Monday, April 4th, 2016—White House, St. Louis, Missouri
In the left wing of the White House, along a lonely corridor, Sasha's office emitted the only glow. Tom had removed his shoes, sock-clad feet resting against the desk, with a pile of discarded files beside him. Relentlessly, he scanned. Page after page after page of bullshit.
"What about Pensacola?"
Sasha shook her head. "Wiped out by a hurricane, damaged most all the reaming jets at Tyndall, and the guy that was working on the fix died three weeks ago from a heart attack—no one's manufactured Warfarin for three years and the US finally ran out."
Frustration got the best of him. Tom snapped the file shut and tossed it with the others.
Sasha closed hers and sighed. "It can't be done, Tom." She rested both elbows on the surface. "Every little piece needs something we can't find. We don't have enough people." Discouraged, she hesitated. "We can't fix this from here. We need agreements, and intel, yesterday. And what we have now? Isn't gonna cut it. I'm talking ground teams—long-term deployments working foreign states from the ground up, getting us contacts, resources, and players. We need all of it—and I can't do that sitting here shuffling papers in an office and combing what's left of the databases to find it."
She paused and chewed on her lip, waiting for the reaction; could see the heaviness settling Tom's expression.
"So you wanna go back out there?" he uttered.
"I don't want. I think it's what I need to do," she corrected. "Tom, I love you and the kids. I'm happy—but this is bigger than that. You've seen the files; we lost another two-hundred thousand people in this famine. People with skills that we can barely replace. Oliver's talking about making fifteen the legal age of adulthood. That's Ashley in eight months…"
The stormy glare she received let her know she'd made her point. He couldn't imagine his daughter being able to enlist, much less shouldering more responsibility when he was supposed to do that for her, but that was reality now. The days of child workers marched ever closer as they scrambled to solve their fuel and human capital shortages.
"I can't, in good conscience, walk away from this," she said. A breathy confession that hung heavy and thick in the stilted silence.
Tom's jaw tensed. "And you want me to agree to this?"
She hadn't expected excitement, but the level of thinly veiled disdain gave her pause. "I didn't expect you'd be thrilled; but I think given the circumstance, you of all people could understand?"
He looked away, appropriately admonished, though unable to swallow his pride and apologize.
"I wouldn't be gone the whole time. I can muster a team and lay the groundwork from here; get us the base intel—but you and I both know we need Panama under control. We need that canal."
Briefly, Tom resumed eye contact.
"If Oliver will give me Vulture Team, I can be in and out within three months—overthrow the rebels while the US secures a diplomat willing to sign our trade agreement. We offer them support in toppling the regime, give them an exclusive fuel agreement in the Gulf. Make it a true joint effort—their canal, our offshore oil stations, share infrastructure and manpower…"
His reaction was visceral. "Three months? You wanna go trek in the jungle and take down warlords when we have no way of providing meaningful support or backup, let alone extraction with a team of four guns?"
Her expression was dismissive. "Five, actually. I'd need to recruit someone, and yes, Tom. I think I can get it done. I single-handedly got in with Peng—apparently well enough for him to overlook the fact I was smuggling cure. You don't think I know how to run a successful op with no support and terrible odds? I made it through Asia—and you have no idea what that took."
It gave him pause—the part about Asia percolating like an alarm bell. She was right; he didn't know about Asia because she refused to discuss it. "I'm not questioning your skills, Sasha. I'm trying to tell you it's too risky," he implored, his tone more even and controlled.
"Why?"
He glared; a non-verbal warning. "You know why."
"Tom, this is the job. You know that better than anyone. You've made the same choices before because it was the right thing to do. I don't see how this is any different."
Checkmate.
Much as he had on the James after ending his tirade about Peng by tactfully mentioning the number of innocent civilians he'd kill in the crossfire, Tom looked Sasha up and down.
