an. Kind of shocked that you're both still here after I vanished for so long, but I really appreciate it! So glad I'm not alone on my Tom/Sasha angst-loving island. I'll give this one a 9 out of 10 on the heartbreak rating so warning on that. One day they'll have a happy ending, I promise.

Referenced scenes: Chapter 20: 'Awake and Restless' and Chapter 29: 'What It Means To Be Human.'

Guest 1 I smiled so much when I saw your reviews, thanks for the warm welcome back… and I hope you're prepared for your agony because this one made me really sad. So glad you liked the Ashley interaction! I'm not exaggerating when I say that sequence got re-worked dozens of times because kids are very hard for me to characterize, and I don't think Sasha knows wtf to do. Wayyyyy back in Chapter 2, Sasha did learn from Tom that Jed was alive in Virginia with his kids (but I literally posted that over a year ago so I expect no one to remember that) but Tom totally failed to grow a pair, and your answer is contained in this chapter.

Guest 2Also smiled like an idiot when I read your review. Thank you for that! The Jed conversation… FINALLY. Basically, the only reason this fic even started was to see what a Jed and Sasha fatherly relationship would look like and because Jed owning Tom with a single look was one of my favorite parts of the show. Jed was such a great character; I wish we had more scenes with him. All around super excited that you loved those layers sprinkled in about how Jed was basically ruining Tom for years on the whole Sasha thing, and that you find sense in Ashley's behavior. I spent a lot of time researching how kids that age might process such a traumatic event so I'm really glad it came through well, and in a way that felt within character still.

If I Only Could, I'd Make a Deal With God

.

.

"Dad?" Tom didn't answer but ran his hand up Sam's back. "Are we having a funeral for Mom?"

His hand stilled.

Tom peered hard at his reflection. Beads of ice-cold water dripped from his nose; fists braced against the granite counter in his en-suite. Couldn't say he recognized the man. It was hard—damn near impossible—to look himself in the eye.

He stared at Darien's perfume.

The eighteenth floor had become a crew lounge of sorts. The event space used for the Green's wedding now housed a projector, a healthy collection of movies and hard drives donated by the crew, and a very limited selection of high-value snacks.

Morale.

The daily battle of maintaining a semblance of normalcy.

In the entirety of Tom's career, he'd digested and implemented almost all leadership directives issued by the United States Navy. Attended the seminars, strived to embody every ounce of consummate professionalism expected of him—post-Sasha—and reached the conclusion that it meant nothing. Every orderly, process-driven scenario in which Tom comfortably achieved, worked because of the system.

But he was the system now, and the vice was winching.

In hindsight, the decisions on Nathan James were straightforward, and though he'd never express it, Tom envied Mike. At present, he'd give anything to go back to that—a place that made sense. In his wayward state, Tom couldn't remember navigating to level eighteen, but laying in bed beside Sam while he slept, itched.

He'd lived it after Bosnia too.

Before he'd found balm for that rabid restlessness—a visceral dissent stewing within—today, he bore wisdom from those mistakes, one of which was grieving Darien in the arms of the woman he'd betrayed. Tom was still struggling to reconcile his selfishness in that. The answer Sasha sought, he'd realized, was simple. 'Out of sight, out of mind' was all the progress he'd achieved in accepting his failures where she was concerned, and the moment his past and present collided, those shreds of denial had died. Telling his father that Sasha was alive—and with them—invited a kind of reality Tom felt unequipped to handle. The kind where it became impossible not to perceive the scope of the fracture he'd caused.

Without intention, Tom hovered at the threshold of their Chapel. Nothing more than a sizeable room beside the crew lounge used for prayer and sermon. The door was propped open, the bed removed, and chairs arranged in a uniform direction similar to pews toward a single desk with Bibles stacked atop. Unbidden, memories of helping Katie smuggle candies into Sunday service, only for Matt to snitch, leveled Tom.

