Call a Spade a Spade.

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"Mr. President." Her greeting was cordial, fingers clasped before her lap gracefully as she stood in the doorway.

Michener peered up, his small beady eyes shifting between her and the door. Her features were unreadable, a benign glaze, and she was cleaner now. Had changed clothes, but he still recognized her as one of Chandler's ground crew from the hotel.

"We haven't been formally introduced," she offered politely but assured. "Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence."

Sasha saw the moment it dawned on him, recognition rippling across his features, shortly followed by what she could only describe as sinking. The fingers of his right hand twitched around the thumb drive.

"Yes—" he acknowledged. Meek compared to the tone she'd heard him use hours before with Tom in the wardroom. "Yes, I remember being given your file." A short briefing on the personnel with clearance who'd be quarantined within his zone months ago. "Your husband was one of the Doctors."

Sasha's eyelids fluttered, and she gave a small nod of confirmation. With a soft inhale, she unclasped her hands, pushing them into the pockets of her jeans instead and stepping closer to lean her shoulder against the bunk. "He was."

Michener bobbed his head, having difficulty facing her direction upon realizing she was there. That she knew. Knew that everything had spun out of control. His failings. His shortcomings. "I suppose the Captain sent you to try and reason with me? Using a different tack." The change in tone was sharp, a defense mechanism he'd fallen back on time and time again since discovering Ramsey.

She'd expected as much, and her response was easy as much as transparent and forthright. "Sure. Or you could stop and listen long enough to realize he's the only man in your corner right now."

That seemed to get his attention. His eyes darting back to her with a healthy dose of trepidation. "What do you mean?" Did she know?

Sasha bounced her brows up a fraction and wet her lip before continuing. "XO thinks you're a lost cause, Master Chief doesn't much care either way… and Ramsey's gonna sink this ship whether you're on it or not. By tomorrow the crew will realize you're one of them, and the Captain's hand will be forced… I hear there's a spot in the Brig with your name on it."

He seemed to have no response for that other than scrutinizing her, though she could see the wheels turning beneath the deep furrow of his brow.

After letting her statement rest, she softened a fraction. "Look, I get it—why you'd be looking for meaning in all of this." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, showing perhaps more vulnerability than she'd intended. "But I was there too—and all I know is there are other people in this country, Americans with families, children, who won't have to watch them suffer and die if we work to give them this cure." He was grinding his jaw, eyes suspiciously glassy. "And I don't understand why, as the President of this country, you wouldn't want to be part of that. We all lost something, all made sacrifices… most of the people on this ship have no idea what they're even coming back to, but none of them turned their backs."

The President's eyes fluttered, his grip on the thumb drive tight enough to make his knuckles white, and Sasha watched as his gaze traveled down, lingering at her stomach before casting off again. Sasha straightened, a frigid chill causing the hair to stand on her neck and arms.

"Like I said," she moved toward the door, looking over her shoulder to deliver her closing words. "We all lost something—you might find comfort in that if you stop deluding yourself into believing this is anything more than random."

Tom pushed himself away from the p-way when she stepped out, unfolding his arms while the man she'd dubbed Hawaiian shirt, who had taken up guard to give Green a break, straightened too. Tom spoke low, though they were free of sailor's ears. "What do you think?"

Sasha tipped her head left. "You're right—he's hiding something."

Saturday, August 18th, 2012—Chandler Residence, Norfolk, VA

Mike shifted his duffel strap up a little while he waited on the front porch. He could hear Tom's kids yelling about something, and Darien's voice admonishing them to keep it down. When Tom made it to the door, he was a little flushed. "Sorry about that, come in."

Darien rounded their hallway, and Mike smiled politely at her, still uncomfortable with the idea of crashing in their guest room for a few nights. She stepped over to give him a welcoming hug. "Good to see you. If you're hungry, there's some leftovers in the fridge. You can help yourself."

Mike tried to warm his features from their hollow state, but it felt cold. "Thanks, appreciate the offer." She drew back and gave a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder before turning to Tom.

"I'll leave you both to it—" she leaned over and kissed him "—goodnight." Before retreating to their master bedroom.

"Beer?" Tom suggested, angling his body toward their kitchen. He saw some of the tension leave Mike's frame and he shrugged off the duffel he'd packed hastily, leaving it beside the cloakroom closet. "Think I'll skip and get straight to the hard stuff if it's all the same to you."

