December 19th, 2018—Naval Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida

It was hours before Mike could break away, and now he sat. Listening to the steady beeps. The incessant drone of the ventilators and wires and machines that kept his girl breathing; but perhaps what most shocked was how fragile she looked. A word he'd never ascribe to Andrea. He sighed, caressing the skin between his palms. An hour could have passed, maybe two—couldn't say he was keeping track. All he knew was that the sun had slipped below the horizon. The orange-striped shadows cast through blinds against the bed had turned silver—moonlight—and he held vigil all the same. Through the indistinct murmur of the TV, and those machines, a soft knock on the door roused him from the trancelike state.

He cleared his throat. "Come in."

The rounded handle turned, and Sasha stepped through, Tom holding the door open before closing it behind them. She held up a large paper bag with an almost nervous smile; a gesture she hoped would be well received. She'd never been good at this; offering support and platitudes where none could exist. Sasha was a 'fix it' or 'bury it' person, being present in the face of suffering was something she worked hard to do.

"Figured you might be hungry?"

Mike nodded, mute from the lump in his throat.

Before re-arranging some furniture, Sasha gave him a gentle smile. Pulled over a chair and the small vinyl table to the foot of the bed while Tom set both his duffel and her backpack down.

He moved toward Andrea, resting a hand upon her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Eng." And for a moment Tom lingered there while Sasha unpacked the food.

"It's not much, and it's definitely cold."

"Better than the crap they serve here." Mike took the bag.

Her chuckle was tinged with a sadness that permeated the room. They sat in silence while he made quick work of the sandwich and Tom left Andrea to stand at Sasha's side.

"How's she doing?" Tom asked when Mike was done eating.

"They thought they saw activity yesterday—but it was just reflexes. No change."

"It's still early," Sasha offered, needing to say something for his sake. Knew positivity and hope was how he survived. So different from she and Tom; while they were corrupted and moved toward shadow in the face of pain, Mike chose light, and it never ceased to amaze her.

Mike looked up. "Yup—" he cleared his throat to free the tightness—"only been a week. Most go two to four before they start waking up."

Something about that made her heart clench. She shifted in her seat. Didn't know whether the Doctor's had told him that, or he'd spent hours researching everything he could, but something told her it was the latter.

"You guys get a hotel yet?"

Tom shook his head, arms folded against his chest, distracted by the small TV which hung on the wall. "No, we just left Command and had them drop us here. Gonna go figure that out now." He was still affixed to the screen.

"You're welcome to stay at my place—plenty of room. Less press too." In less than an hour following the President's address refuting Columbia's claims and condemning their theatrics, reporters had congregated outside base, and they were not above following personnel in search of answers.

Sasha looked to Tom, seeking his thoughts, but her stomach dropped when she registered it. Pain. Overwhelming and sharp marring his handsome profile. Eyes transfixed as a news station replayed that footage with the caption 'staged execution' scrolling underneath.

"If it's not too much trouble, I'd prefer it." She turned back to Mike. Even something as basic as access to a washing machine sounded appealing right now.

Mike glanced over, waiting for his input only to observe the same thing. "Of course. Room for the kids too if you wanna bring em' down for Christmas." Hopeful, if he were honest that the Chandler's would agree. He had gifts ready to go, had so been looking forward to seeing them in St. Louis as planned. Could do with the distraction, and not being alone.

"They'd love that, I know they were really excited about seeing you." Sasha had hoped the mission in Panama would be done by then so she could join them. Tell Tom she was resigning from fieldwork as his 'gift' and attend the annual ceremony as his wife instead of carefully avoiding him the entire night. All plans that had gone up in flames the second that Columbian airwing lit up the docks.

"Yeah," Tom acknowledged, still deep in distraction and consumed by the news.

"You can take my truck. I'm gonna spend the night here—just pick me up in the morning and grab me some fresh clothes?" Mike said.

"Of course," She answered. "Text Tom what you need and where I find it. My cell's still in Norfolk."

"Appreciate that."

"Please, it's the least we can do." She reached out and touched Mike's arm.

