Thursday, January 3rd, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

Pablo sat with his feet propped up against the table which separated he and Martinez, chewing obnoxiously on the delicious smelling burger and fries before him. Hector stared ahead, an unpleasant expression as if he were smelling shit marring his features. Handsome save for the deep bruising of the broken nose he'd earned attempting to choke the life out of Sasha. It had been this way for days now. Hector was losing count, he'd been transferred somewhere—didn't know where because they'd covered him with a hood. No one asked questions, no one spoke, it was just him—the rebel they'd picked up in the jungle, and the American from Panama they called Green, and all they ever did was sit and stare.

Day in and day out, for twelve hours at a time. He was never alone, not even for his twice-daily restroom visit; one of his minders standing watch as he went. It was degrading. Maddening. Hector tensed his jaw, biting down on the irritation that surged as the Gringo slurped on a soda loudly. Felt his nostrils flare at the exaggerated noise of satisfied refreshment Pablo made. The smacking sound of his mouth. They were taunting him. Slowly trying to drive him insane with the silence.

Pablo set the soda down excessively, producing a loud tinny noise that seemed to zing in the uncomfortable room. He made eye contact with Martinez and smiled wide and fake before picking up the burger, chewing loudly with his mouth open on purpose. The rage he could see simmering in the depths of Martinez's dark eyes granted Pablo extreme satisfaction.

In a secure room, adjacent to the holding cell, they observed via video feed. Mike leaned closer to the screen, sneering somewhat as he spoke. "It's startin' to get to him."

Tom moved his torso forward, though he didn't leave his position, leaning half-assed against a control panel with his arms crossed. "What do you think? Three more days until he starts asking questions?" he asked, raising a brow, and looking to his left where Sasha sat.

She glanced at the screen; eyes narrowed with a small pout as she watched. "Sounds about right. We all know he loves to talk." Her tone was droll. It was true. At first, he'd talked non-stop, just not about anything useful. Just him attempting to ruffle feathers and goad Tom into proving his point that they were not so dissimilar in their desire for prosperity. As planned, POTUS issued a statement to the press confirming General Martinez's capture, leaking that he was being "held in Mayport", and now they were waiting.

Watching.

Sasha inhaled and shifted herself in the chair. The left half of her ass had gone to sleep thirty minutes ago, and the pins and needles had finally reached their peak. "You reviewed the footage from last night?" She asked Mike, who nodded without looking away from the feed.

"No one but Green and your boy Rambo."

Tom frowned in question and glanced toward Sasha then, a vague level of amusement creeping into his expression. "Rambo?" he prompted with a tilt of his head to the left.

Sasha shrugged a little in response, lips quirking down in feigned innocence. "It fits," she merely elaborated, before turning back to the feed. Heard him snort a laugh that tugged her lip into a small smile.

Tom rotated his wrist slightly where his arms remained crossed, and Sasha was about to ask how much time they had left, but a hesitant knock on the door interrupted that thought. A very nervous, star-struck looking Ensign stepped through, Sasha recognized him from the war room, though, she'd never directly interacted with him before.

"Uh, excuse me, sorry for the interruption," he started, addressing both Admirals before directing his gaze toward Sasha. "Mrs. Chandler, the Master Chief sent me to get you."

A shit-eating grin broke out across Mike's face, though with his back turned to the door, Ensign Swain couldn't see it. Tom's lips quirked, and he found himself sucking on his cheeks to stop the smile. Sasha attempted to suppress the blink of surprise and the brow lift, but, judging by the look of horror on Swain's face, she'd been unsuccessful.

"I'm sorry—I thought—" He immediately attempted to correct himself, and she felt bad, so she cut him off.

"It's fine, you can tell Master Chief I'll be there in five minutes," she answered, amusement clear in her tone.

Ensign Swain nodded hastily, "Yes Ma'am." He rustled the papers in his hands, another nervous gesture, "Sirs," he acknowledged before leaving.

The second the door clicked closed, Mike snorted. "Oh I missed working with you guys—never a dull moment." Tom tucked his chin to his chest and barely held onto his own laugh, but the humor was there for all to see.

Sasha stood peering between them, their shameless enjoyment leading her to assume she was missing an inside joke. Tom caught her eyes, full of that boyish charm she didn't see often enough, and couldn't help but give a reluctant smile. Her eyebrows rose. "You're ridiculous." Turned to Mike and affixed him with the same glare. "Both of you," before crossing her arms.

"Wheels up in forty, Mrs. Chandler—don't be late," Tom quipped with a tilt of his head; the grin still affixed to his lips.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this." Her sarcasm dripped from the words.

"You have no idea," he confirmed readily.

Sasha rolled her eyes, more so annoyed by how handsome he looked. "I'll meet you at the airstrip," she said, before following Swain.

Tom was in civilian clothing by the time she rolled up, his duffel in hand with a ball-cap and sunglasses hiding most of his face, save for that damn jawline. They were hitching a ride up to the base in Norfolk on a biweekly supply run, meeting Ashley and Sam there. They'd left yesterday to start the drive up, stopped overnight in Charleston before making the run up the rest of the coast. It was a relative miracle in itself that Tom was able to break away—it was one thing to be CNO, but he was running both branches as they held the line in Mexico. There wasn't a minute of his day that wasn't consumed with some kind of problem that everyone looked to him to solve.