"What are you gonna do?" Tom took a swig of beer and listened to the cricket's chirp. His feet were outstretched before him, crossed over at the ankle while he slumped in the sports chair. Beside him, Mike's response was gruff.

"Dunno. We agreed it was better for the kids if she stayed and I left… they're so used to me being gone half the year anyway. We haven't told them yet; they think I got called in."

Tom mulled over that in his mind, selfishly glad he didn't have to deal with a divorce, though he felt for Mike. Just didn't know what to say. Darien had always been better at this stuff. Companionable silence suited Mike just fine, however. Wasn't looking for a pity party, rather some good company and a stiff bottle to nurse his pride until he'd figure out his next steps. "Eh, fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, right? Was bound to happen to one of us."

"Something like that," Tom mumbled. He heard the bottle tip as Mike took another drink, smacking his lips a little against the burn of whiskey.

Mike rolled with his thoughts, letting them flow into the night between them. "You know—in twenty-four years, not once have I been tempted."

It sounded a little bitter, and Tom didn't know why he needed to clarify, but he did. "To cheat?" He peered at Mike from his peripheral.

"Yeah." Mike paused for a beat, perplexed because his gut feeling picked up on something, though Tom remained impassive. After mulling it over, Mike realized why. He was too stoic, jaw set in that overly benign manner. "You tellin' me you have?"

Sometimes, having a former detective as a best friend hindered more than it helped. Tom shifted his eyes away to study a tree. A light breeze danced through its leaves, casting shadowed patterns on the ground against the moonlight. He didn't often choose to examine nor resurrect his memories of Sasha, often they came with sentiments better left buried. But inevitably, there were reminders. Instances, such as the present, where he couldn't help but default to her, and Tom hadn't noticed how long he'd let his silence linger. Mike furrowed his brow, he'd never pegged Tom as a cheater, nor Christine for that matter, but what did he know? Evidently, not much.

Tom's sigh was heavy, and he shifted in his chair, glad that their master bedroom faced the street and there was no way Darien or the kids could overhear. Still, he kept his tone low and murmured, "Only once." Twice, his mind chastised, but he wasn't going there. He'd take that to his grave.

Mike was genuinely blindsided. "With who?"

Tom tucked his chin toward his chest, could still picture her laying in the sand clear as day. Almost feel the humidity on his skin. "Sasha."

Well shit. Mike's brows rose of their own accord. "Your ex-girlfriend?" It was a little incredulous. "When was this? I didn't know you guys still talk."

Tom had to fight his inclination to bristle in response to that term. 'Girlfriend' even now didn't feel right. He'd never thought of her like that. It was too juvenile. Trivial. Like a transient thing you did in your early twenties before settling down. He'd never defined her with a label. She was simply Sasha and what that meant, only he knew. "We don't. It was a few years ago—I ran into her at a bar, and somehow we ended up on a beach." Tom took another drink, eyes narrowed while he brooded off into the distance.

Mike examined that information, reading between the unspoken lines. "Did you?"

"No." Tom's response was quick and definitive, and while Mike believed him, the muddled aura surrounding his confession communicated it wasn't that simple. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it. I shouldn't have even been there, but I wanted to be around her. I was being selfish. Said some things I had no business saying."

Mike ruminated in silence for a moment. "Does Darien know?"

Tom shook his head, the tug of his lips more a grimace. Therein lay the problem. This wasn't something he ever wanted to disclose, because he knew damn well that Sasha was off-limits. "No—and that's exactly why I know it was wrong."

Mike leaned back in the chair again, swirling the whiskey within its bottle. "You know… I always thought she was a mail-order bride or something. Some hot chick from the Ukraine who looks nothing like her picture when she shows up at the airport?"

Tom puffed out a laugh. Memories of days long past where Mike mercilessly joked that his 'girlfriend' wasn't real because he found every excuse in the book not to introduce them. Nor offer details that weren't suspiciously vague. The grin faded from Tom's lips, replaced instead with a distant, contemplative look.

"I didn't realize it was that serious between you," Mike mused, his thoughts drifting inevitably back to Christine. He'd been a shitty husband, and he owned his part in the decline of their marriage, regretted it, amongst other things. But he loved her. It wasn't something you just switched off because things didn't work out.

Damn.

