an. I had no idea this would turn into the behemoth it's growing into; this is easily going to become the longest fic I've ever written. Also, in tweaking and uploading the other works to AO3 I noticed that somehow, I've churned out over 200,000 words in this "New China" verse across the different installments which is mildly insane to be honest. I'm a little surprised that I am still enjoying writing this fandom so much. Anyway, as always, thanks for taking the time to read and comment on my current obsession!

Warning: Dark thoughts, mental health triggers. Probably should just up the fic rating to a solid M at this point.

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"Tom?"

Sasha's voice rang out over the comms interrupting the conversation he'd been having with Meylan regarding strategy for repairs. Essentially, discussing the dire need to recruit more hands, potentially opening it up to civilian contractors where possible to push up their timelines.

Tom picked up the headset again. "I'm here."

"Are you seeing this?"

Tom watched as the body cam view became shaky, indicating she was taking the camera out of its clip before the image panned what looked to be the inside of a large barn—or even a makeshift warehouse. Tom squinted as she walked through multiple corridors constructed from Plywood, a strange sense of déjà vu settling as she moved.

"Where are you?"

"A barn half-a-mile down that road from the compound, found it on the way back—this doesn't seem familiar to you?"

Tom watched as she rounded a corner that led to a hexagonal two-story constructed room, and it dawned on him. He did know this place. A knock of finality hit him—like punching a badge into a coffin. "It's command." His tone was foreboding enough that it drew the attention of Reiss, Meylan, and Jeter at once and they all surrounded to get a good view.

Sasha walked closer to a console, pointing the camera at headshots of Reiss, Tom, Meylan, Jeter… then moved to blueprints marked with arrows and notations. Several locations circled, the Presidential bunker, Martinez's holding cell, Tom's office… she moved the map to the side, observing another—showing the tunnels they'd wrongly assumed no one knew about, paper marked with locations to rig explosives.

Cold danced down her spine. "They were gonna take you out and then finish us off."

Tom glanced left at Reiss, who appeared decidedly paler upon viewing the evidence of how thorough their enemy's objective and plan had been. Reiss could not ignore the unspoken heat from Chandler, the one which quietly gloated in being right not to delay Cooper's operation by picking through details. Right to trust that when Sasha said they needed to strike now—it meant they should have moved yesterday.

"At least we know what those explosives were for," she drawled regretfully, "you should have someone check the tunnel's—"

"Already on it," Tom interjected in a low gentle rasp, inclining his head quickly at Meylan—a silent command to head back and oversee it. "Head back with Kelsi, I'll send in the crews to bag the rest. POTUS wants her secured ASAP."

By the time they made it back to the hanger with their prisoner in tow, the adrenaline had mostly worn off, replaced instead with the fatigue of being nonstop for over twenty hours. Sasha couldn't wait to go home, take a hot shower, a couple painkillers for the whiplash sure to set in tomorrow, and curl up in bed next to Tom.

The van stopped, and the doors opened—several security guards ready to detain Kelsi. With their escort effectively complete, Sasha hopped out. Happy to be free of the crazed look she'd been subject to for the fifty-minute drive back to base, removed her helmet and set it on the awaiting ready tables before disarming and setting down her various weapons. Beside her, at their own tables, Green and Pablo mirrored her movements, content to go home and get some much-needed sleep while Miller and Burk handled the intel gathering crews.

Reiss looked on from the sidelines as Kelsi was pulled from the confines of the blacked-out vehicle, now bound by handcuffs chained to her waist as their maximum-security detail transferred her to the detention center on base. His eyes then traveled to Chandler, who was engaged in quiet conversation with Cooper. Watched as he tilted her jaw, and inspected the light road-rash marring her cheekbone and chin—from the airbag, Reiss assumed. Bold, yet another not-so-subtle 'fuck-you, I'll do what I want' in his direction, and in the face of those rules. Something Reiss now realized he was going to have to treat with begrudging acceptance.

It had all gone well, until the regretful instance where Tom noticed the bullet hole in Sasha's helmet. Quietly, he spent a full minute rooted to the spot, unable to see anything but Hector Martinez pulling a trigger and her body falling to the floor. Hear anything but the sound and her last words—something Sasha would have observed had Swain not chosen that moment to pull her on a discovery from the intel remotely uploaded by their crews. It would have helped to explain why Tom was so mute when they got home. Why he couldn't seem to wind down. Why he'd lain in bed, anxiety through the roof, heart racing as he held her sleeping form in a near death-grip until sunlight threatened the horizon.

