an. While I'd love to take the credit for thinking of Tex's snakeskin cowboy boots last chapter, he was in fact wearing them to the inauguration. Sadly, FFNet won't let me provide a screenshot, but you can see them around 33 mins 50 seconds in (Hulu) if you so desire. Also, per a request from a guest review, the following prior chapters are referenced: Chapter 4, 'Tanah Merah' | Chapter 9, 'White Flag' | Chapter 10, 'I Think I'm Sorry, I Left You Crawling' | ' Chapter 20, 'Awake & Restless'.
Warning on this chapter, it's sad. Central focus on child loss & grief.
Guest responses are below:
MGL88 You're welcome! The lack of security for Rachel stuck out like a sore thumb. I tend to believe Season 2 had a different ending planned where the shooting did not happen at all, but the on-set issues resulted in last-minute changes making those major plot holes. It felt tacked on out of nowhere when I watched it. I feel really sad for Mike, he breaks my heart in the chapter :(. Please take the New China verse/anything I wrote and published in 2020 with a grain of salt! LOL. I hadn't written anything in a decade and there are many things I would change/do better all around. Bad grammar habits, poorer wording choice, writing style, execution of concepts, etc. One day, I will need to go back and re-write but yeah... New China, Vengeance, and Halcyon need some work. El Norte & Virginia are ok and much more consistent with this style. If you want some happy cushy flashbacks, I ended up writing some one-shots compliant with St. Augustine's universe titled 1997 & 1998 which were the quotes and lines referenced in the last few chapters.
Guest 1 Thank you, I'm glad Tom erratically pin-balling came off right and the confrontation with Mike didn't feel forced. I see it that way also, people snap at each other during the best of times, their individual and combined level of stress has to be insane. Usually, your nastiest gets saved for the ones closest to you, but I also think Tom and Mike have a healthy ability to spew things and understand where they're coming from. I really liked how their dispute in Season 1 didn't end with extended drama. RE: Sasha and Jed. I grinned ear to ear reading this. Jed does not know… fun fact, this story was originally sparked by a PM about wanting to see Sasha and Jed interact and being robbed of the chance in Season 3. So of course, that turned into a 100K+ word fic of universe building to pay off the aforementioned scene. It's coming soon. Love that you noticed Tom as a typical man, assumes an androgynous name like Jesse = guy. Bless him. I think the fact that Tom (though devastated) already knows there's a reason to process his grief vs. compartmentalize and doesn't have the additional guilt of not walking Rachel back to her room results in a healthier and better Tom than in the show post Season 3. I was ok with his character until S4, but I couldn't personally get past him ghosting them for 16 months like that.
Guest 2 Pablo & Tex is such an unexpected joy I hadn't intended LOL. I need a writing team that can execute ideas because my fingers and brain can't pump them out fast enough. I want a whole comedy show of Tex and Pablo roaming the US picking off immune strongholds. *sniff* over 'entire continents of it' – thank you, this is actually one of my personal favorite lines because I think it explains the depths of how Sasha loves. I don't think she falls often but when she does, it's irrevocable. Completely agree on Mike, this information has 180'd his perspective, and because Tom is family, it will hold weight the same as it did for a grudge driven by believing Sasha abandoned Tom. Clearing the resentment means Mike will give Sasha a real chance as an individual person versus tolerating her for professional reasons (and Tom's sake). Sorry I made you cry! RE: your comment here: "Is this "we were on a break" kinda of situation?" I'm so sorry I'm a little confused about which characters you're referring to with this question, but I want to answer for you so let me know in your next response or shoot me an email: anaandswrites at gmail dot com if you want a more immediate response! Sorry I had to write that so weird so FFnet wouldn't strip it. I can definitely make a note of any prior chapters referenced for you going forward. There are no direct quotes in this chapter, but past scenes are mentioned.
There Is No Take Two
.
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January 3rd, 2014—White House, St. Louis, Missouri
Through the halls of the historic courthouse, Alisha Granderson all but ran.
"Sir," she burst through his door, stopping her momentum by bracing a hand against its frame. "The USS Shackleton just made radio contact."
It took two full seconds, stopped mid-fuel report to process, and then Tom ripped himself from the seat. It spun to a slow stop as he followed Granderson to the area designated for communications. The room was milling with people, more arrived every day—like Dennis. Dennis was another whiz kid like Val, the kind of smart Tom could never understand, but a polar opposite. More idealistic puppy than jaded conspirator… and the guy still got star-struck at every meeting. A thing that was occurring more and more.