In truth, he hadn't believed in decades. Certainly not the way his parents and Matt did.

Had.

Another frequent occurrence—moments where particulars of tense threw wretched ink on every happy memory Tom possessed. There'd been glimpses, though. Things which made him question if this wasn't so tragically random… but then he'd picture his kids watching their mother die. See the pain etched upon Mike's face. Replay his promise to Senior Chief Lynn if they ever located his family, and the notion became distasteful.

So lost in thought, Tom didn't notice someone enter until he heard feet, nor did he recall choosing to sit, or the length of time he'd been vacant.

"Captain," Jeter acknowledged, his deep timbre rolling from the walls.

Some of the tension leached from Tom's frame, and he mustered a small head incline. The Master Chief, calm in his quiet power, approached the desk and realigned a Bible. For a moment, his fingers lingered on the black textured leather before he drew them away.

"How'd you do it Russ? After—" Tom stopped short, his words an uncharacteristic murmur.

After you killed your family.

Several moments of silence followed while Jeter patiently waited before Tom voiced his constriction. "I should've been there."

With a sigh, Russ occupied the seat at his left, and though Tom remained steadfast in avoiding eye contact, he registered Russ' large palm curl loose around the chair in front.

"I struggled. For a long time." Russ paused. "I was angry. First with God because it was easier than accepting responsibility. Then with the Doctors—for bringing me back." There was another lull, the cadence of his speech comfortingly melodic. "All I wanted was to be with my girls."

Tom's jaw tightened, and his chin lowered.

"For months, I floundered. Squandered every day that I was given… and then I realized that a man cannot live without purpose." Again, Russ paused. "He can only exist."

Slowly, Tom's gaze ticked left, the Master Chief's eyes boring through his soul.

"You just need to find what it is that makes you believe in yours again."

January 25th, 2014

There was a knock. "Room Service."

Sasha grinned and tucked the blanket beneath the comforter. Outside, Pablo stood, and it dawned how little time they'd spent together since the wedding. Quarantine periods and missions separated them, and his timing, for once, was perfect—distraction ranked high on her priority list.

Smug, Pablo smiled and entered, and after considering the space, commented. "Real homey."

Her room was sterile as the day she'd occupied it; devoid of personal touch save for a single book on the nightstand, medications in the bathroom, the backpack in the wardrobe, and the blanket she'd hidden.

"Not big on decorating."

"Sure—you should go see Tex, he's been collecting souvenirs. We're running a kind of convenience store, if you will."

"Souvenirs?" Sasha's tone was skeptical, and the twist to Pablo's lip, mischievous.

"Yeah—got some decent Mezcal from the Cartel in exchange for the cure… can't say I was comfortable leaving it in their hands, but we didn't have many options."

The ease slipped from Sasha's expression. In truth, she avoided most sit-reps. Outside updates on Pablo's safety, she couldn't muster the energy. Still caught between feeling too much or nothing at all, though the medication seemed to dull those peaks.

"Found condoms," he continued. "Those are a hit."

Ripped from one extreme to the next, Sasha blinked several times. "Condoms. Who's getting laid?"

Widely, Pablo grinned.

"Oh god. You're sleeping with Debbie?"

"I'm just having a little fun." His lip twisted further. "She's spicy."

Though bemused, Sasha shook her head. "Do me a favor—lay off the booze around her."

Pablo sobered, his confusion clear.

"Any time she got near a drink at the wedding, Kara tensed up. There's something there."

Pablo remained blank-faced. "You know, you never fail to creep me out."

"And you're predictable."

Mike, who'd been leaning against the bar, straightened when Jed Chandler approached. They'd interacted little since his arrival in St. Louis, Mike's schedule dominated by overseeing the James' repairs.

In the same no-nonsense manner to which he'd become accustomed over the years, Jed offered a stiff handshake. "Our girl's up and running?"

"Ready as she'll ever be," Mike confirmed. "Still a few things we can't fix until we hit Norfolk, but she's ready to go home."