Tom turned as she approached. "All good?"

Sasha nodded, taking the non-verbal invitation he gave by way of an outstretched arm and looped hers around his waist. They walked toward the plane while she remained tucked into his side under his shoulder. "Yeah, Swain cracked the code to those war plans we stole. Should have it decrypted and on your desk in seventy-two hours."

Tom didn't respond verbally, but she felt him nod. Guided her up the ramp with a hand in the small of her back until they settled on the bench next to some crates of cargo. Sasha studied him as he pushed his back against the hull of the plane. He hadn't taken off the sunglasses or the cap—usually a sign that he was lost somewhere in his head. Tom stretched his legs out before him, crossing one ankle over the other, and did the same with his arms. Listening absently to the final checklist of the pilots before the sound of whirring gears and hydraulics indicated the door was being closed. They started to taxi, and he let his head fall back, the jostling movement lulling and calling him into the sleep he needed to get. The sleep that, if he were honest, had been eluding him for months now.

A tentative pressure on his thigh caught his attention. Her hand and he rolled his head left to show he was listening.

"We're doing the right thing."

Tom's jaw moved the way it did when he didn't necessarily believe but had no other choice but to agree and accept. To admit that logically, whatever they were doing was for the greater good—whether he liked it or not.

When he didn't respond, she spoke again. "Tom, I need you to say it."

A flare of anger threatened to break through. That Sasha knew him so well he couldn't even hide in his own head without her knowing exactly what, and why. At least when it came to this. His kids. It tempered quickly. At the same time, it meant more to him than he could convey, and this was exactly why he was better when she was around.

"I don't like it."

The hand on his leg squeezed. "I don't like it either. But we'll figure this out, alright? It's just temporary. It's safer, he'll be happier… we're working fourteen, fifteen-hour days… that's not fair to him."

Tom dropped his chin, moving it back to center. Clenched his eyes closed, which she could see by the furrow of his brows. "I know." He didn't elaborate further, leaving the rest of his feelings unsaid. The guilt. Always guilt. Sasha reached out and palmed his jaw, stroking a thumb over his cheek right next to his ear, her fingers touching the hair at his nape.

"Don't play the blame game—not with this. Okay? I made a promise." It was firm, and he turned his head back. Could tell he was looking at her, even without being able to see his eyes. Under her thumb, she felt the muscle of his jaw flex before he turned back to stare at the opposite side of the hull. Not agreeing, but heard nonetheless.

It was a little surreal stepping back into their home after being gone for almost three months, especially amid such turmoil. It was just for a weekend to pack not only Sam's, but their essential belongings, and then they would all go their separate ways. The house was cold. Too cold. Sasha had almost forgotten what true winter was like. She shivered in place while waiting for the heat to kick on.

All was just as she remembered, his briefcase on their kitchen counter, her blanket on their sofa, the coffee table still a little askew where she knew he'd put his feet on it—despite her many protests. And Sasha felt an intense pang of longing for those plans she'd made. The ones to come home. Greater still when she reached their bedroom and noticed that he'd moved the picture of them from the living room to his nightstand. Sasha went to their closet, grabbing an oversized sweater to throw over her long-sleeve before moving to her side of the bed to retrieve her cell.

"Jesus," she muttered under her breath just as Tom walked into their room.

"What?"

Sasha looked up, caught off guard while the phone continued to vibrate in a near-constant manner. Catching up with all the alerts she'd missed. Voicemail box full, 173 missed calls, hundreds of text messages, all wanting the same thing.

"Press got hold of my number." Her answer was dismissal. An effort to portray that this new adjustment wasn't so disconcerting for someone who'd lived in shadow for so long. In truth, Sasha was still getting used to the double-takes and blatant stares. And still dealing with the intense preoccupation with uncovering her background. Apparently, there was even a conspiracy floating that she was a Russian spy sent to infiltrate the military by honey-trapping the Admiral—a theory that particularly rubbed Tom the wrong way. Danny hadn't been immune; they'd finally followed enough leads to uncover his marriage, though the coverage was far more favorable. Something about love in the darkest of hours between a hero and one of the vaccine-six… Another thing that lit a fire under Tom's ass. She'd find it funny if it didn't offend his values so much.

Noticing the stark change in Tom's demeanor, Sasha set her phone down. "It's fine. I'll just change it." Pushing herself up from the bed, Sasha offered a reassuring smile and placed both hands upon his chest. Tom settled his on her hips.

"We still have some time before the kids get here…" pushed herself onto tiptoes relieved to find some warmth creeping back into his eyes. Satisfied that her plan to distract would work, Sasha feathered her lips against his, running her hands across his shoulders and then to encircle his biceps, too big for her to span even half their circumference. "I'm cold. You should warm me up," she whispered.

Tom shifted his fingers under the hem of her sweaters until they touched the skin of her stomach. "Yeah?"