Granderson presented a headset, "Captain Hicks, sir."
Something was happening. This was the third time Sasha observed a crewmember scamper across the sprawling event space to whisper something to their preferred confidant before resuming duties. In fact, she was only down here because the Master Chief required an updated census for the ration quadrants. An issue in of itself. It was growing clear that the immediate vicinities of Downtown St. Louis could not sustain the number of civilians flooding it.
In two short weeks since Nathan James' made port, over fifteen thousand had arrived in addition to those inhabiting the safe zone. Gateway Park was packed with tents, the ground floors of neighboring buildings too, a sprawling triage area resembling a refugee effort that Doctors Scott and Rios manned daily along with some Corporals from Fort Leonard. All personnel who'd been vaccinated comprehensively against a plethora of disease. Bertrise had been crestfallen until Dr. Scott explained its importance. From there, decisions were made on who could be transferred to the Army Community Hospital on base.
Despite the pleas from President Michener to remain calm, and shelter in place while awaiting distribution of cure, hundreds showed by the day. Not only in St. Louis but at the gates of Fort Leonard. The proverbial cat was out of the bag, spreading like wildfire over radio. The most desperate. The ones who were already dying and exposed… at night she could hear them from her room, just beyond the window…
"Did you hear?" Sasha glanced across the space upon hearing O'Connor, who leaned closer to Newman. "The USS Shackleton is headed to San Diego."
Newman, fresh off promotion to second class, stalled mid-movement, half stooped over a box of MREs.
Another ship.
To date, Sasha had yet to step foot in the courthouse. There were many reasons, but honesty acknowledged Michener, and avoiding 'ground zero' ranked highest. Lied to herself after clearing security that the cold was making her shake. She'd found plenty options in the clothing donations from Fort Leonard, including the Canada Goose she currently wore, and rain boots that slipped on without needing help tying.
For a moment, when a guard handed her a map like ones given at theme parks, Sasha forgot the courthouse functioned as a museum over civic building before. Blinked away the… what, she couldn't describe at being handed something like this was a casual tourist visit. There were notations made in Sharpie denoting the 'oval office' in addition to assigning function to different wings and rooms. Sasha folded the pamphlet, then stuffed her coat pocket and moved.
The faces were unfamiliar, barring two; Alisha and Val were present in the 'green room'. An operational planning space stacked with communications equipment Sasha could only assume came from the neighboring bases they'd pilfered. Or perhaps some of it came from the James.
Alisha peered up, uncurling from her hunched stance next to a man whom Sasha thought couldn't be over twenty-five. On a good day.
"Hey," Alisha said.
Sasha nodded. "I heard we found another ship?" Spoken quietly.
Excitement lit Alisha's already glowing spirits. "The USS Shackleton, another destroyer. CNO's briefing with The President, Vice President, and CSA now."
Sasha frowned, "CSA? Michener appointed Bonner?"
Half distracted by a box of cell phones, Alisha answered, "Yes. Three days ago."
Val was a few feet removed, set up at a desk with three different laptops spread between her. "Alright, try it now."
The kid, as Sasha was choosing to label until introductions were made, typed something on one of the cell phones and looked up expectantly.
Nothing appeared to happen.
"Damnit," Val uttered.
"What are you doing?" Sasha asked.
Fingers flying, and without leaving the screen, Val responded, "Trying to repurpose one of the DOD's satellites for basic messaging. Similar to how I rigged the Deadman network, but you don't need to be within ninety yards to relay the signal. Dennis already codded a new app. We can side-load it to Android phones, but everyone else with a regular cell or iPhone is screwed until we can get a service provider running again."
Most of that went over Sasha's head, except the part where Dennis, she assumed, was 'the kid'. "Why won't it work with iPhones?"
"Apple doesn't let you load third-party software without going through a bunch of steps."
"It's called jailbreaking," Dennis piped up, pushing the rim of his glasses higher. He then switched attention to Val. "You think any of the evad3rs survived? Last I heard, pod2g was trying to make it out of France…"
What?
"I hope so. I could sure use him right now to find this exploit," Val mumbled.
Sasha figured it was written all over her face when Alisha smirked. "You get used to it. All day it's this… trust me, I don't get half the things they talk about either."
