Just like that, they were moving again. How many days had it been since she'd slept now? Really slept? Her list of questions was as endless as the days seemed, and as surely as she didn't know where to start, she didn't know which of her needs to prioritize within the fifteen minutes. A shower sounded incredible, but there was no time to find fresh clothes. Her ankle throbbed incessantly, yet she didn't want to prolong obtaining those answers by missing the debrief in favor of visiting Rios. She was hungry—starving actually—but there was no time to request ship's cook to fix her something. Closer to midnight than not, and she hadn't meant to, but she faltered stepping over a knife's edge, the pain too harsh upon the attempt to support all her weight on the bum foot.

Tom, who'd been following and scrutinizing her gait in silence surged forward, hands steading at her waist when hers shot out to grasp a pipe on the wall.

"What's wrong? What is it?"

Damn it. The decision was about to be made for her. "Just a sprain, I'm okay—nothing Doc Rios can't fix with some ice and painkillers." She saw his skepticism, but she also saw a burst of something else she didn't like. Something that made her stomach drop because that was the look he threw whenever the dead were named.

Answers—she realized. That's what she wanted first.

Tom allowed a crewmember to pass—hesitated before she saw his Adam's apple work in his throat. His hands, which had still been lingering fell back. "We lost Rios and Granderson in the attack. He saved Andrea, but she's in a coma. The odds aren't good. Kinkaid is dead, and last I heard, DuFine pulled through but she'll be out of commission. Took a bullet to the head." The words were direct but delivered softly.

Sasha slumped, pressing her torso flush against the wall, glad when Tom moved closer so she was obscured from potential view and gave her time to process. Cast into the distance the resentment surged. Blinking and reeling, she rubbed a hand over her face. Sniffing where she could feel her nose preparing to run. Despondent when she established eye contact with him again. Everything she was suffering was echoed there.

"They have to have people on the inside, Tom—it's the only way—" but she stopped when his jaw clenched.

"Kelsi was in on it. You were right about her. You were always right." The bitterness was so representative of the frustrations she'd had in trying to get that girl fired that Sasha could only scoff. The idea that they could have prevented this akin to a punch.

"How?" Disdain dripped from the word.

"She was dating the communications specialist that opened fire in Command—same one who uploaded the virus—"

"So it's true? We were hacked?" Confirming part of the intel she'd gathered from both Pablo then Mexico after finally convincing the officers that—yes—they were legitimate, and—no—they were not working on behalf of the Columbian Empire. A standoff that had been every bit as intense as everything else she'd lived through over the past five days. It seemed Tavo had eyes everywhere.

Tom nodded once, fast and rigid. At once, the moisture threatening to fall was no longer of mourning but boiling, violent fury. She fucking knew it. Had been warning Reiss for months that there was no way Columbia knew so much about the operation in Panama without someone on the inside compromising their channels.

None.

"I told him—"

Tom cupped her cheek, "I know." Stilling her with nothing more than a touch. Calm and soothing in a way only he could pull off.

She puckered her lips tight. Swallowed. Five days' sleep deprivation and rage didn't mix well, not for her, and the type of outpouring she could feel wasn't something that would end in ten minutes.

After a moment where she shut it all down, Sasha redirected. "The kids?"

"In Charleston with Debbie and Frankie—they're fine." His thumb brushed, and then he trailed his knuckles across her skin once more before letting his hand fall.

"Good," she acknowledged, though her answer was flat. It was the only way to enact control. She established eye contact, his own expression so unaffected—and in such stark contrast to the man who mere minutes before had so desperately sobbed into her neck—it forced her to blink.

This was going to be a long night and the idea of that shower and sinking into a mattress faded from view. "I need coffee," she told him. Decision made to go straight to the debrief, and Tom didn't miss a beat. He extended his elbow for her to brace against and set a considerably slower pace. Chose to ignore the desire to carry her every time she winced at a knife's edge—but there was no protest when he pulled out a second chair and told her to elevate her foot after sagging into one of her own. Nor did she complain that she could 'do it herself' when said coffee found its way to the table, along with a banana—chosen after seeing the way she stared at the fruit bowl like she hadn't eaten in days.

"Thank you."

Mike entered at that moment, smiled tight and small in greeting. Danny and Pablo followed with the backpack containing the codebooks they'd stolen and the Columbian fleet's attack plan. Kara entered shortly after, along with the XO—ship now under the watch of the OOD. Tom loomed over the nautical map, studying it. Didn't need to read Spanish to figure it out. Tactics were tactics, and he'd spent half a lifetime as a student of those.

The meeting had been long, over an hour. The answers mostly accounted for on all sides. What happened in Panama. What the rebels were seeing from Tavo. How they'd mounted an escape and why they hadn't radioed. A decision, that after confirming how badly their channels were compromised, was proven correct. And when Sasha had been expunged of all the intel she could provide—blissfully—she'd been excused along with Danny and Pablo to go take care of those other needs while the rest stayed to work on a new strategy.

