eleven days after that, when the last thing I'd told her was I loved her and would wait…"

It was rare to see Mike speechless, and it was the perfect nail to Tom's coffin.

"Now you know," Tom bit out, features ridged. "So for God's sake—leave it alone and stop holding a grudge for something she didn't do."

Tom grabbed his drink, pushed away from the bar, and walked away.

Oh.

Shifting focus through the space, over O'Connor and Burk's impressive dance moves, Mike watched Sasha track Tom's departure. Her smile faltered.

Nothing like a little context to shine the light, and Tom was right, he had been holding a grudge for thirteen years. Intensified after reading Sasha's file and deducing Tom risked everything by deferring, and she'd all but Dear John'ed. Moved out when Tom was aboard USS Eisenhower, broke him bad enough to distance from everything—including Mike—and then still been dumb enough to risk a loyal wife for a damn night on the beach.

It hadn't tracked, and he couldn't understand. Not when he'd witnessed Tom reject every extramarital advance offered throughout the years. On that front, they'd both had abundant opportunity. Leadership conferences, weekend trips. Port visits, bars, and local women. Pretty sailors with no qualms stationed in close quarters thousands of miles from home, and never once had they struggled to honor their vows. Made vague assessments of those showing interest and then got back to work.

This clicked, and he was willing to bet an arm Tom would die on his convoluted little hill. The notion that he'd in fact cheated on Sasha, which Mike guessed, by virtue of technicality, he kind of had.

Well shit.

His initial assessment that Sasha's appearance guaranteed a clusterfuck solidified, and now he couldn't stop thinking of his own. Damn if the timing of this evening, let alone its purpose, didn't bring difficulty in compartmentalizing such thoughts. It felt like fire ants biting at flesh. The itching need to get out of St. Louis, search for his wife and girls. Impossible not to conjure memories of their last Christmas, the best in years thanks to putting in work.

Together.

Mike swallowed, forever ashamed of his contributions to their almost demise. Haunted daily, hell, hourly by their last call. Christine had begged to prioritize their marriage, and it had fallen on deaf ears. Trapped in her loneliness, but still in love with a man who hadn't been present in years. Happened like that sometimes, the counselor said. People spent so much energy building the life, raising the kids, carving the career that somewhere along the way, they went from lovers, to friends, to damn near strangers. Two people together in name leading separate lives. Even Tom admitted they'd struggled with the same.

Gripping harder around the whiskey glass, Mike downed its contents, scanning the room. Beside the fire, chatting with Andrea, he spotted Russ—as good a distraction as any—and a man who understood this kind of pain better than anyone.

Wordless, Mike handed Tom a cigar, the tobacco resting between his index and middle fingers—a silent peace offering—one Tom seemed to examine before accepting. Next, Mike fished the beaten Zippo from his inner jacket, a family heirloom, weathered and traveled as he now was; originally his grandfather's. The flame sputtered and wicked to a glow, illuminating Tom's profile while Mike held it up, and Tom stoked the burn. For several moments, neither spoke, smoke swirling lackadaisical into the dark arid sky.

The aroma of spices and old library books surrounded and embedded itself in the fine wool of their uniforms.

Eventually, Mike sighed. "So you stayed with Darien because of Ashley? And you got married on Vinson because of the attack?"

Tom took a deep sip from his glass before setting it back on the concrete edge which lined the gas fire pit. Didn't have propane, but they'd sacrificed a couple chairs to warm the space. Still, the chill bit. The glass sat next to a bottle of Maker's Mark; he noted. Tom was well and truly checking rank and duty by the wayside tonight.

"Yep."

He'd spent twelve years thinking Tom got married in o-two. Hadn't been able to attend himself, not the first time at least, but he was there when the Chandlers renewed their vows in eleven. Always had thought it weird to do that on a ninth anniversary over tenth…

"And Darien was okay with that?"

"Darien wanted a family."

"Yeah, but what about what you wanted?"

Tom's cheeks hollowed, and he took another drag. "I wanted my kid to grow up the way I did." Mike waited for the rest. "And I wanted Sasha to have everything she'd planned—not be tied down by my responsibilities."

Mike exhaled through his nose, smoke clouding his vision. "Hell of a choice."

Silence lingered in response until some of it cracked. "She broke up with me because she was scared I'd go looking for distraction and what did I do? Kept with Darien because she made me feel better. All I did was prove her right."

"Yeah, but come on, you don't know that she would have waited either. Three years active when you're both in is a long time."

"No. It isn't, and you're wrong. You don't get to judge her right now—not when her whole world's just imploded. I'm not gonna stand here and listen to it."

Mike threw up a hand, could see he'd worded that poorly, or rather, Tom was in a world of hurt and reverted to his default. Scathing defense. Too deep to see that this wasn't an attack on Sasha's character. "Was just thinkin' out loud—didn't mean anything by that."

Tighter than a puckered asshole, Tom stood, gaze defiant on the blackened city below, and Mike chose wisely in changing the topic. "Can't stop thinkin' about what she said though—about leaking it to the press? Story hitting a week after we left…" he broke off. "Can't make sense of it. Command knew the whole time and never sent reinforcements… never changed our orders… Scott and Tophet didn't wake the hell up and tell anyone so we could help them find that damn thing. It didn't have to be this way." He clenched his teeth. The cigar. Anything. "Never been this angry in my life, Tom."

Squinting, Tom took another long drag before answering in a tone close to devoid. "Neither have I."

"Shoulda taken that desk job in Florida. I woulda been with em' at least." Gruff when it came out.