Through her nose, Sasha scoffed—this was everything she knew would happen. Tom just couldn't let it go—control. Same damn factors that drove her to leave; save them both from the slow, agonizing death of a relationship sunk before it sailed because they didn't work. Love had never been the issue—or rather, it was the sole issue. Some days she couldn't quite decide. Disillusion engulfed; who the hell had they been kidding? How the hell had she thought that it would be different this time?
"You know this is exactly why I couldn't marry you? Even without kids, I knew you'd never be able to accept that you're not the only one who gets to put themselves in danger," she spat. "And the last time I checked, I don't need your permission to do things."
Sasha regretted the low blow the moment she'd let it spring past her lips. Her comment hurt, that much she could tell. An immediate sadness softened Tom's eyes, and repugnant shame quashed her sting; her features shifted, imploring him to understand that she hadn't meant to be so cruel and vicious.
"It's late. The kids need dinner. I'm gonna head home."
"Tom—"
Already standing, Tom paused. Watched as she struggled to find the words that might undo what she'd just done, unsure how a perfectly normal evening had descended into this.
Tom dropped his gaze, slipped on his shoes, and grabbed his coat and briefcase. "I'll see you at home."
He didn't turn back.
As soon as the door closed, Sasha let out the breath and put her head in her hands.
He didn't tell her to be safe.
By the time Sasha arrived, the Chandler's had eaten and taken to the couch. A nightly routine, watching re-runs on the only station of four, dedicated to entertainment. Both kids were curled beside Tom. Sasha set her keys on the credenza, and approached the kitchen quietly.
Sam poked his head over the top of the couch. "Hey Sasha."
It sent a knock to her heart; Sam was always happy to see her.
Ashely politely looked over. "Hi."
"Hey guys," Sasha responded.
"Your dinner's in the microwave," Tom said, attention remaining fixed on the screen.
Grateful for the thirty minutes she could waste eating it before awkwardly trying to decide how to fill the rest of her night, Sasha retrieved the plate. Mindful that the last thing she wanted was the kids to pick up on the tension between them, she pulled some papers from her briefcase—pretended she was sitting alone due to that, and provided a reason to keep her back turned.
After a time, Ashley came over and refilled her water. Sasha greeted her with a small smile before returning to the papers.
"Did something happen at work today?" Ashley urged quietly, not quite hiding that she was reading the files spread across their counter.
Crap.
"Nothing major, it's just… a lot of moving parts." A good half-truth, in Sasha's opinion.
"Dad seems upset," Ashley whispered, leaning closer.
Something squirmed in her gut. Sighing, Sasha conceded—Ashley if anything, embodied her father's stubborn propensity. "I know. Some not great stuff happened today. Think he just needs a bit of space, but he'll be okay."
Ashley seemed to consider it, and to Sasha's relief, didn't ask for more details. Seizing the opportunity, Sasha redirected, "What about you? How was school?"
She shrugged—about the response as you'd expect from a teenaged girl full of angst and hormones.
"It was alright, I guess. Our principal said that President Oliver is changing the school calendar—they're going to start trade courses or something—everyone has to stay most of the summer to catch-up."
Sasha nodded; she knew of the latest directive, of course—they needed it. Gone were the days of studying academia unless it provided direct relevance. She could only hope that soon this wouldn't be necessary, but at present the world needed a generation of workers to replace those lost in the pandemic and famine.
"Do you really think he'll make being an adult fifteen?" Ashley continued, sounding entirely too enticed by the proposal.
"Unfortunately, yes." Sasha answered honestly.
Ashley appeared offended.
"Listen, I'm not saying you're not mature for your age, I just remember being fifteen… thinking I had it all figured out, and it couldn't have been farther from the truth. This is a different world Ash, you know that." Sasha paused. "It's hard to let go of what was normal. We all just want the best for you—want you to have choices—be able to make mistakes. Have fun. Not have to worry about life until you hit your mid-twenties and realize your apartment's knee-deep in take-out and clothes."
Satisfied that she'd smoothed the comment over, Sasha nudged Ashley's shoulder with her own. "Go finish your movie, I can hear your dad eavesdropping from here."