Lost, Sasha inclined her chin and looked toward the double doors she assumed held Michener, Oliver, Bonner, and Tom.
"They went in forty-five minutes ago," Alisha offered. "Usually lasts an hour."
With fifteen minutes to spare, Sasha walked. There was no real aim outside finding space after connecting where those phones came from… why Dennis placed them in some kind of mode before hooking them to a laptop, re-installing software, and then loading his app.
They'd belonged to people.
The glimpse of a personal wallpaper, a smiling family portrait, was enough.
Without intention, she found herself beneath the dome. Alone on the ground level of the cavernous rotunda, she stared up from its center at a gigantic American flag. The brightly colored walls and columns were painted in pastel tones of pinkish peach, cream, and faded green. The Corinthian pillars capped with gold leaf detailing and all of it was dressed for Independence Day.
Still.
That flag had meant everything to her for more than a decade, and now it felt like a tomb; a relic of a collective dream, irrevocably lost.
"Heard a rumor you were around."
"Jesus, Tom." Almost reached for her phantom gun.
The footsteps she'd failed to notice drew closer, sensation zipping her spine as it used to… back when his fingers traced it's hollow and lips pressed to her skin.
"I'm sorry—assumed you heard me."
Normally she would.
She turned—days since she'd set eyes on Tom—and the reaction was as she'd feared. Already, she'd missed him. Grown used to his presence. Felt their clock ticking down, and the desire to wind it back. Go recapture the moments stolen since; the sliver of peace she'd felt wrapped securely within his embrace.
With thinned eyes, Tom stood close, no further than an arm's range. "You alright?"
She shifted her hands deeper into her pockets. "Yeah. I just—wasn't expecting you to be finished yet."
It earned a subtle frown. "We ran over almost thirty minutes…"
Thirty minutes?
"How long have you been standing there?" There was no attempt left to mask his concern.
When no answer forth came, because there wasn't one, he shifted closer.
"Sash, what's going on?"
Part of her wanted to unload, but there was no good way to phrase avoiding your own reflection. Craving distraction but choosing cowardice over charging a damn phone because you feared the pictures and texts. Needing him in the middle of the night when you shouldn't. Thinking you might hate your own husband for making you go… grieving a child you held but didn't name… the day that was approaching.
"Where were they?" she blurted. "Shackleton?"
"Guam," he murmured, as soft as the look upon his face. "They're approaching San Diego. HF didn't pick them up until now."
"Guam?" Her brows raised. "How long?"
"Since July. Standing orders from Sec Nav had them in harbor enforcing the quarantine. They isolated the infected fast, shut it down… seventy percent survival rate."
"Seventy percent?" she breathed.
In a place with civilization and infrastructure… it was the opposite of relief. An island. Why hadn't she pushed harder for that? Called every damn favor owed and bent rule to her will like Jeffery Michener had?
Why didn't she go with her gut?
Her fingers found purchase around the folded paper still scrunched in her pocket, and only then did she register Tom's curled around her upper arm, pressure dulled by the thick down padding.
"Sasha—"
"You know they hand out maps?" She interrupted. It dripped from her tone, scathing, sarcastic, yet lost at once. "Right after you clear security—"
"Hey."
And then the look stung like rock underfoot. Same one he'd worn before confessing that he knew.
"Don't," she uttered, lashes fluttering. Stepped back so his hand fell away. "Whatever you think you're about to say to me, Tom—don't."
Neck tense, he heeded her warning.
There'd been an objective in coming here, but recalling it was difficult. All she could focus on were options she didn't take.
"Did they have contact with any of our other bases?" she asked.
He hesitated. No doubt battling between holding his tongue and letting her continue this charade, she assumed.
"Pearl Harbor… USS Hayward is there, big island's sitting at forty percent. The others are lower, but they don't have exact numbers yet. I was on my way to pull Dr. Scott to coordinate with the surviving CDC and FEMA officials."
"But what about radio chatter from the Philippines? Guam's within HF range. They should have been able to hear as far as Hong Kong…"
She saw the part where Tom understood why she was fixated.
"Standard op rep means they recorded any transmissions. I'll get you the data once they make port."
Absent, she cast her gaze to an exhibit board, detailing the history of the central dome. "Okay." Made to leave and continue poring over the recovered death records uploaded by their field teams spreading cure in neighboring cities.