Mike's house wasn't far from base—about fifteen minutes South, and only blocks from the beach. He'd finally settled again, secured the deed, and paid the taxes off—a system used in lieu of mortgages. Some things would never go back to the pre-pandemic status quo and real estate was just one of them. With so many houses left vacant across the country, people mostly took their pick. Oliver had introduced a scaling tax system to claim ownership and it had stuck. His house was a classic mid-century ranch, sprawled out on a great plot of land full of dense palms on a quiet street. It was a little under three thousand square feet, four bedrooms and three baths, for 'family' to visit and room to foster—an idea he and Andrea agreed upon and hoped to pursue post-retirement. The house was clean, renovated within the last decade, with all the modern amenities like an open floor plan and quartz-countered kitchen.

Tom had mumbled something about taking a shower before disappearing into the guest room for most of the night—barely a word said to her since Reiss. Sasha felt like she was getting whiplash, the hot and cold treatment putting her well and truly on edge. Now she had time to think, barring preventing a full-blown panic attack, Tom hadn't touched her since the night she'd returned. She'd given him space after their issue at breakfast, bunked in her own cabin, and now she lay next to him in the bed. Hours had passed, both stiff and failing to find sleep in the tense stillness.

"Are we gonna talk about it?" she whispered into the darkness. This invisible line in the sand radiating between them pushed her to the point of crazy. Sasha ached to touch him, to be held by him—to feel safe in Tom's embrace as only he could—and yet she feared rejection. Ridiculous given the context.

"Sasha," he sighed, his tone imploring her to leave it alone. He didn't want to fight, not tonight. He was tired. So tired. Felt an ache down to his bones that he just couldn't shake.

"This isn't us," she pressed on. "You can barely look at me. You won't talk. You're angry with me—"

"I'm not angry with you." He was doing that thing with his voice, placating and she couldn't say she believed him, and perhaps that's why her next statement was louder than intended.

"Then tell me what's wrong so we can fix it!"

He jerked up, twisting toward her. "I let you die!"

Rigid, and slow, Sasha sat up. The ambient light peeking through the curtains just enough to make him out in the dark. Her heart thudded behind her ribs, stunned into silence because she couldn't remember the last time Tom outright shouted at her.

"I'm not angry—" his voice cracked over the next words. "You're the love of my life, Sasha—all I had to do was pick up the radio—"

"You made the right choice—" she interjected, the wrong thing for her to say.

"No, I made your choice, and now I know how it feels and I can't breathe." He was quiet again, but she could see his entire being humming with the effort it took to keep it in. "Don't ever force my hand like that again."

Her heart broke, like glass it shattered—his words resonating in every way. She'd asked something of him couldn't give. Not again. He'd turned away from Darien, his father was killed, his kids taken, and now her—all because of him. In the hellish hours that followed, the only thing he'd known was he couldn't live with it anymore. One death too many for his conscience to hold, and he'd been convinced of eating a sidearm—just a matter of timing.

"Tom, I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm so sorry... I was trying to protect you from—"

He did what she hadn't expected. Grabbed her. Silencing the conversation with a searing kiss. She softened, pliable to him as her hands traveled the familiar planes of his back, feeling the taut muscle that rippled and moved as he did. His fingers skirted the hem of the t-shirt she'd borrowed. The warmth of his body radiating across her skin. His lips moved, trailing reverent, feather-light kisses across her jaw and down the column of her still bruised neck, like the action alone could heal her and make it right. His tenderness drew moisture to her eyes.

Wide palms grasped at her thighs, pulling until she was straddling his lap and then skimmed up and under his shirt on her frame. It was the only garment she wore, and the groan Tom gave once he'd registered that, sent tantalizing sensation to her core. Sasha nuzzled his neck, tongue touching his pulse as it thrummed steady and strong. Those hands moved higher still until they cupped her breasts, teasing and sending more jolts. Her heart moved, thudded in tandem with his climbing higher. In his lap, she squirmed, seeking friction to ease the desire he'd stoked.