Big enough that Tom stopped stonewalling and made eye contact. Securing the cigar in his mouth, Tom retrieved the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Poured himself some more and then offered it to Mike without comment.

Laughing enough to hurt was another unexpected outcome of embracing the evening. A bunch of the crew were quite talented singers, Alisha in particular, which didn't seem like news to most. By far the most entertaining, however, was Miller's rendition of Real Slim Shady. If Eric said he'd been preparing to perform it for years, she'd believe. Carlton filmed, and for a second Sasha considered charging that laptop she couldn't stomach touching to store a copy of it… all had been well until someone picked Phil Collins.

"Who did this!?" Rachel exclaimed.

Tex.

Of course. Who else would want to cover a love ballad from the eighties? Badly. And hearing Tex warble 'take a look at me now' pushed her to stop ignoring how Mike had returned, but not him…

Tom spotted the fabric first. In his peripheral, powder blue and trailing. "It's too cold for you to be out here."

"I can cope for five minutes." Her voice spanned the distance, soft and almost melodic.

"Sasha."

Undeterred, she appeared before him. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting."

"Thomas."

A languid blink interrupted the flickering flame reflected in his eyes. "Aleksandra."

Lips parting a fraction, she took a quiet breath. Figured no one had called her that in years, certainly not correctly; and he very much doubted Andrew spoke Russian.

Dragging his gaze away from the fire, he faced Sasha. Admonished himself fast for pretending she wasn't the singular person left alive who knew—really knew—how deep his flaws ran and cared anyway.

He wanted to say she was beautiful. Instead, his grip tightened around the glass.

"Processing," he murmured.

The lick of tension in her features melted, and she sank slowly until perched on the edge next to the bottle, opposite him. Somehow, she'd always known when to push and when silence would make him divulge, a skill that had prevailed.

Sighing, he set down the glass. "You were right," he started while unbuttoning his jacket.

Her brow quirked, eyes locked when he stood and draped it around her shoulders. "Now I really am worried," she said.

It was dry, and his lip tugged into a soft grin despite it all.

"When's the last time you admitted I was right?"

Lingering he countered, "To you—or in my head?"

This time she smiled, and for a second he could breathe again. "Yes," she shot back, mirth dancing from icy blue.

"Fifteen seconds ago."

Sasha softly chuckled and then let it play out across her features, accepting that she'd walked into that one. He was close still, enough to catch perfume. To count the number of faded freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. A dangerous place to be, and his hands still lingered at the jacket's lapel, holding it drawn closed until her own peeked out to replace his.

"Thanks," she breathed.

He swallowed and let go. Occupied himself fast with the glass and sat down again. For several moments, she merely sat before offering her own glimpse into the interiors of her world.

"You know I thought it would be more difficult, but I'm happy for them."

It rested in silence for several moments.

"I always thought it would be me," he started. Sasha froze. "That didn't come home."

She adjusted the fingers clutched to his jacket. "Any other scenario, so did I," she whispered, needing to pause for several seconds before she continued. Long enough that Tom pinned her with his gaze. "The minute he told me they were being briefed by the CDC—I knew. He was the head of general at Capitol Hill… and I still pushed to go to Asia knowing if this thing really hit, he'd be one of the first to die." This time when her lip curled, it was with the same self-loathing he'd been drowning in. "Not exactly sure what that says about me."

"Probably the same as me choosing to turn away from my own damn kids and wife." He drained the remaining whiskey and refilled it. "If you find the answer, I'm all ears."

Brow now creased, Sasha switched gears. "Does Jed have someone?"

Confused, it took Tom a moment to respond. "No. They were together for almost forty-eight years. He'll never look at another woman again. Mom was it for him."

Her features turned wistful. "You know mine had a new boyfriend three days after the funeral?" He imagined his expression was horrified, judging by her soft chuckle. "It sounds terrible, but I didn't even care in the end. I'm just glad she found a little happiness… and that dad was finally free of the whole thing. I will never understand why they didn't get divorced."

Tom pondered that. Eventually, he'd met the Kunićs and understood everything Sasha felt. Their home was cold. Perfect by outward appearance, but devoid at its core. "Religion's a hell of a thing."

"I have to admit if they were still alive right now, I'd throw it in their face that the guy they said wasn't good enough just helped save the world."

Warmth touched his expression. "Always did love being right and saying I told you so."

"If I recall, it happened often." She was teasing him now, postured with the subtle bravado that so inclined her to him.

"But not always," he countered, lips close to the rim.

"No—not always. But at least two minutes ago."

There she was.

He paused, and then chuckled, raising his glass when done with his sip, and tried to stop the surge in his chest. "You seem better today." Not quite whispered, but almost eaten by the flames.

After examining it, Sasha nodded. "It was a nice wedding." And then she shifted closer, not that the space between the wicker patio two-piece and firepit spanned over two feet and change. Her thighs rested against his left leg. "You gonna admit that you want them to have a happy ending as much as I do?"

"Why?" he muttered, "because I was supposed to marry you?" He drained the glass, but before reaching the three-quarter empty bottle, Sasha's hand covered his.

"Tom—" she drew it into her lap, and he stared. The attempt to focus on a single point highlighted the spinning. Couldn't remember the last time he'd drunk enough for that.

"You don't need to act like you're not human anymore."

For seven seconds, he held it. Knew because he counted to suppress what she'd unlocked. But then he couldn't. Head still hung; he clenched his eyes shut and sank forward until his forehead rested against her upper sternum. The hand around his squeezed, and with the other, her fingers trailed delicately through his hair.

His mother did that when he was a child.

Finally, he broke.