an. Once again thanks for the review guys, also low-key joking but kind of not. Is TLS some kind of documentary for 2020 and 2021 that I don't know about!? Lol, I feel like we've just jumped to the middle of Season 3 in the US. What an insane time to be alive.

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Betrayal

Noun.

The action of betraying one's country, a group, or a person; treachery.

Tom felt like pinning it up on the fucking Plan of the Day for everyone to read, and maybe that's how his knife came to be buried in the hand of Martinez in a burst of rage. Helpless to stop himself after a ship they couldn't identify with limited systems had blown the nose of the James wide open.

And Mike, the good sport that he was, couldn't seem to recall how said knife found its way into the room. Much less into their prisoner's hand. Nor did he recollect seeing any such behavior from his CNO after they'd spent hours interrogating him about Cuba. As far as Mike knew, Martinez arrived that way. Mostly, he couldn't believe their prisoner was stupid enough to start talking about a dress, and how America really shouldn't send spies who are so memorable, and how it was 'such a delicate neck'. Really, the General was lucky to still be alive at all.

Sasha didn't see it that way. All she saw was full cowboy on steroids moving closer and closer to doing something else he was going to regret—and when that happened, she didn't think she'd get him back. Not this time. But then she had to remember; she too had been broken—pushed over the edge, changed. Warped by an insane world, endless war, and crushing pressure. Was it even right to expect any of them not to be different? To be irrevocably altered and some of that righteous nobility lost. More and more Sasha questioned if she'd fight so hard for this world if Tom wasn't in it. And the answer that four years ago would unequivocally have been 'yes', had now become, at best, 'I don't know' and at worst, 'probably not'.

Change was inevitable. And the only thing that rang true from the old world was a cautionary statement:

War is hell.

It had never stopped being true.

You only had to travel the mess deck, overflowed with the injured, and dead laid over the very tables upon which they ate to see it. Only had to watch as Miller held vigil with tears in his eyes, and a hand on the chest of yet another friend who'd perished. You only had to listen to the moans of the burned who suffered because there wasn't enough morphine to go around.

And so, when your reasons for fighting became less about hope, and more about justice for your friends, and your loved ones—it became easier to see how nobility died. How innocence became lost. Hell, it became downright jarring to think you'd ever been disillusioned as to believe humans would stop falling prey to the same things. To believe history didn't just repeat, time and time again.

Like this hadn't been the dance for countless millennia.

December 19th, 2018—Naval Station Key West, Florida

The James had limped into its dry dock in the early hours of dawn. Just shy of 0600. Master Chief arranged transport back to Mayport, which was scheduled to leave at 0900, and the first thing the disjointed members of Vulture Team wanted to do was check on Wolf. Azima slept in a chair beside his bed, their hands conjoined, and her head laid on his forearm. Sasha smiled at the sight. Had always suspected their feelings ran deep, but they kept it professional on missions. Mostly stuck to flirting at functions, and never outright confirmed, or labeled it. Maybe that would change now, after all, tomorrow wasn't guaranteed.

"How's he doing?" she whispered when Azima stirred, bleary eyes peering up at the sound of the door.

"It was touch and go, but he will pull through. The Doctor's saved his leg, but it will take months of training to regain his strength."

Danny stepped closer, touching Wolf's shoulder—beyond thankful not to have lost another friend, and they sat with Azima for an hour or so before they needed to leave.

Between status reports, and a railing from the President by way of secure landline, somehow Tom had found ten minutes for himself to place a call. He and Sasha were engaged in a careful dance, which mostly avoided being alone together for the sake of his sanity. Ironic; since he'd spent the past two months willing to give anything to be by her side. But right now? He didn't think he could look at her without feeling like he'd die. There was a rabbit hole, and he was sitting at the bottom, trying to climb out, but it was hard. So hard.

"Daddy?"

A wash of peace settled over him and for a few precious moments, Tom relished in hearing his daughter's voice. "It's me, Ash. We just got back, I'm in Florida." His peace vanished when he registered the crying. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Dread was not an adequate description, the similarity of this call to another impossible to ignore.

"They—" she hiccupped "—killed Sasha."

The extreme onslaught of anxiety eased, replaced by understanding and then sorrow. In the rollercoaster, it slipped his mind that everyone saw that broadcast. It was addressed to America as a whole, not just him. "It's okay, sweetheart. She's alive, and she's okay. She's here with—"

The sobs stuttered. "What? How? Dad there was a video. They shot her! We all saw it…"

Tom loathed that his kids had been through this. Again. And he wasn't there for them. Again. "I know, baby. We'll explain as much as we can when we get home, but I can't talk about it over the phone, alright?" He was patient and gentle, hoping she'd understand and accept it for what it was.

