A/N: Hi...sorry for the incredibly long wait. But, I guess I just needed a little butt kicking. And now that season 3 is out, this story is obviously AU. So forgive me for the now awkwardness of this story, and I'll try my best to branch it away from the canon plot line as best I can given the already declared direction of this fic, and maybe add in some new twists!

As always, thank you for your support. And...Brace Yourselves!

Tom Mason couldn't think straight. Not with all that's happened. He was weary, exhausted from the amount of work needed to take over control of Charleston. Stressed from the surprising expectancy of another child, and worried because of the inability to watch over all of his sons constantly. And now, sickeningly lost with the fear for his oldest.

He slowly blinked away the haze in his eyes and focused on Captain Weaver in front of him, leading his path to...wherever they were going. Tom hadn't bothered to ask. Because how could it possibly matter more than his son? Hal, who had been unconscious for two days. Hal, who had found the idea of escaping the infirmary, rational. Hal, who could not only no longer stand the sight of Tom, but who was also terrified of him. And what was more important than fixing that disgustingly wrong perception?

Tom Mason knew he was losing his son, and did anything ever feel more like deja-vous? Because what else could Tom do besides sit back and watch his son's life fall away, just as with Ben's, just as with his wife's? He couldn't think of anything he could do, and that feeling was much worse than realizing Ben had been kidnapped by Skitters. Because Tom couldn't have been able to stop that, not with all the chaos in their town, not when Ben was at a friend's house miles away. He could do something now for his son, he just didn't know what. The only thing he had thought of was comfort and support, and after Hal's...mental break-Tom cringed as he reluctantly thought the words-in the training facility, that was no longer an option.

What was he suppose to do now?

His jaw clenched and he quickened his pace to catch up with Weaver, determined to figure things out with Anne once whatever the Captain had needed him for was done with.

Tom nearly ran into Weaver when the man abruptly stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning towards a metal door with a rectangular window.

Ohh, realization clicked in Tom's head as his brow furrowed. Honestly, there was so much happening in the last couple of days-who could blame him for not realizing they stood in front of the alien's holding cell. The new alien. How much more could the 2nd Mass and the rest of Charleston take? How much more could he take?

"What's happened?" He asked warily, glancing to the captain.

Before Weaver could reply, Pope pushed off the wall from the shadows, and approached with a grim smile, "Iguana Man's learnin' to communicate."

Tom Mason startled at the man's grotesquely bruised throat, "Did-did it do that to you?" he asked incredulously, exchanging concerned glances with Weaver. Tom didn't care much when it came to Pope, but if the alien was hurting people, that was an obvious problem.

Pope barked out a breath of mirthless laughter, shaking his head, "Nuh-uh."

"Get to it, Pope. What happened?" Weaver asked, slightly irritated.

"It's a family problem, Ponytail," Pope responded gruffly, shrugging, "Ain't nothing to do with you."

Tom was about to protest the secrecy when the door to the interrogation room pulled open and Colonel Porter greeted them.

"Glad you could make it," he smiled gravely, clasping his hands together, and his crystal green gaze met that of Tom's own. "Mr. President. That's sure gonna take some getting use to."

"Not necessary, Porter. You can always call me Tom," Tom responded and outstretched his hand.

Porter gratefully took it in his own and shook.

"How adorable," Pope commented sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Really. I wish I had brought my camera phone."

"Pope, when will you learn to shut your mouth?" Weaver questioned condescendingly.

"When you folks stop making me gag from your tragic love stories. Glad you asked, Captain," Pope grinned crookedly as he saluted the man and eased back to his post, away from sight.

All three remaining men sighed tiredly.

"I've always appreciated the irony of the bastard's name," Weaver said dryly as Colonel Porter led them into the room.