Jed released his grip. "Outstanding."

Clearing his throat, distinction entered Mike's tone. "I uh—I've been meaning to thank you. For trying to find Christine and the girls—"

Jed raised a hand. "You'd do the same. I'm just sorry that I couldn't get you more answers, but there's still plenty of hope, son. It's too early to say. If Darien hadn't found that capacitor, we'd still be at the cabin with no radio contact." Jed paused. "Didn't the Doc say ten percent are immune to this thing?"

Something tightened in Mike's chest. "She did. So far, she's been right about everythin' else…" and then left out the question plaguing his being. Was immunity hereditary? A puzzle that Doctors Scott and Milowsky had yet to solve.

While they made small talk, the room continued to fill; this gathering in lieu of holding a change of command ceremony. Some traditions, Tom agreed, didn't need to be upheld. Not when they only highlighted gaping losses. Post-deployment blues were no stranger, but more than missing his family, Mike lamented splitting the crew—feared amongst other things how they'd fare after coming to rely on each other. Looking on, Mike observed Diaz appoint Jake the de facto leader of the 'lost boys' as Tex dubbed them; another rule to which Tom made exception. That Friday, Ray Diaz had formally enlisted as an Engineman, First Class, and been assigned to Nathan James several months shy of seventeen.

A few feet removed Tex stood beside Chandler watching Diaz, though with a different type of scrutiny to Captain Slattery.

"Dr. Scott said she could use another assistant—or three," Tom said, one elbow leaned against the bar.

"My girl ain't much for science. She's already talkin' about enlistin' and followin' that damn kid around makin' goo-goo eyes—Diaz?"

Softly, Tom gave an amused hum, his lip tugging lopsided. "Well, I can use all the help I can get. If she wants to pitch in with the ration distribution teams, I'm more than happy to have her."

Nothing more exciting than packing boxes in a hotel guarded by dozens of men.

Tex surveyed the space. Chandler's kids were over with Diaz' group, Ava, and Cruz' nephews too, while Kelly stole glances between holding conversation with Rachel.

"You'll keep her safe?" Tex asked, after turning back.

Tom shifted from easy to sincere. "Like she was my own."

Nodding once, Tex jabbed a hand against his upper bicep. "You're a good man, Commodore."

The lively din of conversation was pierced by cheers when Ravit, supported by both Burk and Wolf, entered. She was pale, and thinner than Tex remembered, but looked a damn sight better than before. Leaning closer to Commodore, he yelled over the crowd, "Thought they weren't supposed to be around the crew?"

"Doc cleared it. No new cases in ten days, and you're all outside the quarantine period."

True. As of that morning, after returning to St. Louis five days prior, Tex and the other ground teams were given free passage. Tex inclined his chin and then scanned again. Pablo had arrived, accompanied by Sasha, and though subtle, something seemed to shift in the Commadore's demeanor.

In the sand, there existed a very distinct line, perhaps chasm were a more apt description, and god did Sasha feel it. Even Tex's banter, Pablo's sarcasm, and Green's bewildered amusement couldn't bridge it—Jed, Mike, Tom, Kelly, and Rachel all congregated near the bar. Sam, Ashley, and Ava close, and Sam in particular, choosing to spend most of the evening either beside Jed or his father.

"You gonna finish that?" Tex asked, pointing to the slice of pizza—actual pizza—of which she'd taken one bite. Bacon had found cheese, the combination of words sounding ridiculous when spoken aloud.

She pushed the paper plate over. "Knock yourself out."

Didn't she say something about this? Stupid ideas becoming good ones… lines becoming blurred by abstract justifications. Even knowing the patterns, she'd repeated history—just sans sex this time—said 'no' then discovered 'but' when she knew they were over, and she simply didn't fit. Then, or now.

Especially now.