A smile broke out, one he felt against his lips as Sasha hovered there, their noses brushing. "Yeah," she breathed. "Mike's snoring didn't really do it for me." Tom gave a puff of laughter that caused the hair framing her face to fan out. He did not disagree, though he let his answer be a deepening of the barely-there kiss, backing them slowly toward their bed.

Sasha moved a hand to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. Made a small humming noise in the back of her throat before breaking away for a moment. "Maybe you can do that thing…" she murmured, heat pooling in her belly as he unzipped her pants and let his hand touch her there. His blood rushed when he heard her soft gasp next to his ear.

"What thing?" he mumbled, capturing her mouth again, hungrier still as he felt her arousal. They were at the bed when he let her lips go, looked down at her flushed cheeks and heavily lidded eyes. Ridiculously helpless against how much he loved her.

"With the pillow."

Tom smirked, knowing that got her off differently. Intensely. It always had. His answer was clear by the way he pushed her into their sheets.

After, they lay sated, and in Sasha's case, warm, intertwined in their bed. It was more comfortable than she remembered it being. Tom played absently with her hair, roughing the texture between the pad of his thumb and his forefinger while she lay with her head on his chest. Listening to his steady heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his breaths, hoping the urge to divulge would pass. It didn't. The compulsion was too strong to deny.

"Tom?" It was quiet, almost hesitant.

The fingers dropped her hair in favor of trailing through it by her temple. "Yeah, baby?"

Her heart fluttered as it always did when he called her that. Infrequently, but always eliciting something warm that felt like love. "I was done… I've had the paperwork to change my name sitting in my drawer for months now. I was gonna file it after Panama. No matter what happens, I need you to know that I chose you."

The soothing lull of his breathing stopped as the precedence of what she was saying sunk in. As he digested it. The scratchy, icy tendrils of fear erupted first in the pit of his stomach until they enveloped his sternum in an unrelenting grip, same way it had when Martinez first pulled that trigger. His synapses fired off warning, after warning, after warning in an attempt to elicit a flight response—to protect himself from the danger.

'No matter what happens.'

Tom moved slow, until he lay face to face with her, his hands clasping her head so she couldn't look away, even if she'd tried. "Losing you is not an option Sasha. I'm not doing that again." The implications were extremely clear.

Her expression became trepidatious. "Okay," she whispered. A cop-out she knew, but a wise one because she didn't want to fight. Not with him. Not anymore, and not over this. It was clear that some kind of line had been crossed in his mind and that thought terrified her. Tom when fixated was a force that couldn't be stopped. Not by her, not by anyone. Only he could make that choice, her burden was finding a way to lead him to it. Mission always came first; she knew that and this was far larger than them. But it was clear they weren't on the same one anymore. Sasha needed to get him back.

Sunday, January 6th, 2019—Naval Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida

Andrea was groggy, disoriented still from the effects of her injuries and subsequent coma, but coming around better every day. The ache of laying for such an extended period was maddening and dulled little by the morphine drip. Her muscles were weak, too weak. Couldn't walk, Doctor's said it would take her months to re-learn. Her dexterity was compromised. Even the simple act of using a spoon to eat the jello and soup—the only things she could stomach, was as arduous as scaling a mountain. She was angry. Tired. Resentful. Her memory full of the bullets that had ripped straight through Rios. Of her red handprint against Mike's face. A deep vitriol that screamed from within; have I not sacrificed enough? Losing a husband, a daughter. Had she not paid the price? She stared as if into space. Lost somewhere in a world that was dark, cold, and bereft.

It had been the same for days, ever since she awoke. Mike came every day—talked to her, read pages from the book she'd been consuming before the attack, held her hand. Told her he loved her, and he wasn't going anywhere, that she'd be okay, and all she could do was lay in broken silence. There was a shrink. They came every day too; when he wasn't there. Attempted to get her to talk, prescribed meds, yet still, she remained catatonic.

"Any change?"

Mike scrubbed a hand down his face and leaned against the wall. Straightened and feigned composure as an errant nurse shuffled down the hall. When she was gone, he slumped again. "Nothing, I don't even know if she can hear me."

Tom sighed a regretful breath. "She can hear you. Just needs time."

Mike wanted to scoff, but something in Tom's tone stopped him. "You say that like it's a fact." Mike felt the hesitation before his next response, listened in the beat of silence for an explanation.

"There was a breakdown... varying degrees for about a month, but at its worst? She spent days doing nothing stuck in bed. Couldn't eat, couldn't move, couldn't speak…"

Mike sobered then. "I had no idea."

"No one does, and I need you to keep it that way. I'm only telling you so you know I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. She can hear you, she needs you—she just can't function right now."

"Even with Christine it didn't get this bad, she still talked. Never seen anything like this Tom."

"I get it—you feel helpless."

Mike bared his teeth as he cleared his throat, attempted to clear his mind. Get his pity party over and done with so he could go back to supporting Andrea as best he could. "Listen, I'm um, I'm gonna head back in—appreciate the call." Voice gruff in that way that let Tom know he was done.

"Anytime, Mike. You know that."