He took another sip of whiskey, the sloshing liquid the only sound as they both settled into silence, and Tom slouched further until his neck was cradled by the back of the chair. His eyes wandered aimlessly at the sky, the gentle friction of the breeze lulling in a way that morphed into the sound of waves. It was a beautiful night, mostly clear with wispy passing clouds, and though the stars paled compared to their sight from an open ocean, a very particular one still glistened. A ghost of all too familiar weight settled in his chest and Tom closed his eyes, accepting this was just one of those moments where he would miss her to the depths of his soul.

December 10th, 2013—USS Nathan James, 30 NM Offshore, Palm Coast, FL

"This is everything." Sasha produced a quarter stack thick of paper records she'd pulled on Michener, only a handful of them unique compared to the ones Tom had clearance to access or had decrypted from the White House archives.

There was a knock on Tom's cabin door. "Come in."

Master Chief Jeter tucked his head around the doorway. "Sorry to disturb you, Sir. But there's something you need to hear."

Tom fought the tick of frustration, by no means anyone's fault. Rather irritation seeping through his bones that this day wouldn't end, and he couldn't get a god-damn thing done before the next urgent priority wound up on his plate. He stood from where he'd been perched against his desk, meeting Sasha's gaze, which silently asked for direction and gave a small nod that yes, he expected her to follow.

XO Slattery was already waiting when the Master Chief, Captain, and Sasha arrived, and Sasha didn't miss the tick of his jaw muscle when his eyes caught hers before averting them stoically.

Lt. Granderson switched some buttons on a console, wasting little time in sharing what she'd discovered. "It's a looping message on a major FM frequency."

Tom folded his arms and narrowed his eyes, adjusting his stance on the balls of his feet while Alisha switched the speaker on. A woman's voice rang out.

'Attention citizens of America, this is a message for you from the underground: The US Naval Ship Nathan James has been traveling up and down the East Coast, claiming to have a cure for the Red Flu.'

There was a collective inhale of tension between the three officers, Russell Jeter pressing his fingers to his mouth in repose as they listened to the damning message. Tom felt rather than saw the way his XO turned a foreboding gaze that all but screamed his suspicions.

'No one knows exactly what they're giving people, but what we do know is they are responsible for executing Project Bluenose, the same mission that brought the bio-engineered virus to the states…'

Three sets of eyes snapped in Sasha's direction, her own surprise clear by the way her lips softly parted and brows lifted. Jeter dropped his hand, looking toward his Captain with unmasked concern.

"How the hell—" Mike started but Tom cut him off, his request quiet but stern.

"Can you trace the source?"

Alisha shook her head. "No, Sir. We're receiving the broadcast from multiple directions."

'Should you come in contact with this ship, stay away or fight them—what they're offering is not a cure, and it does not work. We're tired of being lied to.'

Tom could feel the heat coming from Mike in waves. The message stopped static ringing for a few seconds before looping over again. "Shut it down," Tom said.

"There's no way—"

Tom held up one palm to halt his XO, addressing Granderson calmly first. "Lt. You did a good job, go ahead and take a break."

"Aye, Sir." Alisha averted her gaze respectfully as she made a hasty retreat from the burgeoning tension in the communications room, and Mike had to fist his hands to stop his urge to slam them on the console.

Sasha was already lifting her chin, ready to face whatever wrath was coming her way, the XO nailing her with his accusatory gaze. "No doubt it's the Ramsey's."

"I'll bet," she replied easily. Too easy, and it did nothing but light more fire under his ass.

"And how is it they have access to top-secret mission briefs?"

Sasha narrowed her eyes a fraction, head moving, and arms folding in a smug manner that Mike only wanted to wipe off her admittedly attractive face. "I wouldn't know… but I'm sure you have some theories."

Tom was peering between them reticently, arms still crossed with palms resting on either bicep loosely. His expression was unreadable while he pondered how far he'd let this go. Couldn't deny the optics were poor, but it didn't fit her MO. Sasha was anything but sloppy, and for her to have a hand in something that could so obviously trace back didn't ring true. Not to him at least.

Mike scoffed in disbelief; the smirk bewildered rather than amused. "Come on—I can't be the only one not buying this."

Jeter quietly tipped his head, not ready to agree with the XO—yet—but failing to understand his Captain's position. His quiet but adamant defense of this woman with no elaboration for why he didn't deem it necessary to know the details.