She had always been, to some degree, the sordid blemish tarnishing Tom's otherwise forthright life, and it was no one's fault but her own. Tom had wanted to come clean. Tried to introduce her to Mike, made every effort to include her openly, and she'd refused. Seeing him now surrounded by remaining family ushered a stunning clarity.

When she stood, Pablo frowned. "Restroom." Came Sasha's curt excuse.

How long she'd been standing outside, shivering in the cold she couldn't say. Just that it helped numb her mind. Her arms were folded tight, hands buried beneath them to protect her fingers when the quiet swoosh of the door opening and closing behind her reined and she tried not to let hope blind her logic.

"What is he to you?"

Simultaneously, she swallowed and closed both eyes, ignoring the disappointment igniting the coal in her gut. Tom was exactly where he was supposed to be, and he wasn't going to bring his kids more turmoil just to chase after her. She knew that. Pablo's question was uncharacteristically cautious, and he came to lean against the brick surrounding wall beside her.

"Excuse me?"

"Capn' Ameri—"

"Why won't you let this go?" she deflected, a crease forming between both brows.

He too folded his arms. "Gee. Let's see… You told me he's the only person you trust, which is like tellin' me the sky ain't blue, and yet every time I see you two in a room together it's like a fuckin' landmine's about to go off."

Her eye contact faltered, but her lips stayed closed.

"Please tell me you weren't actually havin' an affair with the guy?"

"What?" she whispered, apathy evaporating. "No. Who's saying that?"

"No one outright. But you gotta admit it's the most logical conclusion—and you're the one who's adamant about not mixing work and play. Timeline doesn't work, Sasha, his kids have gotta be at least ten. You weren't doing joint ops until you switched… and I've read his file—"

"He's my ex., okay? We were together before he met his wife, and you need to stop talking about this. His kids have no idea. They don't need to find out because you ran it through scuttlebutt when their mother just died! I told you. This isn't a game." Though she tried to keep her inflection from showing the hurt, something wavered.

For a moment, he processed and then frowned.

"Paul—"

His features went lax. "The Academy?"

Sasha chewed her lip and then caved. "He was my combat instructor—we were breaking regs. It lasted longer than I thought and got way more serious than it should."

Keen interest sparked, though Pablo's words were just a murmur. "How serious are we talkin'?"

"Three years. Four if you count the one I spent running." She swallowed. "The end was—bad."

"And yet, you're not the only one with regrets." He canted his head, gaze nailing her. "Which means he did something to you."

Steadfast, Sasha held the eye contact. "It was on both of us."

"That why you refused to give up a name? Never gave any details. All those years, you were protecting him. Still are."

"Until the day I die," she confirmed, chin lifting.

Inhaling, Pablo shook his head. "Then why are you leavin' if you still love the guy?"

Her jaw twitched. "I told you. I need to find Jesse."

"And after that?" he challenged, both brows raised.

"It's complicated," she whispered.

"Sure you're not just running because you feel guilty?"

Again, her jaw twitched, and she peered out across the darkness. Somewhere in the hours of night Sasha found the notion that she'd taken a wrong turn in life—nothing had been right since. The more time she spent trapped near Tom, the more she kept defaulting. Everything could be different if she'd stayed with him before… or worse, it could be so similar, their careers exactly as they were, that the minute his mission changed, she could have solved the equation. Told Tom exactly what Doctors Scott and Tophet were doing, and he would have known from the start.

Ever since the thought crossed Sasha's mind, she'd been tormented, but wasting time with what-ifs was damaging. Attempting to re-write history, the errand of a fool, and yet she couldn't stop. Being near Tom filled her with so many cop-outs that she couldn't process the rest.

"It's not that—it's—"

All night, she'd watched Tom with his children… with Sam… and wondered what Andrew would have been like with theirs.

"I had a son," she choked out. "He died."

Every ounce of levity melted from Pablo's features, and he pushed away from the wall, jaw slack. "Fuck, I—I didn't—"

She pinched her nose and aggressively jerked her head to make him stop. Focused only on breathing to control the sobs threatening to break free. After several drawn moments, Pablo reached out and tentatively pulled her into his arms.