With a sly grin, Ashley rolled her eyes and returned.
Despite Tom's stubborn objective to remain cold all evening, Sasha's comment hammered a crack. He had indeed been eavesdropping. There could be no doubt that Sasha knew him. Intimately. Inside and out. No doubt that he'd held space in his heart, made smaller over time as his love for Darien grew, and that's what made it so goddamn difficult. The thought of losing her—really losing her—not the kind where she was alive and well, just not in his life, an acceptable place, as painful in its regret as it may be.
No.
It was the thought of growing accustomed to her presence. Expecting it. Of loving her with reckless abandon as he'd done before. The idea of coming home to a house full of her things, the scent of her lingering on his pillow and her being gone, burdening him with only memories and her ghost, was petrifying. It would be like losing Darien again.
Same reason Mike swore to him one night on the James that he'd never love again after Christine. After losing his kids—it just hurt too much. Better to be alone for the rest of his life than to give someone else the power to destroy him like that. Once was agonizing enough.
Tom had been in agreeance; content to spend the rest of his life romantically detached. To count his blessings for being spared his kids—another reason he'd declined to indulge Rachel. Never banked on Sasha, however; ideas about controlling feelings he'd never mastered, proven ridiculous in the wake of that minefield. The illusion had rapidly crumbled, and so, he'd lived in the limbo since. Tried to walk away from it. Ran halfway across the world to escape it—fulfilled desires of his flesh with empty women whom he'd never love, and realized, once again, that when it came to her—he was susceptible.
She was the bullet lodged in his chest that couldn't be removed. The one that had an equal chance of killing him if it shifted, or co-existing in peace. Of course, the latter sounded preferable; but such was the case with them. Sasha always hovered in between.
The limbo.
And it cut him to his core.
After eating, Sasha retreated to the sanctuary of their bedroom, opting to give the requisite space. In their youth, they'd fight viciously—too stubborn to understand they were doing more harm by trying to win. She knew every button and hammered them all. Descended into impassioned yelling matches almost every time. Smarter people got scared when Tom flew into rage—she was self-destructive enough to jump in for the ride. Secure in the knowledge that he'd never cross the line.
Age and perspective dictated it was more productive to calm down and give a chance for rational to chime in.
Sasha was propped against pillows reading yet more reports when he entered. Awkward silence filled the space. She'd taken a shower; already wearing one of his shirts, hair freshly washed and thrown into a messy bun. Tom loomed unmoving, and stoic and his scrutiny caused her cheeks to blister.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did," she tried. Unsure if it helped because his body language didn't change. It unnerved her, uncertainty itching like ants under flesh. If there's one thing Tom knew she hated—it was the silent treatment.
"Probably not," he replied, before adding, "but it's still the truth."
A comment that elicited a wince from Sasha. Clearly, he wasn't going to let her take it back.
"It's no one's fault Tom, that's what makes this so hard. You think I don't get scared too? Every time you go out there? Did you forget that less than six months ago, I was sat by your bedside, with you in a coma? Do you know how long I watched through my scope as you bled out? I was terrified!"
Finally earning a rise out of him, Tom pushed away from the door coming closer to the foot of the bed, eyes ablaze. "And what was the first thing you said to me, Sasha? You told me never to do that to you again. That is exactly why I won't go back. I have to make sure I'm here for the kids and for you."
"But I'm not done!" It was louder than she'd intended.
He drew back again and stewed.
"You might be ready to make that choice—to walk away from your duty—but I'm not. And you and I both know nothing would keep you here if you felt you had a mission to complete, regardless of what I might want."
Tom clenched his features and hung his head. This was nothing he didn't already know. He was being stubborn, pig-headed, and he couldn't seem to let it go. Just dug his feet in deeper to keep fighting a losing battle. "I know Sasha. That's what I can't stand," he said between teeth. "I don't know how to be what you want!" he hissed. "I don't know how to sit here on the sidelines while you risk your life—"
"You did it—"
"Don't say I did it when you took the White House. I still had you on coms, Sasha, I was still there, in the fight. I made the play. I called the shots. I calculated the risks," he ranted.