"Sasha—"
Briefly, she clenched her features before turning back to Tom. She felt her windpipe close whenever he viewed her that way. Like he was suffocated by everything she refused to hear but accepted her regardless. Loved more than he knew what to do with.
She saw the Adam's apple move in his throat when he swallowed. "If you need me to pull Shemanski from Indianapolis—I will."
The control over her expression wavered under how that touched.
"All you have to do is ask."
For several seconds, she could only stand, locked in Tom's gaze, before finding purchase over her feet again.
January 4th, 2014—0123 Hours
Contrary to assumed belief, the night could embody both solace and hell. It varied. Tonight, its stillness ushered relief, a quiet world in which to exist. The lobby became a peaceful space after hours, its only fixed occupants, their security teams, and the occasional wayward sailor.
But this time, discovering Slattery nursing a drink was unique. Hadn't noticed him until behind the bar, and Sasha visibly flinched when his shadowy form loomed in her peripheral.
"Sorry," he grumbled.
She waited for her heart rate to decline. "No, it's—I didn't see you there."
Without acknowledging, he pushed the bottle in her direction. "Drink?"
For a moment, trepidation overruled before she stopped questioning herself. "Sure."
Grabbed a glass from the bar back and poured the nightcap she sought. If he noticed the tremor which started two days ago, Slattery made no indication, and the thought struck Sasha that seeing him without uniform lowered his formidable veneer.
He raised his glass. "Cheers." Before knocking back the rest of its contents.
It was un-often that Sasha found herself on the weaker side of an interaction. The side that couldn't read a damn thing, nor predict where this would go.
"You know," Slattery started after pondering the empty glass, "I never got what the whole deal was between you two. Don't get me wrong, knowin' you're Navy explains a lot… but I wouldn't have cared that you guys were breakin' frat regs."
Direct then.
She supposed, at some point, this conversation would happen. Just never thought they'd be wearing bedclothes, and past zero hundred when having it. "I was the one who didn't want to take the risk, and believe me, he told me plenty of times that you wouldn't. It was never about him not trusting you."
His small chuckle was the last thing Sasha expected, and curiosity morphed her admittedly guarded expression.
"Ironic, no?" He lifted his gaze to make eye contact. "I never trusted you and you never trusted me. You know that had to drive him nuts."
She attempted to warm her features but chose not to answer.
After seeming to examine something, Slattery bobbed his head, and Sasha thought from her limited perspective, it appeared he'd reached an acceptance. The standoffish tension she often encountered when not directly interacting about work eased.
"Still loves you to death, you know."
It made her heart clench, and she had no intent to respond, but he continued.
"Only thing I haven't figured out yet is how you really felt about him."
A comment that stung despite understanding why. Sometimes, she didn't think Tom had even grasped the depths of what she felt.
"I kept quiet about Michener, didn't I?" She drew her gaze up again, holding eye contact. "There's only one person I'd do that for. And he asked." Masking the weight and insecurity, she chose the edge. Delivered her own jab in return. "And I'm also choosing to indulge your various gatekeeping rituals when usually—I would have told you to go fuck yourself by now."
His brief laugh came brash and full. "Duly noted."
Slowly, Sasha's defiant stance softened, tinged with perhaps more sentiment than she intended, and in different, less extreme circumstances, she wouldn't be entertaining this conversation at all. "Did he tell you? About what really happened?"
The way his head moved seemed to harbor some regret. "Eh, I might 'a pushed one too many buttons, and it came out."
Blinking, she quirked a brow. "What'd you do? Question my character? Or why he cares at all when his wife just died?"
Before he could mask the surprise, she caught it. The part where he hadn't thought she knew Tom that well or couldn't after so long. It helped; found her footing again. "You might be an ass, but I'm glad he still has you. He needs someone he can trust that he'll listen to."
Slattery narrowed his eyes. "You make it sound like you're not here."
"I'm not. Just until I'm cleared, and then I'm gone."
His features remained impassive. "Does he know that?"
"He knows."
Inhaling, he leaned forward on both elbows. "Well, I hate to break it to ya, but I think you're overestimating the listening part."
This time, her grin felt natural. "He'll figure it out. Doesn't need me for that, and he made himself happy. He'll get there again."
Slattery thought about it, and though Sasha couldn't interpret with certainty, the shift in his tone sounded sincere. "If you want my two cents, he made himself content."
Her jaw twitched. "Is there really a difference?"
For several seconds, Slattery considered it. "A man willing to risk a good life to spend the night on a beach is missin' somethin'."