White tile covered the floors, steel the walls, and cement the ceiling. A one-way mirror nearly took up the entire adjacent wall, and directly across from it stood the alien. Tom's heart stuttered a beat at the size of the creature-he had forgotten how tall it was, looming at least a foot over him. Guards stood around it, severely armed but with paled faces. Tom frowned when he noticed blood the color of red wine curdled around the alien's long talons. That's when he noticed Porter's gaze to the ground and followed it. He breathed in slightly, his mind riddled with thoughts in the haze of confusion. For why had the alien ripped up a piece of the tile work? Was it trying to escape? No, Tom thought, shaking his head, if it wanted to escape, why would it have come willingly into captivity in the first place? And why was it just standing there, staring at him with large, glinting eyes?

Tom brushed a hand down his beard, turning his gaze to the rest of the room, wondering if he missed anything important. His eyes narrowed when he saw past the creature's scaly stature and noted the metal chair. The removed white tile sat harmlessly on top of it.

"What are we thinking?" Tom asked the two men, giving them a sideways glance.

"No clue, Tom," Porter shrugged uneasily, clearing his throat. "We hoped you might have some ideas."

Tom nodded curtly, thinking. He took a few steps to circumvent the guards and the alien, feeling his neck prickle as the alien's blank gaze continued to follow him. He stepped closer to the back of the chair, and hesitated when the tips of his fingers grazed the smooth tile. Tom glanced up at the colonel, "May I?" he asked.

"Of course," Porter nodded, before looking meaningfully towards both of his guards. The two men gripped their machine guns tighter.

Carefully, Tom picked the piece of stone up. Tilting it at its sides, he examined the top and bottom, fingers pressing into the rough texture from the cracked cement. He looked up at the alien watching him closely, and bit his lip hard, returning his gaze back to the tile. Clearly, the alien wanted Tom to figure something out...but what?

"Iguana Man's learnin' to communicate," Pope's earlier words echoed in his head, and Tom nearly gasped, his chest straining from the realization.

"White," he whispered, urgently meeting Porter's and Weaver's gaze.

"Tom?" Weaver asked, taking a step forward.

Tom's blood pulsed with adrenaline, and he stared at the alien, mind running in all sorts of directions and arriving at all sorts of possibilities. He could have sworn he saw the alien smile.

"It's...it's white," Tom repeated, fumbling for the right words because...unbelievable, "The tile's white."

"And?" Porter raised a wispy eyebrow.

"And..." Tom said, gently placing the tile back on top of the chair. "I think it's a symbol of truce. Like a white flag. I think he's trying to tell us he doesn't mean us harm."

Both soldiers looked strikingly confused. "Hold up, Tom," Weaver began uneasily, "You mean to say you think this thing knows what's symbolic to us?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Tom replied, blinking.

"But how?"

"I don't know..." Tom admitted, grimacing. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "It's learning. Just like what Pope said."

Weaver's eyes furrowed troublingly, "But how could it learn a symbol of truce from being locked away in here?"

Tom shook his head, "I don't know. But it's a start. It could be trying to help us."

"Help us-" The word stuck in Weaver's throat as the alien slowly approached Tom Mason.

Tom swallowed hard, his body tensing in wariness as he watched with a steady, confident eye, the alien kneel in front of the chair. It rested its hand on the tile, sharp talons clicking against the stone. Purple blood seeped onto the white, forming a small puddle, and only then did the alien smear the tip of his thinnest claw and began to move his hand across the tile.

Tom stared at the work in progress, his heart beat hammering. He wished he could keep up with the alien's intellectual process, desiring to understand what the alien was trying to communicate. But so much had happened. So much. And Tom was so tired and...the alien dropped his talon in the blood again and continued moving along the tile, twisting his wrist in odd formations.

"Tom, what's it doing?" Weaver asked anxiously.

Tom's brow twisted in frustration with himself, "I-I...I don't..." But then he saw it. As clear as a word on a page. Because that's it exactly what it was.

With the ink of its own blood, the alien had scribed a word:

Danger.

And how poetically satisfying it was, for Tom Mason's own blood grew cold with dread.

Yay! Sorry for the awkwardness. Hopefully, I can make it up with an upcoming Hal chapter! Yay. Hal always makes any crisis better. Right? Right. Please tell me what you think! And I promise the next chapter will be out sooner... (but that's not saying much...heheheh) sorry again!