an. Hello, so sorry for the delay. Q2 in my line of work is relatively insane and two months have flown by. My brain is mostly mush.

References: Conversation: Chapter 21 'What we say now, will make us dangerous.' Tom's internal monologue: Chapter 29 'What it means to be human.' Bosnia: 'Chapter 14, 'Every December'. Conversation: 'Chapter 12 'The Crossfire.' Conversation from standalone fic, 1997.

Guest 1: Thanks so much. As always, I love how you pick up the details like the perfume bottle scene. Very happy to read that even though they're still screwed, there's still a satisfying payoff in these moments of connection, and even more that they make sense! The more I write things in St. Louis the more I think some of the stuff the writers tried to do in the later seasons needed this context and build up... I still hated most of it, but I do enjoy exploring character flaws. I don't think this universe's Tom will end up so badly, but in writing this, I can understand some of the things that led to the alienation I suppose.

Guest 2: Agony... is inbound. Big time. These two were deluding themselves in the last two chapters. I definitely don't plan for Sasha to change her mind or stay for Tom's sake. I'm really glad you like the balance of showing that she does care... but not in a way that's going to erase either of their independence or compromise on her plans. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

There Will Be No Start to Finish This

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January 18th, 2014

O'Conner recoiled when Miller strode into the event space turned ration warehouse of their hotel.

"I'm not contagious anymore, man," Miller grumbled, voice scratchy.

O'Conner surveyed him. "You sure about that? You're still two shades lighter than white, and that's impossible for a guy pastier than a ghost."

"Whatever," Miller said, though the tips of his ears turned red. "Doc cleared me for light duty, so here I am."

With a sigh, O'Conner jerked his head toward a stack of empty boxes. "Grab one, follow me."

From her seat at a pop-up table, Sasha watched O'Connor lead Miller to the sorting area where personnel loaded the food. Behind her, Burk, whose still healing burns prevented his assignment to spreading cure, assembled the flatpacks Sasha labeled, then moved them to the pile Miller and O'Conner sourced from.

Mind-numbing.

But after working the census for three straight weeks, Sasha needed variety; a thing in short supply given her limitations. Two weeks shy of clearance to lift anything more than five pounds, Sasha believed her ass would deform thanks to the sheer volume of hours spent sitting since the rig. Yesterday, she'd tested stairs. Five meager flights which left her winded and rendered her substandard fitness impossible to deny. It helped quash semi-delusional ideas that, after light duty restrictions were removed, she'd solicit transport to mainland China under the guise of national security… therein, her latest dilemma.

Tom.

Or rather, another impasse that began and ended with him.

While intelligence ultimately served Michener, transport approvals, at present, belonged to CNO, and Sasha was confident he'd require near special ops physical conditioning before signing off on that—something she'd lacked since leaving D.I.A. If asked, Sasha would bet China would occur only after Tom ran out of manufactured reasons for Michener to need her. Despite feeling sandwiched, Sasha couldn't say she'd behave differently. The idea of making decisions that could end with Tom's blood on her mantle felt sickly.

They hadn't spoken since the call; figured the guilt was crippling him. Assigned it, after a postmortem of her choices, as the reason for his abrupt sign-off and subsequent avoidance.

Couldn't cast blame there either.

She'd spent enough hours pondering if removing her rings was premature. Returned them to their rightful place and examined their tactile nature, before dismissing the notion as ridiculous. Wearing two rings wouldn't undo the present, just as nothing could undo the past, and no amount of self-denial could surmount the cycle she'd fallen prey to.

And a bottle of perfume wouldn't kill it—though she understood Tom's need to try.

Done with observing Miller, who was now messing with the phone hooked to O'Connor's speaker, Sasha went back to labeling. She worked undisturbed for a time before her attention was once again diverted. A civilian woman, blonde, with a girl Sasha assumed was her daughter entered. The Master Chief, who'd been sprung from his own isolation period, approached them both, but Sasha couldn't overhear. They appeared acquainted.

Next, a middle-aged woman arrived, seeming to scan the event space anxiously before her features crumpled and she exclaimed, "Eric!"

Miller, whose back was turned, dropped the box and whipped around. "Mom!?"

Barbara, Sasha realized. One of the few surviving family members of Tom's crew discovered since making port—as she recalled, Barbara Miller had isolated in Williamsburg, Iowa after fleeing Cedar Rapids, and established radio contact ten days prior. Smiling softly, Sasha watched Barbara embrace her son as they both cried. It struck. Outside Danny Green, Sasha hadn't witnessed tears of joy in months.