"Is she there, can I talk to her?" The tears were slowing.

"I'll have her call you. She just went to check on someone, but she'll be back soon. Is everything else okay? Where's your brother?"

"We're fine, Dad. But we really thought she was dead"—the sobs started in earnest once more—"I was so worried about you and Sam hasn't stopped cry—"

"Shhh, it's okay. Everything's gonna be fine—put him on." He heard footfalls, a door opening, and then another and then a yell. 'Sam! It's Dad—he says Sasha is alive! Come here.' Tom closed his eyes, heart pulled by the sounds of home.

USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida—1400 Hours

It had started with the security guard. The one who'd made little effort to hide his shock when approached. Flanked by both Chandler and Slattery still in blue digi's, come straight from the ship, to their transport and now here.

Back to command.

And never in her life had Sasha Cooper rendered the energetic buzz of a war room silent just by being alive. Russ' jaw went slack. Body paused mid-reach for a Manila folder. Meylan's eyebrows rose clean to the top of his head. An Ensign she'd never met before, Swain, who looked barely more than a kid, failed to hide the 'whoa'. But it made sense that all eyes were on her. The CNO's wife—big news to most on its own—who'd just been executed by the Gran Columbian Empire. Bigger news still. They'd probably talk about it for months. And somewhere from above, up on the walkway—the President stopped. Did a double-take over the absolute stillness and silence before spotting the source, and his nostrils flared. "You two. My office. Now." His voice cracked like a whip and everyone ducked their heads and got back to work. The business of pretending not to notice as their CNO and Cooper stalked to the bunker above.

Before them, Reiss sat. Stewing and chomping at the bit. Sasha, straight as a rod—a sinking suspicion that finally, finally, it had come back to bite her in the ass, and Tom, stoic, defiant, and brooding in his seat.

"While I'm glad to see you alive, you have left one hell of a shit-show in your wake." Reiss wasted no time and got down to business. "Clearly the statement I was about to issue has changed." He paused and let his droll tone lapse into complete authority. "I wanna know about that operation in Panama, and I want the truth."

Sasha breathed, ignoring the gushing rhythmic pumping sound where it rang in her ears. Accepted that 'the truth' could be hidden no more. The urge to turn to Tom surprised her with its strength but she refused. Facing Reiss instead and lifting her chin. "It's true, and I did it. I tortured them." The confession was quiet and more breathless than desired.

If possible, Reiss' posture wound tighter. "Who?"

Struggling to remain detached, Sasha drew her lips into a thin line before forcing the answer. "The rebels at the main camp." Could see his frustration over her vague, half-answers. Hear it in his voice when he pressed again.

"Tortured how?"

Beside her, Tom simmered, his fist clenching against his desire to step in. Sasha cleared her throat. "I cut off their hands and feet because that's what they did to people in the villages, Sir. To children."

Tom could hear how it hurt.

Reiss gave a long, slow head shake as he digested it, and Sasha stared at a spot beyond his shoulder. The only way to maintain control. She heard the shuffle of clothing as Tom shifted to lean back, his elbows perching against the armrests while he began to spin his wedding band. Watching. Waiting.

"And the rest of the team?" Reiss asked.

"I acted alone without sanction. They don't know."

The President's next response was blunt and vaguely confused her. "And what do you suggest that I do with you?"

Her focus moved to contact his. "Sir?"

"A third of this country still thinks we created the virus! Do you have any idea what kind of morale disaster it will be if this gets out? If I refute their claims and they come back with a picture?" To her credit, there was little external reaction to his sudden and drastic increase in volume, but inwardly, she'd cringed. He was right. "Way I see it; I have no choice but to court-martial you. Get out in front of it—"

And that marked the extent of Tom's rope. He chimed in, effortlessly cool as he lifted his head to stare at Reiss. "Then you need to court-martial me too." A gauntlet toss if she'd ever seen one but directed toward the President of the United States. Not Peng, nor Tavo, or any of the other enemies they'd faced. The man they ultimately answered to. Was he insane?

"Have you lost your mind?" Reiss was incredulous.

Yes.

Yes, he had. Four years ago, now and he'd never been the same. "I knew—and I chose not to act on it." Tom's answer was casual as though he hadn't just irrevocably implicated himself in this mess.

Reiss was slack-jawed. Caught somewhere between a mixture of indignation, righteousness, and begrudged fascination that Chandler so readily stuck to his guns. Not an iota of self-preservation about it. With a scoff, Reiss bobbed his head, caught in a silent pissing contest with the Admiral. "Well I had my suspicions, but I can't say I thought you'd so willingly confess." A condescending retort laced with sarcasm.