Sasha pulled away and removed the shirt, then tugged at his until he reciprocated. After flinging his without care, Tom moved until her back was pressed into the sheets. Replaced his hands with his mouth, tongue expertly teasing and tasting her silky skin. The scent of whatever soap she'd borrowed filled his nose. She gasped, eyes fluttering closed, anticipation hurtling as his fingers pressed a trail downward, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Tom skimmed them over her prominent hip bones, sensitive and ticklish, eliciting a squirm. Lower still, until his thumb brushed the bundle of nerves between her thighs in a way that sent tingles all the way to her chest. He spread the arousal, ignoring his own swelling need. A moan fell from her lips. Her hands moved until one was buried in short hair, deceptively soft. The other grasping at bicep, every incredible movement causing the tendons to flex and swell under her palm. Solid and strong.

He played her expertly, relished in every sound that she made. Every little hitch of her breath. Watched as he brought her closer and closer to release and then kept her there, just on the edge. His own desire pressed hard against her thigh, throbbed. The ache for more growing more unbearable by the second as he avoided sinking his fingers into that heat. He'd wait until she couldn't take it anymore. Until the pleasure bordered on pain for how good it felt. Making her lose control had always been his drug of choice. From the very first moment he'd seen it, he'd been intoxicated. Fascinated by the idea that someone so fiercely untamable could surrender to him. It soothed the baser part of his existence, the part that felt worthy every time he made her come.

The calloused thumb swirled. Her legs trembled. Body tensed. All sense lost while coiling tighter and tighter and tighter. Her skin became flushed and heated where it usually ran cold, and maybe this was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. He wanted this all night—no sleep. Tom backed off, pressure becoming the barest of touches, refusing to let her fall—not yet.

Her breaths were heavy and her voice low when she begged. "Please." The need for more becoming too great. Didn't care if it was fingers, or him—just more.

Then his hands were gone, and she let out a sound of frustration. Silenced moments later by his lips, and judging by the shuffling noises, his pants were finally off. Tom lifted her hips and moved a pillow under them. The spike of anticipation thrummed through her core in a fresh wash of arousal. She knew what this meant, and every time he did this, he took her to places she'd never been.

Not without him.

The familiar and comforting weight of his body on hers was perfectly right. Welcomed. She held her breath, hyper-aware when his swollen tip brushed moisture across sensitive nerves. Her blood rushed in her ears; a delicious spiral that couldn't be stopped.

"Tom."

A plea as much as a demand. One he ignored in favor of caressing that beautiful face while he leaned on an elbow. Their eyes locked and he let himself be seen—another unexpected thing that called to her heart. She'd almost lost this. And he silenced those thoughts, the ones he caught in her gaze by slowly pushing home, every nerve on fire as she took him deep in a single thrust.

The moaned exhale he gave when he was inside her danced down her spine. It was sacred, a gift that he only ever gave to her, and when Tom bottomed out, he touched her soul. Already she was soaring. He set a methodical pace. One that repeated that delicious pressure and hit every one of her points. Used his hands at her hips to guide every stroke as he made slow and exquisite love to her. When he did this, she could feel him in every cell of her body—everything soared and sang. Every thrust somehow satisfying yet intensifying the aching need for relief. It was torturously good. Incoherent noises were ripped from her throat; the only sound he ever wanted to hear, drawing his focus on giving her more. Taking her higher. Feeling those tremors work their way steadily through her pelvic floor until she was flooding with moisture, tensed all around him, nails biting his skin and falling apart without inhibition.

Watching her come so freely and beautifully overwhelmed; his climax followed with a force that left him on the verge of tears. It ripped from within, head buried against her neck while the silk of her hair tickled his face. Her hands clutched at his nape while he moaned his release, raspy and low, hips rutting hard in a primal way.

She whispered, "I love you."

Couldn't trust himself to speak without breaking. Instead, he rolled so his weight wouldn't crush her and lay entangled that way, buried deep in his home.

He needed her more than he thought possible, and it was a dangerous thing.

December 20th, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

Mike peered over his cup of coffee across the table at Sasha, who seemed to struggle with being awake. Not quite successfully, she stifled another yawn and pushed yet more files into the 'irrelevant' pile. She was hunting. Hunting for something she couldn't yet name, nor define, but knew once she found it, would make sense. Would lock into place and fulfill a piece of the puzzle she so diligently sought to complete.