There was of course the looming presence—Tom's family were somewhere—and so too, the extinction of a limbo she'd exploited. Dead space where pretending Tom's attention remained hers to monopolize became easy. Now? There was little else but to accept facts. Tom hadn't belonged to her for over a decade, and 'friends' was unachievable—unsustainable. Those boundaries had already stretched too far.

Wouldn't bite so hard if they hadn't.

Tom, whose chief talent included surfacing whenever he owned her thoughts. The flick of his gaze was so fast, Sasha questioned if it occurred before he settled on both Millers. He was unreadable—same way she'd found jarring after the rush of discovering him eased; greater still when the blonde approached and embraced him.

Sasha averted attention.

Ignored the subtle twinge and recognized whatever difficulties she faced now belonged to her. Tom had no part in deciding to bypass her own warnings. In true contradictory fashion, she'd become hooked on simple touches. Savored those quiet looks. Clung to the glimpses of past. Craved fresh hits of nostalgia, and this was the pattern. She, too susceptible when near, and he, unable to resist.

Until reality forced his hand.

Kelly stepped back, and Ava offered a shy smile that Tom returned. Sasha's gaze prickled at his flesh like dry heat; the possibility of undue conclusions threatening what infantile progress he'd made in untangling her resentments. Defaulting to his bed was an outlier—nothing more than overwhelming grief—and while Sasha still appeared to trust him with her safety, her heart was something else, and Tom could no longer refute logic.

He wasn't in a place to guard that either.

Large swathes of him were still waiting for Darien to appear. Instead, it was Kelly providing updates. His father. And the kids still weren't discussing it—not one mention of their mother—Tom had never suffered such fear. Blame would come. Of that he was certain; never less confident in handling his own flesh and blood, nor more cognizant of his every shortcoming.

"Ava, darling, will you give us a minute, please?" Kelly said.

At the pop-up, Sasha made business occupying attention and resumed notating the unassembled boxes. Burk was summoned by Miller to meet Barbara, though over the music, Sasha couldn't hear their interaction either… then told herself to grow up. Despite feeling the years reverse in Tom's presence, being confronted with everything she didn't know shouldn't pierce this way. The woman was probably Darien's sister—never got a name. Examining her memory, Sasha hadn't exactly asked for details. Tom had mentioned a niece in Changi that didn't belong to Matt or Katie… S something… Sophie? Maybe Sarah?

Tom tried to focus, but the pressure between his temples droned like tinnitus—he had no plan—and Sasha wasn't known to participate in packing rations. Naïvely, he'd assumed she'd be on level four, working the census, yet here she was, and his father—whom he failed to inform—was floating around with the kids…

"Tom?" Kelly reached out and touched his arm. "They'll come around. It's still early days, Ava's only recently started to mention her father again…"

He'd left the White House to correspond with the Master Chief—his timing, as ever, horribly imperfect. Drowning in logistics and fighting semantical battles with both Captain Hicks and Meylan had forced Tom to delegate, but now he could feel Sasha refusing to engage. Distracted, Tom acknowledged Kelly's sentiment with a gesture, and when Jeter approached, report in hand, Kelly squeezed his arm and excused herself.

Robotically, Tom accepted the clipboard and scanned the roster detailing assignments to Nathan James. He made it halfway through the list before the inevitable happened.

Ashley came first, searching the space until spotting Ava, while Sam trailed with less enthusiasm. That morning, they'd broken the news about Lucas. Yet another conversation Tom never imagined holding with his children. Lucas had been one of Sam's best friends. After Baltimore adding to their turmoil felt wrong, but now, and for Mike's sake, Jed had agreed they needed to know. Hoped that Cruz's nephews, Manny, and Christopher, might help ease Sam's pain as Ava seemed to for Ashley.

While reading the names, Tom intermittently darted focus to Sasha, who'd committed to ignoring him, before returning attention to the report.

...Garnett, Granderson…

Now before his son, Jed began, "That Doc of yours said Fort Leonard has medical supplies—" and then stopped mid-sentence.

Cautious, Tom lifted his gaze. His father's brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed in Sasha's direction. The twisting in his gut felt like pulling G's, and after several drawn moments, his father hammered him with a stern glare. If any doubt remained, Tom saw the moment it seeped from Jed's features, Tom suspected, in part because of his own lack of response.

The kids were lingering close, but far enough.

"That's Sasha." Though low, as not to be overheard, his father's tone still eviscerated.

Tom's jaw tightened, and he stubbornly returned to the list while, unrelenting, Jed bore holes through his forehead. The elder Chandler scoffed beneath his breath, and Tom hollowed his cheeks, scrutiny reining until sensing his father's decision to approach.