It wasn't the same as when Tom held her.

"It's not Tom." She pulled away, throat tight when she swiped beneath her nose and leaned into the bitter truth devouring her. "I don't know how to be around another woman's kids when all I want is mine." Another tear slid down her cheek. "And she got everything that I wanted with him."

Sniffing, Sasha turned and braced her hands against the brick rail as Pablo hovered, and while she hated herself for not being the bigger person, the relief was undeniable.

"Fuck," he breathed.

January 29th, 2014—White House, St. Louis, Missouri

Across Tom's desk, covering a map, dozens of papers were spread.

"There is an option that we haven't considered," Rachel began, the weight of her tone implying a catch.

Tom lifted his focus and waited.

"We could release the formula for the aerosolized cure so other countries can spread it in conjunction with the contagious version."

"But?"

Rachel shifted her gaze. "That would also entail disclosing science that could be weaponized."

Tom unclasped his hands and leaned back with an audible exhale. That was as he'd feared, and the two individuals he trusted to debate this dilemma—Jeter, and Slattery—were at EMCON, and by his estimation, somewhere near the tip of Florida.

"I need to think on it," he murmured.

She gave a small, curt nod and stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "I also believe I have a working prototype to test for immunity… as well as a model that should be able to accurately determine whether it is hereditary, though I need more samples."

Again, Tom waited; Rachel's demeanor suspiciously similar to that which he'd observed before asking to run a vaccine trial on his crew.

"The fastest way would be to test those who have biological family present and then begin in-depth profiling. Of course, that would require first determining if any are immune, which they may not be… and it's also not as simple as a parent or child. I've heard enough accounts to determine it skips generations, and not everyone reacts the same way upon exposure if they have immunosuppressant qualities." She paused. "Some of the cases Milowsky observed in Nebraska were not mutations but actually individuals partially immune to the virus. In some very rare instances, it's possible to make a full recovery without intervention after being given supportive fluids, and so I can no longer assume that just because someone has caught the virus and displayed symptoms, and subsequently received the cure, that they don't in fact possess a level of genetic immunity."

'Biological family spanning multiple generations' was a very short list. As in he, the Tophets, Foster, Tex, Miller, and Cruz.

And Tex, Miller, and Cruz were on Nathan James.

The issue was not himself—whatever sample she needed to have, Tom was willing to give, and he assumed his father would too, but the idea of probing his kids violated something on a visceral level. "And if none of us has immunity or… whatever it is you're looking for?"

For a stretched moment, Rachel chewed on her cheek, gaze cast beyond his desk, and somewhere in the pit of Tom's gut, he figured out why.

Bertrise. Michener. Sasha.

All immune, but only one of those individuals could usher such a trepidatious and lingering pause from Rachel... because he'd disclosed information pertaining to 'biological family' about precisely one.

"No."

"It would be nothing more than a small biopsy of the pancreas or liver…" breathless, Rachel shifted her weight. "Fetal microchimerism isn't well understood, but there is already existing research into autoimmune diseases on the premise of cells that migrate and stay in a mother's body sometimes decades after—"

"Rachel—" the force with which he'd spoken whipped.

Flustered, she blinked rapidly and stepped closer to his desk. "I am not heartless, Captain!" she hissed through gritted teeth. "I understand how awful this is, but this is how science and—"

"I don't give a damn!" His shout ignited the near-constant pressure surrounding his temples, tendons in his neck distended, though he lowered his tone. "I said no."

Tight-lipped, Rachel swallowed and straightened.

"Science can go too far—look at Neils and Hamada. This isn't life or death anymore, Rachel. We have the cure, and you have a test to conserve doses." He paused, bringing his breathing under control while she stared. "I don't care if you ask the public—"

"That's already been done, Captain." Her interruption was dismissive and curt.