She'd visited Doc Rios' understudy, still green and flustered at being thrown into a position he wasn't ready for. Had taken those painkillers and dulled the sharp pain into more of a throb. Next, she'd tackled a shower. Stealing items and toiletries from Tom's duffel in the absence of clean clothes, and it was as she was brushing her teeth that he arrived. She hovered. Rendered mute by the magnitude of raw tension radiating from him and spat the rest of her toothpaste down the sink. The action of patting her mouth with the small towel—before returning it altogether too precisely to hang off its edge—an attempt to buy time. Now, in the absence of crisis, work, or taking care of herself, she didn't know what to do. Nor what to say because the way he was looking at her made her want to cry.

'Sorry' wasn't the word.

He felt like an exposed wound, raw and chaffed to where everything stung—the sheer beauty of her form, clad in his shirt. The softness he knew of her skin. The still damp tendrils of coffee-colored silk clung to her cheeks. And her eyes. Those eyes. His jaw tensed until his temples screamed in hope that he'd stop. The slow and steep decline of control now hurtling its path toward the edge of that cliff, and he didn't know whether to shout, cry, or pummel his fists at the wall until his knuckles broke. In the absence of revenge, he didn't know how to make this stop, and the agony for some kind of relief—reprieve, release—had him on his proverbial knees.

Never in her life had she so longed for a way to take back the past twenty-four hours. So, she did the only thing that made sense. Tom's body was too tense as she approached, pushing herself against the hard strength of his chest until her lips were close, so close. Minty cool breath flooding his senses with the smell of his soap and her. The thing he could only ever call Sasha. Nothing else quite like it on earth. It had tormented his dreams for months when she'd left. Or he'd left. The cycle they couldn't seem to break. Her fingers burned as much as they soothed. Broke as much as they healed. She trailed them across his face. His cheeks, his jaw where the hint of stubble roughened his skin. Friction against fingertips ridiculously loud in the room.

Then her lips were upon his. Soft, almost shy, or afraid, or something else—until finally, he could temper himself no-more. Tom clutched at her hair, more roughly than intended, drawing her head into a position that suited him best and crushed his mouth against hers in search of that blessed release. Sasha matched his passion stroke for stroke. Blindly, he lifted. Legs wrapping around his waist until she was pressed against the wall. A moan caught in her throat and his hands were everywhere, fingers assuring themselves of her worth. Every sound that fell breathless and muffled between their lips reaffirming her vitality, driving him further and further from proper thought.

They should stop.

They'd talked about this.

No more doing this in the middle of missions and certainly not on the ship.

They'd decided.

They'd agreed.

Somewhere in the aftermath of Greece and between him coming back, her deploying again, and trying to have them all at once. Something about professionalism, impartiality, and rules. Regulations and duty. Doing what's right. An attempt to stuff things back into Pandora's box about twenty years too late. And Sasha tried to pretend she didn't need this as much as he; but the fact remained as her fingers started franticly unbuttoning, and then pushing and pulling the clothing from his body, that she did. She needed this as much as the air they breathed.

She needed him.

As the last of their garments came off—the boxers she'd borrowed as shorts—his shirt that she wore—his boots, and his pants—so too left the last chance to stop. And then she was lifted against the wall again and he thrust into her as deep as was humanly possible. Seeking to be consumed by her as physically as he was emotionally, and the breathless "Don't hold back" was all the permission he needed to take that control. To find that relief. Chase the release of potent anger he couldn't yet seem to relieve.

And when he exploded, deep, deep into her body, not long after she all but sobbed his name as she came, it was like the first crack in that dam of turmoil. Enough to lower the pressure. Enough to keep from going insane and his kisses became gradual. More tender, until he was holding her in the bed. Safe. Secure. Accounted for.

The only things he'd ever needed her to be.

December 18th, 2018

Sasha's body felt heavy, every muscle wound tight and achy. She was alone, no idea how long she'd slept, but when her stomach growled it became apparent that the desire for food had prevailed. For a few moments, she surveyed the room. Noting Tom must have found clothes because some black pants and a gray V-neck were neatly folded on the desk. A glance at the clock confirmed there was still breakfast in the wardroom, so she got up and dressed.

What she hadn't expected was the way Tom paused—fork hovering somewhere between his mouth and the food when she appeared. Nor the expression, which had morphed from concern to darkness, and then anger, and then back to concern shortly before he let that fork clatter onto his plate. The sound was jarring as much as it was fitting.

Completely deadpan when he asked, "What happened?"

And she blinked, looking between him and Mike, who was also staring at her in a mixture of shock and distaste. Her entire expression became that of confusion.

"Your neck, Sasha." It was breathy and horrified.