Before Jed moved, he issued a directive. "You need to be gentle with her, Dad—she's hurt." Didn't trust himself to observe his father's reaction, so read Granderson's name for the fifth time, information sinking no further than the fourth, while his heart rate galloped.

Refusing to yield Tom's insistent glances, Sasha continued her duties until a pair of shoes appeared in her forward peripheral; brown weathered suede peeking from acid-wash jeans. But one person in her lifetime had worn those Moccasins like a uniform. Her breathing became shallow. Marker now hovering mid-number above the cardboard.

"Hey, Kiddo."

Sasha's brow wrenched.

Across the room, Tom relinquished pretense and watched, battling complex realizations. Sure, Sasha had confirmed something he'd always suspected—they'd kept in touch—but this was… more. A type of embrace reserved for family.

"Dad, who is that?"

The small tug on his free hand and Ashley's voice forced Tom to reboot; come up with something acceptable rapid-fire. "An old family friend. She's Navy—joined the ship when we were in Florida."

"You went to Florida?" Sam interjected. "Can we go again? Is Disney still there?"

Scowling, Ashley chimed in before Tom could respond. "Sam, that's dumb. Why are you so dumb?"

"Ashley." Sullen, she let go of his hand, or rather the fingers she could span. "Don't call your brother names."

Tom pulled Sam to his side. "I'm sorry buddy, I don't think it is. Everywhere we've been so far looks the same as Norfolk, but we're gonna fix that. It's just gonna take some time." Tom squeezed, and then let go. "What did Grandpa say you were doing today?"

"Just that we were coming downstairs to see you," Ashley mumbled. She'd changed in the seven months he'd been gone; catapulted from a sweet, reserved little girl into an outspoken moody teen and the realization surfaced a powerful pang of regret.

Another one.

Discretely, Sasha swiped at her nose and drew away, scanning to determine how much unnecessary attention they'd drawn. Most of the crew were minding their business, but the woman, Sasha noted, was stealing looks.

"Was it you?" Jed asked, voice gruff.

While nodding, Sasha cleared her throat. "If I had any idea they'd pick him, I would have called you myself, Jed. I swear it—"

Jed's lids bunched, and after working against the emotion threatening to transform his immovable stoic, he reached out and cupped her cheek. "I know that. You did everything you could—I owe you, and so does he. If you hadn't sent the evidence to Hokanson, I would've ignored this thing until it was too late."

"Have you heard from him?" Sasha murmured.

Removing his hand, Jed's expression hardened. "Not since September when he told me it was Tommy's ship. He helped me pass a message along. I heard you were assigned to a safe zone?"

Sasha flitted attention to the carpet. "Didn't last long."

Jed became regretful but didn't pry. "And then you found Tommy?"

She made a dismissive facial gesture. "That was dumb luck. I caught some chatter about a central authority. He was there looking for the same guy."

A squint and blink were the only reactions Jed gave before softly inquiring, "And Andrew?"

Sasha shook her head, and once again averted eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Kiddo."

She realized her mistake too late; fighting for composure had taken priority, but in the lapse, she'd unconsciously landed on Tom. Their eyes locked, and something twisted when she registered his expression. More choked than desired, she responded. "So am I." Dropping Tom's forlorn gaze, she returned to Jed. "I can't find any trace of Katie or Matthew. I've been checking the census... we have most of the data from their states…"

Some of the steely grit seemed to evaporate from Jed, and Sasha felt her throat constrict. "I haven't told Tom yet. He doesn't even know I'm looking." For a beat, she debated exposing herself further. "I don't think he knows how to accept it." She swallowed, vision blistering. "Any of it. He's doing exactly what he did after Bosnia… and I can't be the answer this time."

It had been years since she'd spoken with Jed in person, and yet his quiet persistent nature still demanded truth at an unprecedented level. It was lodged tight—directing conversation to Tom, a lesser deterrent than she'd hoped—the desire to spill everything, hoping to gain wisdom, screamed. But even Jed couldn't shed light on a dead child.

"And you?" he uttered.

Shit.

Nostrils quivering, all Sasha mustered was a shrug while chewing her lip and tracing visual patterns on the carpet.

It was ugly.

Too busy, with several tones of blue and cream competing for attention. Reminded her of a furious scribble…

Jed squeezed her shoulder and then patted, his gesture far gentler than expected, and a few stubborn tears slipped. "I don't know," she whispered.

Beside her, Jed exhaled heavily and squeezed again.

"Hi."

The very last thing Sasha Cooper expected was Ashley Chandler to approach, much less without warning, and only five minutes after securing the valve on what Jed had unleashed.