She snapped her focus back, unblinking and trapped, shocked that Tom had disclosed that too…
"And don't get me wrong, I liked Darien, and they were good together. Made a great team, but I don't think she could ever fix that for him."
Recovering, Sasha refocused her attention to the glass she hadn't yet touched. "Well, you know what they say. Happiness is fleeting—I'd be good with content."
"But sometimes you get to be both."
She remembered that feeling. Gone in the comparative blink of an eye. Twice.
There was a beat again, where he seemed conflicted. "You know I've been with my wife comin' up on twenty-six years? Only girl I ever loved—and I still turned into the asshole who didn't appreciate what I had sittin' at home." He reached for the bottle and poured himself a quarter more. "She cheated. Nearly got divorced—we gave it the college try for old times' sake."
He downed the sip, eyes watering against the burn, or rather, Sasha gave him the dignity of attributing the cause.
"Never been happier than those last months. Even after we both did our best to screw all that up."
The air became thicker, and she swallowed. "He didn't cheat on me."
When his mouth quirked, there was no amusement. Only burden. "In his mind he did."
Tight-lipped, she shrugged in response. "No one's perfect. Even the king of righteous and noble himself."
To Slattery's credit, he didn't press further. Didn't come back with the part she'd expected. Words she'd prepared to eviscerate with a scathing retort on why it was assumed she'd want a do-over. Why it seemed expected that the woman scorned still desired the man.
The bar chair dragged against the tile flooring as Slattery stood. "Probably would a' got along—you and I."
Rendered mute, she stared and locked contact again. Then he offered a gesture that didn't quite translate to a smile, but seemed warm, nonetheless.
"Enjoy the drink."
She thought she did something in response, maybe echoed the social convention, but couldn't be sure. Struck instead by a different 'what if' than the one driving away sleep. How life may have been had she taken more chances.
Extended faith and allowed more people in.
January 5th, 2014
Mike compared finding words to convey a mother's grief to depicting color to the blind. You couldn't. Translating its power through description fell short, only after witnessing could you skirt an understanding.
The door opened. It became evident that Tom, like he, was struggling with sleep. The bedside lamp was on, and though weary, Tom was too alert for o-two hundred to have been woken.
"Mike." Tom's voice came scratchy.
It was rare, but for once, Mike had no pre-planned explanation. "Cooper's in with Garnett—it's bad. Sounds like Christine when she—"
The furrow of concern at Tom's brow morphed into what Mike could only label as incapacity.
It fired another pang, which ricocheted like a bullet. A glimpse of the anguish he'd felt stuck at sea, unable to hold his wife and surviving children. Mike's arms had ached with their emptiness for two months and twenty-four days since that call. By the second, hope wavered while trapped in St. Louis. Bound by his duty.
"Used to hear it all the time when I was homicide." Once more, Mike cleared his throat and then sucked air through his teeth. "Go tell a mother her kid got shot in some gang bang… no goddamn reason for it." His focus cast beyond Tom's shoulder to the bed where a laptop lay open. Darien's worried face sat paused mid-frame, their kids on either side of her. He wondered how often Tom watched…
Bringing his gaze back, Mike confessed, "Can't listen to that right now."
Not when all he heard was Christine.
Without comment, Tom stepped aside and retrieved the extra pillow. Mike caught it and sank onto the sofa, adjusting a few times before finding a workable spot. He heard the laptop close, then Tom re-settle, and though the room was silent, and now steeped in darkness, the very air screamed, shrill and deafening.
"I think it's her due date." Tom's voice was a low murmur.
Mike had, after the first few minutes, deduced that. The intensity was too harrowing, even muffled from the neighboring room. The night prior, when it was Andrea's cries, he'd chosen the bottle, but chasing oblivion like Tom had was dicey at best. Something else he and Christine fought about.
"She say anything more? About that?"
Tom's breathing stilled, and then he murmured, "I'm not supposed to know."
"Then how'd you find out?"
After the first drawn seconds where Tom failed to answer, Mike engaged deductive reasoning. If Cooper didn't disclose, that left Michener, and Tom couldn't repeat because he was torn by loyalty. Same reason he was now taking measured breaths, Mike assumed.
"If it was Michener—you know that means she had to be second trimester when they flew to the zone."
Tom's words came steeped in torment. "I know."