Confusion morphed into dawning and then regret. Sasha found herself seeking a reflective surface. It couldn't be that bad, surely? But judging by the looks on both of their faces, it was. All the while, that barely tempered coil unleashed itself in Tom's gut, and he pushed himself up and away from the table. Looming now with a towering focus.

"I'm fine—"

"That's not fine," he bit back.

Sasha fought not to roll her eyes.

"What happened?" he repeated.

Gaze drifting to Mike, who seemed just as committed to receiving an answer, Sasha concluded defection wouldn't work. If she didn't explain, Tom would go to Danny, and then Pablo after that, until someone bent to his will.

"Right after the feed cut. I was trying to get away and..." her head tilted left. Eluding to the rest and regretful for the tight rasp become of her voice. Something she hadn't noticed until now.

"And you forgot to mention that part?" His tone was laced with murderous intent.

The look she gave was piercing. A warning. One Tom fully intended to ignore.

"It slipped my mind," she responded casually. Too casually and she watched as he seethed. "Tom," she cautioned, in a tone that implored him to focus on the facts. "Operators get hurt in the field all the time, it's the job—"

"You're not an operator, Sasha! You're my wife," he said tightly in that quiet way that was more damning than any amount of yelling could ever be. Her stance softened in response to being confronted with how much she was loved, and his gaze flickered once more to the hand marks around her neck.

If he didn't get the fuck out of there, he was going to break. Choke the life out of Martinez—an eye for an eye, or whichever notion suited him best—or beg her to understand what she meant to him.

In an instant, Tom turned on his heel and left. Mugs on the wall tinkled in the wake of his force and Sasha tucked her chin. Beside her, Mike quietly endured, and though he understood both sides, on this he agreed with Tom. Wouldn't call himself a Doctor but knew the latent effects of near strangulation could turn fatal with little warning—spent enough time in homicide to inform it. Professionally speaking Sasha was right, of course. She was still an operator, and these were the hazards they faced.

But they were also human beings, not machines—despite how she acted at times.

"Been a rough few days. I gotta tell you, from where we were standing—you were dead. And he had a pretty good idea of where you guys were. That's not a small choice to make. Wasn't so long ago that you were prepared to shoot your way off this ship to get to him," he pointed out gently.

Her head jerked upward. Mike was right. When Tom was bleeding out she'd made the choice that nothing would hold her back, and once again, she was fully reminded of why the frat rules existed. Nowhere in her wildest dreams had she pictured this scenario. When toeing the line became leaping clear across it—perplexing, in how it felt like just yesterday as much as a lifetime ago—the rules had seemed frivolous. Not when she'd been so sure they'd never meaningfully cross paths in the field. How utterly and completely naïve they had been.

"I never meant for any of this, Mike." Desperate to confide in what she had no business telling Tom—not in his current state. "I was done. I wanted out." She swallowed, and Mike's brows drew together. "I was gonna tell Reiss after this mission that he could have me at NORTHCOM or not at all—and now this..." Her eyes became sad. "And Andrea? Mike, I'm so sorry—I—"

He cleared his throat, curt when he cut her off. "She'll fight. She's a fighter."

Taking the hint, Sasha moved until she was within reach and squeezed his arm, and though clipped—Mike attempted a smile. Changing the subject, he gestured toward her neck. "Make sure you tell Doc about that. Side effects can creep up on you."

"I will."

"Good. Not all too interested in planning your funeral again." Coming from Mike, it should have been dry humor. It wasn't. It was stark, and it was profound and honest.

Sasha balked. Thrust into a reality where it sunk in that people cared. She'd often thought about what Tom would do if she died, how it would affect the kids, but not Mike. Not any of her friends and for that, she felt guilty. The self-reliance and individualism she'd so embodied for most of her life stood in stark contrast to the vast extended family she found herself in, and it was something she ought to consider more frequently.

"You hungry?"

And once again, she was reminded of what a good friend Mike could be. The smile came with east this time. "You have no idea."

It wasn't long before Danny, and Pablo found themselves there too, and it was Sasha's turn to be shocked. Gone was the wild man they'd picked up in the Jungle. Instead, there stood a well-groomed and presentable soldier befitting of the United States. She made a face and turned her head, mocking, but in good jest. "Where's Rambo?"

Danny had to bring up a hand fast to catch the drink he spit out because the timing of it was damn near biblical. She couldn't possibly know that he'd spent most of the night after falling into bunks telling Paul that 'Pablo' didn't fit. "Oh, I'm stealing that—that's it. That's your name man."

Pablo shook his head. "No way—"

Mike laughed, brash and loud. "Rambo—that's good—that's real good." He looked between them all while Sasha maintained an innocent half-grin.

"Sorry Rambo, three against one." She shrugged, and Pablo grumbled muttering something under his breath while he poured himself coffee.