"Hi." She lifted her tone even if it felt excessively unnatural. Second guessed if she'd already messed up because Ashley pinched her features like it was weird.

It was probably weird.

"My dad said I had to help someone. Can I do what you're doing?"

Sasha's brows went high unintentionally, and she forced herself not to scan for Tom. "Uh, sure." Kicked herself. "Of course." No big deal, right? Except she was terrified.

There was an awkward pause. Ashley waited and then studied the table. "What are you doing?"

Ripped from her stupor, Sasha blinked. "Labeling the boxes, so we know where to send them."

"I can do that. I have really good handwriting."

She should smile, right? Sasha smiled. "Well that's perfect—that's all you need." Sasha put the marker down and reached for the pack beside her. She handed one to Ashley, who took it and then hovered by her shoulder.

"You see this number?" Sasha pointed.

"Yeah."

"You need to write that on both sides—" Sasha flipped the cardboard over, showing where "—big so people can see it, and when you're done, put it in this pile." She gestured to the stack on her right. "These are fresh—" gestured left "—and we need to get through the pallet."

"That's it?"

"That is it."

Ashely remained unreadable, and in Sasha's opinion, unimpressed. "That's super boring. Aren't you bored?"

This time, Sasha's reaction was natural when she grinned. "Yes, actually. But it's the only job where I get to sit."

Ashley considered it before looking around. The crew worked in groups, each dedicated to accomplishing a simple task, either assembling boxes, packing them, or positioning them for transport to their respective ration segments. "I guess, yeah. I didn't think of it like that."

"Burk?" Sasha called.

Burk came over, box cutter still in hand; he acknowledged Ashley with a small wave and smile that made her blush.

"Can you stack a couple crates on the opposite side so she can sit?"

"Sure thing." He put the box cutter down before addressing Ashley, "What up, kid?"

"Not much. Dad said I had to do something."

Burk leaned in conspiratorially. "Your dad likes bossing people around—but don't tell him I said that. You'd get me in trouble." Straightening, he winked.

Ashley smiled, her blush deepening while she picked the sweater beneath her jacket.

Burk was a natural. She could do that too, right? Make small talk with a twelve-year-old… even if she was Tom's daughter. Quickly, Sasha rechecked that calculation; didn't know the exact date of Ashley's birthday, but it was impossible to forget the month and year. Twelve as of three months ago, which meant Sam had to be around ten now? Maybe eleven? As she recalled, Tom said he was two in Changi.

"Ava!"

Startled into the present, Sasha stiffened and watched Ashley usher the girl to their table.

Ava.

It took longer than she'd like to place, but after Ashley showed Ava how to mark the boxes, it clicked. Tophet, which left a single logical conclusion: the blonde woman was Dr. Tophet's wife, Kelly. Discretely, Sasha peered around. Jed was with Jeter, heads together over a clipboard. Sam was showing Kelly something in one of the boxes, and Tom was engaged with Barbara Miller. Judging by his polite but reserved demeanor, likely downplaying his contribution to the cure if wagering bets.

At least Ava kept Ashley entertained. She hadn't planned this far, nor had she thought they'd, or rather Tom would come this way. Last she'd heard, the situation at their southern border was escalating despite administering thousands of doses, and there was chatter about Captain Hicks. Apparently, the guy was disgruntled that Tom rocketed to CNO before other bases could check in.

It took several minutes for Tom to satisfy his obligations, and the way he froze after locating Ashley may have been funny, were their baggage irrelevant. It dawned that the last time Sasha witnessed that reaction was on Vinson when Commander Manazir blew it all to shit.

Almost harrowed, Tom approached.

"Sir," Burk greeted as customary, before making himself scarce.

Sasha wondered if Burk grew tired of witnessing damn near every awkward interlude between them.

"Ashley—go find grandpa."

"But you just—"

"I know what I said. Now, please. We need to talk about work and it's not for you to hear."

Ashley's sigh was exaggerated, her silent exchange with Ava laden with attitude. "Come on," she said. Ava followed without argument, though Ashley did stop mid-step, and then turned. "Bye."

Sasha affixed a smile. "Bye."

While Ashley retreated, Sasha capped the marker and set it down all too precisely, intentional in her efforts not to assist Tom out of his hole. Several seconds passed before she finally dragged her gaze up.

She arched a single brow.

"I didn't think you'd be down here," he murmured cautiously.

"We all need variety sometimes." It was clipped.

Heaviness seeped into his frame. "I should have given you a heads up."

"I don't need special treatment," she deflected fast. Too fast.

"Sasha," he rasped.