He blinked slowly. Apparently, that sit-rep hadn't hit his desk, or he hadn't yet had time to read it. "So what's the problem?"

Again, she shifted and began pacing. "It's a logistical nightmare, for one. There's hundreds of conflicting accounts and most of the individuals we identified with similar genetic markers to the four control profiles, possessed a myriad of discrepancies, not to mention the number of variables…" she trailed off, sensing that he didn't care to understand the filler, just the bottom line. "This type of genetic profiling is extremely complex… the ability to obtain such a unique sample without having to consider nor isolate hundreds, if not thousands, of environmental factors, directly from stem-like cells, would shorten the process by months. Maybe years."

All Tom sourced was the feeling of learning his T.A.O. had been kidnapped so Hamada could steal cells from her unborn baby.

"And quite frankly, had I known before, I may have considered it after I removed her spleen. Believe it or not, it's actually the organ that tends to retain the largest concentration of fetal cells post-birth... and no one would have been burdened with the grisly details of how, or even where I got those answers." Her features were set in grim repose.

And then, instead of Avocet, it was the betrayal Sasha had worn when he'd confessed that he not only knew but relayed the information. How deeply it hurt to perceive that she was broken enough to ask for his help.

"So run your test on me. Figure out if I'm immune, and if I am, you can start testing my father… but not my kids. Not after their mom. I'm not putting that on them."

Her brows were sympathetic. "And if you're not?" she muttered quietly.

"Then you'll just have to wait until you find someone else," he said, voice hoarse. "Because you are not asking her."

Still visibly emotional, Rachel lowered her chin conceding with silence. For a moment, she lingered, gaze cast somewhere upon the floor before lifting her head and exiting his office.

He snatched a report and resumed reading, ignoring his thrumming pulse and aching pressure behind his eyes. Stomach sour, Tom suppressed the slight tremor in his hands. Sam had spent every night thus far sleeping in his bed. Ashley, angry, but unable to communicate that, and his proximity to Sasha was torturing her despite doing everything in his power to give her space. His maelstrom was barely contained when another knock came, and Tom bit hard before uttering a response. Frustration morphed into mild shock; a momentary loss of stoicism that wrenched his brow and rounded his eyes before he wielded control.

Sasha registered it, however. Enough to soften and become hesitant. There was an envelope in her hand, and this was only the third time he'd witnessed her in the courthouse.

"Are you alright?" he tried, though his tone still held gravel.

Her quiet concern seemed to amplify while nodding. "Dennis needed a translation."

Squinting, Tom inclined his head to acknowledge, no longer trusting his voice. Using the armrests, he pushed himself out of the seat, realizing he had less than two minutes before the gasket blew.

"Something happened?" she inquired gently.

Deflecting with a facial gesture, Tom stepped closer to the door where Sasha lingered. "No."

She always looked so innocent when her expression became doleful that way. "Tom?"

He was beside her now, glancing beyond her shoulder across the corridor and into the green room, thankful that Dennis was distracted and everyone else in their respective offices.

He couldn't control it.

Not after the way she said his name. Not after that conversation. Dragging his focus back, Tom locked eye contact. "What is that?"

Her gaze searched his, lips softly parted. "Nothing. Something from the census."

Breathing shallow, Tom tried not to remember how Sasha felt in his arms. Fought with every ounce of grit to stop guilt-fueled moisture blurring his vision.

Rachel wouldn't know a goddamn thing if he'd kept his mouth closed.

"Tom, what is going on?" she whispered, free hand encircling his forearm, though his sleeve prevented him from feeling her delicate fingers.

A deep crease had formed in the center of Sasha's forehead, and he cupped her head, drawing her closer to place a chaste kiss above her brow.

"I miss you," he rasped against her skin, "and I'm sorry." Pain radiated like a bullet wound, and before Sasha could react, or he could fuck this up further, Tom let go and slipped into the hallway.