Damn. He'd never considered how long…
Come to think of it, something had hit scuttlebutt about Cooper chewing CO a new ass from sickbay—more curious still when Russ said Burk shut it down first. That made more sense knowing Burk and Ravit had a thing… and Ravit was right beside them. It ranked low however, Mike hadn't time nor bandwidth to speculate until now.
'I couldn't kiss him goodbye.'
Air rushed uncontrolled as Christine's words assaulted. Mike sucked more through his nose and then bunched his lips hard in a desperate bid to suppress it.
"I'm sorry, Mike." It came strangled across the space. "I'm sorry I made us turn away."
He'd failed to consider this.
There were two executive suites on each level. Tom selected the one furthest from Sasha. After exiting the elevators, he went left, and she right—he'd needed to. A wiser man would insist on a different floor, but Tom was not wise, and there was a line between too close, and too far upon which he precariously teetered. Rios and their makeshift sickbay occupied this level. The lowest, and most accessible to the ground if power went out. Same reason he and the other senior officers were housed here. Justifying Sasha had been easy—she was injured. All three, including Ravit and Chung, needed immediate access to Rios until cleared.
But he'd never connected that Mike would face issues boxed between two women who'd also lost children. Across the board, it was something Tom hadn't reflected upon. How many of his crew heard each other's suffering at night. What that was doing to them...
And now, the hundred-yard distance he'd thought might ease his fixation proved laughable.
He couldn't give Sasha what she needed. No one could, and the two people he could help were in Norfolk until the next scheduled transport.
Two full weeks away.
Tom always knew he'd loved Sasha, but now he perceived there was no limit to what he'd consider if it eased her pain. Let her put a bullet in Jeffrey Michener's brain for one; even help if she asked, and that damning fact was both telling and terrifying. It meant he'd already changed. He wasn't the man he believed himself to be. Angry. Vengeful... hypocrytical.
Laying pinned beneath a helicopter while burning fuel melted his flesh had hurt less. It numbed after a while once the nerves were gone. This didn't. It got worse, and it grew. Corroded rational behaviors until he feared what he'd be driven to do because he couldn't fix this. For anyone. Usually, the night belonged to Darien, but now it was all he could think about. How he couldn't imagine what they felt. Mike, Andrea, or Sasha. The incomprehensible stroke of luck that spared Ashley and Sam. There was no answer for where he'd be had they died that night… if he'd be, had he come so close only to fail.
His remonstrations surfaced a single comparable experience; standing shellshocked in a hospital, harrowed by the words 'save both mom and baby' as Darien was rushed to an OR.
Another knock came, though Tom couldn't quantify the passage of time.
There was no acknowledgment from Mike, and Tom was both afraid, and yet desperate to answer. Hadn't been capable of stomaching food since Sasha showed in the courthouse.
Andrea was on the other side. Her eyes were bloodshot, nose reddened, features grim but soft. More than the obvious though, Tom felt inappropriate standing before his Chief Engineer barefoot in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Compounded further by her own state of undress.
"Sir," she acknowledged.
"Garnett."
She was equally conflicted, he noted, the way she appeared to battle between formal detachment and compassion showed. The compassion won out, and her forehead wrinkled. "Sasha's asking for you."
For the duration, as he followed Andrea down the hall, Tom tried to prepare himself.
'It's bad'
Bad enough to resort to him when she barely tolerated his existence.
They didn't go to Andrea's room, however. She took Sasha's card from her pajama pocket and handed it over. "I got her settled, but she wants you."
Tom thought he may have stayed rooted a full minute after Andrea returned, without further comment, to her own.
There was no sound when he entered, barring the door against carpet, and its weighty din when it closed. No light, but the blackouts were open, and his eyes adjusted slowly to the murky moonlight bathing his view. If she was still crying, it was silent, and he hated himself for being selfishly relieved.
Approaching the bed, he noted she wasn't strictly bound to her back anymore. Knew she hated that. Sasha was a side sleeper.
"Hey," he whispered, squatting now beside her nightstand.
Couldn't see much in the darkness.
He heard her sniff, or maybe it was closer to a hiccup, and then registered bedcovers and weight shifting before arms wound around his neck. She buried her face in its crook, her skin damp where it pressed against his throat, and the rush of air through his nose was involuntary.
Tom returned her embrace, tight as seemed safe without hurting her.
"I don't know why it happened—he came early—and I don't know why." Her voice cracked and wavered through the words.
He. A boy.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to live with that."