"Late night?" he finally asked, casual while peering over the rim of the mug as he sipped. Judging by the concealed smirk, his suspicions were correct, and he made a mental note to buy new sheets once they were gone. Sometimes a washing machine just wasn't enough to expunge a visual he didn't want to have.

"You find anything?" An easy deflection while he sucked a breath in between teeth.

"Nothing." He sounded regretful.

Sasha had hoped Mike's former experience as a detective might show him something she'd missed. Never hurt to have a second pair of eyes, but alas, they were no closer to figuring out how Kelsi and Octavio met. Nor if they were linked to anyone else in the service. "Maybe we're going about this wrong way."

Mike had worked with her long enough to recognize that tone, and he squinted. "What do you have in mind?" Knowing it was probably out of left field, and almost guaranteed to be risky.

Sasha closed the Manila file and leaned back in her chair. "We bring Martinez here. Let Tavo know that we have him and wait until they flush themselves out."

"Use him as bait?" Mirroring her position as he thought it through. There's a reason they'd secured General Martinez in Key-West and not Command. They were operating on the assumption that Columbia had the entire layout. Common sense dictated it since they'd had an agent inside. Figured they knew every choke point, security protocol, and failsafe and it left them sitting ducks for another attack.

"Essentially," she confirmed with a small incline of her brows.

Mike facially shrugged. "It's not a half-bad idea—"

Yet Sasha could sense he was holding back. With a quirk of her head, she prompted him to elaborate. "But?"

He cracked an amused smirk. "I'll let you pitch that to CNO."

She shot back a droll look and rolled her eyes. "You're so kind."

Tom didn't have to listen to know he didn't like what he was about to hear. The way Sasha was staring at him was enough, so mostly he focused on replaying last nights' events. Right up to the part where he realized sitting behind his desk with a raging hard-on for her was exactly how he'd ended up in this predicament in the first place.

"You're not saying anything," she finally said, arms crossed, and one hip jutted out as she rested most of her weight on her good foot.

"Almost sounds like something I'd do."

Her surprise was evident, and the quirk of her lip was unsure. "That's very—progressive—of you." Pausing when she chose the word. A little suspicious that the man who in such stark contrast had shoved a knife into the hand of her captor seemed fine with keeping him this close. Or maybe she was looking at this the wrong way. 'One problem at a time,' she reminded herself.

Tom leaned back and blew the comment off with a tilt of his head. "It's a solid idea." All calm and collected and cool.

Her brows rose a fraction, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "So, you'll take it to POTUS?"

He nodded once, and she let her arms fall to her sides. Walked closer to the desk. There was a twinkle back in her eye when she replied. The one that came when she was fixated on something. "In that case, I need to make some calls—and buy some clothes. And we should probably look at getting a rental."

Wordlessly, Tom pulled open his drawer to hand her his cell and bank card. She pocketed them in the only pair of jeans she currently had. Aside from those, the two shirts which made it back from Panama were v-necks and with the kids due to arrive this evening—that wouldn't fly. There was one silver lining about everything that had transpired. One she'd overlooked until now.

Curiosity colored Tom's features when Sasha rounded his desk, and he swiveled his chair to face her. Struck when she bent down and captured his lips in a loving peck, thumb tracing his cheek and offering him a sweet smile.

"I'll see you at lunch."

She'd almost straightened when he grasped her wrist. His mind had caught up. Realized what she'd done and that they could finally stop hiding this. Tom drew her back, standing now, and kissed her again. More deeply than she had, open-mouthed with a hint of tongue but still restrained enough to be appropriate.

"I love you." Punctuating it with another kiss, this time on her forehead before letting her go.

"And I love you." Sasha chewed on her lip, spurred on by the warm sparkle in his eye she so cherished. Backing away, a little reluctant but still floating, she turned. Hand on his door handle. The smile upon her face was dazzling as it was radiant. "Bye."

She caught Russ's eye when she left, he nodded at her before returning to reviewing personnel plans, witness to their exchange through the un-frosted panes of glass. And though he remained silent, Russ was happy to see a reminder of why they all fought. For life, love, and liberty.