Tom facially shrugged, his lips casting downward. "No point avoiding the inevitable." Shot back dry, the 'sir' notedly missing.

"You know—" Reiss squinted; scrutinizing the man whom he could never quite seem to control "—I can see why they follow you. I can." He leaned back in his chair. His elbows resting against the arms with fingers interlaced. "But what I can't figure out, is where the hell you get off thinking I won't do just that."

A spark of challenge lit in Tom's steely eyes, and he tilted his head with a flair that was intentionally arrogant. "You said it yourself; it would be a morale disaster."

Reiss leaned forward again, quick and intense, and fired back, "So I leave you out of it. Stick to her."

But it was apparent by the almost amused quirk of Tom's lip that he'd already thought this through. "And I'll issue a statement of culpability to the press and step down." Refusing to yield.

"Tom—" Sasha warned, voice low, but he only glanced at her with a quiet look to just trust that he knew what he was doing.

"It's your choice, Mr. President. You get to decide." Taunting him. "I'm just telling you what I will and won't do." With leisure, Tom moved until he stood, pushing the chair back into place while Reiss found himself rendered mute by this spectacular display of in-sub-ordinance. "And what I won't do—" Tom paused, all trace of that soft swagger gone "—is let you take out the only operator who saw this coming. The only one we can trust to figure out how deep this goes." Delivered with unmistakable conviction.

Sasha watched as Reiss stewed, discomfort clear—for where Reiss derived power through caustic displays, Tom took it in the quietest of ways—and whenever Tom committed, anyone else had always been hard-pressed to compete.

"If they had any evidence, they wouldn't have needed a confession. And if you hang her out to dry? The country will believe all of it. Assassinating Asturius too, along with whatever else they cook up." Tom tilted his head again. "And let's not talk about what a morale disaster it would be if people knew she gave you a chance to take them out, and you said no."

There it was, the final blow, the reminder that they all had blood on their hands.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, Sir. I stand by my record." Tom let it sit there. Tilted his head a fraction, drilled his point home with a simple provoking question. Quiet and damming when it came. "Can you say the same?"

Reiss balked. Bravado stripped as he sat in uncomfortable scrutiny under the unyielding gaze of his renegade CNO. And it was clear from his silence that Tom had made himself heard. Slowly Tom let his eyes flicker over the President's form, a non-verbal dressing down before he moved to Sasha.

She was trying to remember a time she'd ever been sat in a more awkward position when the heat of Tom's stare compelled her to look up. A barely perceptible head tilt in the door's direction prompted her to move. Mostly on autopilot. Walked through while Tom held it open, reeling over his display and how he'd dismissed them both from a meeting with their Commander-in-Chief with such blatant disregard. Already, as they stepped out onto the walkway, her expression was morphing. Freed from the stoicism and settled upon a mixture of disbelief and begrudged awe. Even now, twenty years later, he could still floor her with 'full cowboy'.

And then he was in front of her, and she was staring at him. Dumfounded with her mouth hanging loose. "What—"

"He's posturing." He didn't even let her start before he was brushing the interaction off as if it were nothing.

"Jesus, Tom—he's still the President!" It was impassioned but Sasha was mindful and kept her tone hushed.

His response was terse, the words pushed out between gritted teeth. "Then he should have acted like one when you spent a year telling him we were under attack."

Shaking her head, she looked away, composing herself before she turned back to him. "What is going on with you?" she implored quietly, brows betraying her concern. This wasn't like him. Yes, he'd always toed the line. Made decisions when he felt they were for the greater good—a choice they each had. But this was different. There was an edge. A recklessness she'd never felt seeping from his every pore.

"You, Sasha. You're what's wrong with me." Sasha jerked her head back over the bluntness of it. The unexpected stab it sent to her heart. "It wasn't enough to let you die?" he hissed. "Now I have to let you be court-martialed too?"

Winced at the tumultuous emotion displayed in his eyes. "Tom—"

"I wasn't interested before, I refused to let it happen now, and nothing you say will change my mind." Jaw set and tightly wound, like at any moment she could push one button and he'd explode. For several seconds Sasha just looked at him, eyes round and regretful, sad—reminded him so damn much of how she'd looked when he told her to get to Okinawa he had to blink. He softened. Right around the time he saw her lip twitch—the way it did when she was close to tears.

"It's not like I don't deserve it," she whispered, left eyebrow quirking—eyes wandering the hallway by way of distraction. Anything really that would stop the images of what she'd done burning her mind. A lone Ensign hesitating at the end of the corridor, unsure whether to walk past them. Jeter looking on with curiosity from below. Meylan, too. In fact, now that she paid attention, there were dozens of eyes on them conspicuously pretending not to look. Probably straining to overhear if she ventured a guess.