"What exactly is it that you're accusing me of?" Sasha deadpanned.

Mike's features morphed again into perplexity, from where he stood that was painfully obvious. "Seriously? A Spook who knew about everything—Blue Nose, the scientists, the mission—gets pulled overnight from an op but not reassigned? You're telling me they went to the trouble of clearing you on all that just to stick you on desk duty? It doesn't add up—" Mike redirected his gaze toward both the Captain and Master Chief, gesturing vaguely in Sasha's direction as he made his next point, "—you do know she speaks Russian, right? How did Ruskov even get to Quincy's family?"

Sasha couldn't suppress her reaction to that, her brows rising at how ridiculous it was to imply she'd been playing both sides from the start simply because she spoke a particular language. "Congratulations—you read my file. Did you miss the part where I speak eleven others too? How do you know I wasn't selling the US out to the Chinese? Why stop at the Russians?"

Tom clamped his lips together. Because really, he shouldn't find her response amusing given the circumstance, but there was something surreal about hearing this unfold.

"Who knows? You heard the tapes. Everyone went rogue—every man for himself—Ramsey could have had a hand from the start, and we'd never know it. He didn't have the numbers to spread his message yet. But you don't seem to know anything about that, do you? You know everything else, but when it comes to him—suddenly there's no intel? Conveniently you're at that hotel?"

The hint of amusement quickly evaporated from Tom, and he felt something shift in Sasha, something she only did when someone had hit a nerve. He felt a knot of anxiety.

"And you still haven't told anyone what you've been doing for all these months. Won't answer a straight question—"

"You haven't asked me a question. Just informed me of my part in this elaborate conspiracy—"

"Why were you pulled from that op?" Mike demanded.

Tom unfolded his arms, alarmed at how rapidly this was descending, while the Master Chief stood rigid and silent as Sasha stepped forward.

"Like my file said—I failed pre-op."

Mike postured, countering with a drawn-out word, "Bullshit."

"That's enough," Tom commanded. Conduct from his XO aside, something had just gone very, very awry. The flush of Sasha's cheeks and the set of her jaw told him as much. He felt a surge of urgency, had begun to move to insert himself between them but he wasn't fast enough to beat her next response.

"I was pregnant," she hissed.

The abrupt end to Mike's dialogue, and entire argument that information brought settled like a lead balloon across the room. He felt himself shrink several inches. Further still under the blazing challenge her cold eyes threw at him. Fierce and quite captivating despite how much they unnerved him. "I was trying not to get myself or my unborn child killed. Is that good enough for you? Or do you need the morbid details too?"

Mike visibly swallowed, his entire demeanor standing down while Tom's stomach plummeted, nauseous that he'd all but allowed her to be backed into this corner.

Sasha could feel the tremor start in her hands and she clenched them. "We're done here." She refused to look at Tom as she pivoted and slipped past him—couldn't—not when she was this raw. The Master Chief politely created distance between himself and the hatch he'd earlier secured, allowing her free passage out of the room, and the sound of heavy metal upon metal almost perfectly resonated the casket closing on the grave Mike had just dug.

Tom was fuming, simmering, and searing. Blue ablaze with white-hot heat while he fought for the appropriate response. His XO pre-empted him, however. "I was out of line." Out of line was an understatement.

"That was unacceptable." The words were barked out, gruff, and barreling like a bullet in response and Tom shut down on the rest. Every fiber of his being itching to lash out but he was ever mindful that Jeter was still a passive observer to this entire exchange. Tom was done, he'd had his fill of improper conduct for the day. Let things spiral further beyond his control than he should. "Take a walk," he bit out instead, stance squared with hands clasped behind his back so tight his knuckle throbbed.

His XO gave an abrupt nod, rigid and formal, and moved toward the hatch, only halting upon hearing Tom's stern command ring true again.

"And Mike—" Tom looked over his shoulder, ensuring there could be no mistaking his conviction on this point, "—you will work on one hell of an apology."

"Understood, Sir." He gave another small nod, appropriately embarrassed by his own behavior without the added fury seeping insidiously from Tom's corner of the room.

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an. Oops, had a little mishap and posted an old draft, re-uploaded. Mostly similar but some nuances changed. Hopefully caught it soon enough that most hadn't read yet!