Control.
"Actually, I was going to say you managed it in Greece." It dripped with sarcasm.
Flaring his nostrils, Tom worked hard to suppress the fire she'd just ignited. "Anything else you'd like to throw in my face tonight?"
Sasha scoffed. "Nope." Made sure to pop the 'p'. "Just trying to understand." Another snarky retort, punctuated with an attitude-laden brow quirk. "I almost got my head blown off three times while you were gone."
A flicker of shock ripped across Tom's face before he reined it in, settling for a troubled expression instead.
"You think it would have hurt less because you left? If you'd come back and found out I was dead—somehow it wouldn't have been as bad because you'd moved on?" she asked darkly.
The look he gave was thunderous. "What kind of question is that?" It phrased in such a way that let her know she was pushing him over the edge.
"An honest one," she said flatly. "Point is, it would've happened whether you were there or not."
Tom worked his jaw.
Softening a fraction, Sasha continued, "I get it, Tom, I really do. But we have to figure this out." Fatigue settled heavily upon her shoulders. "We've already wasted so much time playing this game. Running away from each other because we're scared, or because the timing isn't right. Because we can't have everything we want? I left. You left. You got married. I got married, and I still loved you." Her voice caught. "Yeah, I managed to go months, sometimes a year without thinking of you. But the second something reminded me? A smell, a song, a place, my birthday—it was still there. All of it. I wanted you, Tom. I have wanted you the whole time." The moisture which prickled was unwelcomed. A response to fearing rejection while he quietly studied her.
It struck Tom deeply. Chased away his pride and replaced it with what he knew to be true; he'd love Sasha until the day he died whether they were together or not. He could fight all he wanted, try to pretend it wasn't that deep—it wouldn't make it better. It wouldn't make it hurt less. There was no undoing it this time; tried that already in Greece.
"I can't have a life with you and then lose you, Sasha," he breathed, so quietly she almost missed the words. "I can't," he repeated.
Shuffling forward on her knees across the mattress until she could reach him, Sasha cupped his face and held his gaze.
"You won't."
"I promise you. Everything I do, every risk I take, every decision I make out in the field—I'll make sure that I'm coming home."
Once again, his gaze swept her features, trying to draw comfort from her words. An attempt to quell the gnawing hollowness threatening to drown him. Exhaling, Tom caved and drew her against him, lips resting against her forehead while he squeezed. The tension seeped from her limbs, arms shifting to encircle his waist.
"I don't want to choose," Tom confessed, the words hanging between them.
Didn't want to be torn.
Knew himself well enough to know if Sasha walked into Hell, he'd follow. Wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't, but couldn't stomach the idea that chasing her could orphan his kids either.
Russian Roulette.
He was about to start playing again, only this time she was pulling the trigger too.
"I don't want you to, Tom. I'm not asking either." She drew back to make eye contact with him, a hesitant frown at her brow.
"Sasha," he warned.
"I'm serious. I'm not expecting you to come to my rescue if we need exfil. I don't want you to—I know you need to be here for Ashley and Sam. You can't risk it."
His features became pinched. "You can't honestly believe I could sit here and do nothing?" The question, rhetorical. Almost disappointed that she just didn't get it—she was it for him now. No matter how many times he told her loved her, or how he tried to show it, Sasha didn't understand what that meant for him.
She thought he could still walk away.
Perhaps at the core, was the knowledge that she'd never choose him over the Navy, and he'd been willing from the moment he'd fallen. It prickled. Always had, but that's who she was, and Tom loved in spite of it.
This was just one of those reminders.
Regret marred her expression again, ugly truths laid bare and resurfacing. Tom backed away and she felt the cold drench her immediately.
"I need to take a shower," he said.
Sasha tracked his movements. Watched as he closed the door to the bathroom. Stared after it while she worked her jaw and tried to figure out how to repair the damage that she'd done.