Briefly, she clenched her eyes shut, then focused on something beyond his shoulder. "Look, it's fine… she probably saw me with Jed—"

"They did… I told them you were a family friend."

Her lip twitched. "Right." The word was breathy. "Dad's friend with the ambiguous past?"

If slamming headfirst into a wall had an expression, Tom was now wearing it.

None of this was unexpected. It was everything she'd warned, yet the rate of their illusion disintegrating still floored; so too the aching intensity radiating between them.

"Why didn't you tell him I was alive?" she redirected quietly.

If possible, Tom deflated further, all semblance of pretense gone. It took several moments before he answered. "When I figure that out, I'll let you know." He swept her features. Resigned and regretful, lingering only a moment more before slipping beneath the stoic mask she'd come to know.

What she hadn't expected, was how much it hurt to watch him walk away.

Upon entering his suite later that evening, Tom was unsurprised to discover his father waiting, casually drinking coffee seated at the conference table. Though outwardly cool, the tension zipped like torqued wire. Reticent, Tom closed the kids' port door and strode forward.

"There a reason you forgot to mention Sasha?" Jed's blunt comment ripped despite its quiet nature.

Tom stopped a foot short of the table, devoid in delivery. "I didn't want the kids to overhear."

His father remained undeterred; evidence of how flimsy the excuse conjured moments before was.

"You've been talking to her the whole time." Tom's statement was strangely flat. Not quite an acquisition, but laden, nonetheless.

"On and off over the years. You know how your mother is—was. Didn't want her alone during deployments or holidays." Expectant, Jed sipped the coffee and then set it down, the sound punctuating the stilted gap.

"Did you know she was engaged?" Tom uttered, unable to contain himself.

Jed narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

Against his will, Tom reacted. A small twitch of his jaw. "But you forgot to mention that?" Shocked by the bitterness steeped in his tone.

Jed raised a single brow. "What good would it have done?"

Tom knew the answer. Could even identify that Sasha's life was no longer his business… and yet, the omittance felt like a betrayal.

"Your sister told me everything—" Tom's lips parted, but Jed raised a hand "—she had to. It was the only way to make me listen."

Trailing focus everywhere but his father, Tom completed the puzzle. "In o-six?" he murmured quietly.

Jed merely lowered his chin.

Rolling his jaw, Tom shot back dry, "And here I thought you finally learned how to keep your opinions to yourself."

"I was still right."

Tom wasn't equipped to digest that comment. Not coupled with discovering why every comment about 'mistakes' so miraculously ended six years after the fact.

Palming the mug, Jed seemed to debate something, his posture hunched. "I pulled her file a few years back—the real one. After she switched to D.I.A."

Like he'd been caught poaching his mother's baked goods, Tom stilled and stopped avoiding eye contact.

"You told Katie about Vinson, but not Changi. You and Darien were having issues that year—"

"We had two kids under five, and I was gone half the time. It had nothing to do with Sasha."

Jed merely took another long sip.

"We talked. That was it," Tom reiterated, kicking himself for falling prey to his father's proven tactics. Same ones he assumed were employed against Katie to make her divulge, and if she were alive, Tom would rip her a new asshole.

"Does Sasha know that?"

"Know what?" Jed stubbornly shot back.

Exasperated, Tom shifted weight and studied the wall as though it offered patience.

"Her world doesn't revolve around you, today's the first time—"

"Jesus Christ—"

"She's worried about you." The statement was terse, and Tom reluctantly re-established eye contact.

"The feeling's mutual."

Something softened in his father's face. "She's not herself—but that doesn't mean she's wro—"

"Cut the shit, Dad. There's no time for it. Remember?" For a moment, Tom exalted in delivering such a blow… but the regret over the guilt caught fast.

Jed removed both hands from the mug with a long, suffering look that aged him exponentially. "I'm trying, son. Your mother was always better at this."

It dampened some of the tension leeched in Tom's frame, his shoulders slumping, and he was about to take a seat when the port door dragged against the carpet. Both men amended their posture while Sam peeked through the gap.

"Daddy?" Sam mumbled.

Tom pivoted. "What's the matter, buddy?"

"Can I sleep with you?" The request was timid. It tugged at Tom's heart.

"Of course you can."

Jed pushed himself up, voice strained in a half groan that made his age impossible to overlook. "That's my cue. Come here. Give your pops a hug."

Sam shuffled over before crawling into the bed. Tom waited, his father holding eye contact and scrutinizing in the same way he'd hated since being a kid. A look that felt like disappointment and reprimand rolled into one.

His father sighed, pursed his lips, and left.