Sasha drew her arms around herself, crossing her elbows and clutching at the sides. Tucking her chin down, she worked hard to suppress it, but the way it sliced was so fresh in the wake of events that she found every tool failing her. And then she felt his touch upon her bicep, warm through the loose fabric of his button-down that she'd borrowed, rolled, and tucked into her jeans, directing her toward him. The hint of vulnerability enough for him to temper his frustration, for he could see exactly where this was about to go and Tom knew Sasha couldn't see it coming. If anything, she was an open book to him now, ever since she'd let him get behind those walls.

"Not here," he instructed softly, and she fell into step, his hand hovering in the small of her back as he walked them toward an adjacent room. With his free arm, he swung the door open and ushered her behind the privacy of frosted glass.

The door had barely clicked closed before she was pacing. Agitated and restless. Her back was turned, he couldn't see her face but she was chewing on her bottom lip. Powerless against the encompassing guilt which hadn't surged this potently in more than a year. She'd thought she was past this, and now she felt foolish for being naïve. For believing she even deserved to not feel this way after what she'd done. Her fingers worried across her forehead as if the action could wipe the memory away. The one who'd sobbed and begged for his life, called for his mother as he'd clutched at the stump of his arm. The moment the horror of what she was doing ripped her from blackout rage.

After watching her pace in circles, coiling tighter and tighter with every step, he spoke. Soft and gentle. "Talk to me."

She whirled around, features twisted with anguish and regret that made his heart clench. "How can you—" she broke off, shook her head, lost—eyes wandering while fighting to make sense. "Of all people you know what I did was wrong." Her voice was horribly strangled, pitchy, and tight.

It was and he'd never denied that. "You made a mistake," he countered gently. This was not the first time they'd had this debate, nor would it be the last—but it had been a while.

Sasha scoffed, her head jerking back like he'd slapped her. That was the understatement of the century. "A mistake," she repeated, words breathed and harsh. "Torture is a little more than a mistake, Tom."

Stepping away from the door, he came closer. The perfect picture of calm to her storm. "So everyone else gets a second chance but you?" Her bottom lip trembled, his hands achingly gentle as they cupped her face. "I get grace for Shaw, but you don't deserve any? Rachel, Michener, the immune leaders, Takehaya... all pardoned. All given a second chance..." Felt the way she shook under his fingertips.

"No—no that's not the same." Her lids shuttered. "That's not even close to what I did—he begged—" she couldn't finish the thought, but she didn't have to. Tom knew. Every sordid detail. And no amount of careful reminding that they weren't innocent men, and the world had been broken seemed to ease her self-loathing and guilt. He'd watched, and soothed, and stayed. Held steadfast for countless hours as she'd cried and made herself sick. Committed when she'd switched from avoiding to begging for court-martial. Stubbornly refused to yield and fought tooth and nail to bring her back instead. To save her. That wasn't about to change, not over this and not when he'd promised her.

An all too familiar tightness and knot of panic coiled in Sasha's chest.

"You're okay." Drawing her closer until she was tucked under his chin. One hand stayed cradling her face as the other rubbed soothing circles on her back.

"Tom, what if I did this?" she struggled out, finally shedding light on the fear she'd been burying. How many hours had she spent wondering if Tavo's hate for the north stemmed from her actions? If he was there? If he'd been with Vega before starting his own crusade. If what she'd done was the catalyst that led to thousands of deaths… Rios, Alisha. Mike's suffering over Andrea... there were no secrets in Panama.

"No. That's not what happened. You and I both know this is about power and nothing else, a narrative." But the beginnings of hyperventilated breaths told Tom Sasha was teetering perilously close to a panic attack. "Sash, just breathe. It's okay. You didn't do this—if anything you delayed the inevitable." Could feel her struggling, hear it too. Held her tighter when her weight sagged against the way her body wanted to seize. "I'm right here. I've got you—it'll pass."

Sasha nodded, jerky, and stiff—wasn't the first time he'd done this and surely wouldn't be the last. At the very least she was hearing him. They stayed that way for several minutes until the knot of panic started to ease. Tom drew back as she calmed, and sought her eyes. Round and childlike when he found them. "Everything will be okay, alright?"

That was the odd thing about it, Tom was the only person she'd ever believed when they said that and she'd never figured out why. And for all her independence and desire to fend for herself—sometimes it felt damn good to accept being human and flawed. To draw strength from someone else when you were burning a depleted wick.

'If you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, I'll be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you.'

That was the vow he'd given. The commitment he'd made, and it meant more to Sasha than 'for better or worse' ever could.