"Tom?" Sasha whispered, groggy and bone-tired. The room was bathed in blue, early morning light bleeding through their blinds.

"It's okay, go back to sleep."

"No." It was soft but firm. "I gave you a month to do this your way, and it's not getting any better. You need to call Grantham."

Silence.

Deafening and resounding silence while he sat with his back turned, elbows on knees and head resting against closed fists on the edge of their bed.

"I'm not letting this go—"

"Sash."

She moved, sitting upright in the bed. "I don't understand, Tom. You're the one who found him, you've never been against it before so I don't see why this time it's different?"

"Because I don't know what happens to me if I unpack this right now!" he finally snapped. More fire than he'd intended, and while it should have upset her to be spoken to like that, Sasha was just glad to hammer a crack in the infuriating wall of calm, quiet deflection he'd so perfected. "We're at war, Sasha. We don't have time for me to sit around at the shrink while he tries to fix things that can't be undone!"

The sheets fell, her skin pricking with goosebumps at the sudden temperate change while she crawled over to kneel beside him. "What things?" she urged.

Collecting her stiff with rigor body from their Chopper. Sitting beside her corpse staring at the gaping hole—point blank—not a perfect circular mark from afar. Couldn't wake from his hell until eating the bullet in his sidearm.

Tom scrubbed his hands over his face before dropping them to hang helplessly between his knees, battling with how much to divulge to get her to drop it without doing the exact thing he didn't want—triggering her guilt.

"I saw your helmet, Sash." Voice quiet. Dark. Unease settling in the hollow pit of his gut. "And I can't figure out how I let the mother of my kids die, but I can't even cope with the thought of losing you—that's why we can't talk. Because you think this is your fault."

Sasha swallowed down on the sharp steady pain that had pierced through her heart, not that she'd show it. It was evident that was the last thing Tom needed right now. A myriad of responses danced through her mind, highly logical ones such as his renewed guilt potentially having stemmed not just from Panama, but that regretful comment Ashely made. Things she knew he had no interest in hearing.

Tom felt the mattress depress as she shifted closer still, bare knees making contact with his thigh. Felt it when her fingers ran through his hair, soft lips as they pressed and then rested against his temple, and he had to clench his jaw against the sting of moisture that surged seemingly from nowhere.

Warm breath tickled the skin of his ear. "Call him, Tom. Please."

The rabbit hole was more like a chasm where Tom lay stuck between a rock and a hard place, convinced that a shrink couldn't help with this particular dilemma. There was only one acceptable outcome that would set his mind at ease—and it couldn't be guaranteed. Safe. That's all he needed—needed her to be safe, and she wasn't. None of them were.

"I'll think about it."

Tom could hear her indecision. The hesitation around wanting to dig in and put up the kind of fight he knew she was capable of. The kind that would leave them at opposing ends of an impasse. He grasped Sasha's left wrist, pulling her arm across his chest until her hand rested close to his heart. Her other squeezed at the back of his neck and then his shoulder. Holding him from her position at his side, her uninjured cheek pressed against his temple. Tom warmed the goosebumps on the skin of her forearm, caressing up and down—he needed them to be okay.

"At least have him give you something to help you sleep," she compromised, heeding his involuntary request to keep the precarious peace. Despite everything, Sasha didn't think it wise to add a fight into the mix, however heartfelt her intentions. There were other factors at play and Sasha was scared a blowout between them would be the nail in a coffin she didn't want to hammer in.

Tom dropped a kiss to her arm, inhaling while gently disentangling himself. "You're cold, get back in bed." Effectively refusing to discuss the subject further. Sasha clenched her eyes while that all too familiar wash of helplessness engulfed her, worked hard against the knot beneath her sternum.

"You need to call him, Tom."

Thursday, January 31 st, 2019—Naval Brig/CCU, Naval Air Station Jacksonville

Tom listened as the buzzy monotonous alarm wailed, signifying his accompanied entrance into the detention wing which housed their prisoners. Those captured at the safe house, and now Hector Martinez too. With the General's usefulness effectively exhausted, Tom was all too happy to have him transferred out of command, putting distance between him and the intense desire that whispered at the back of his mind. Told him to end Hector Martinez' miserable life. There'd been many a thought about it—determined it wouldn't take much to convince Pablo to take five—figured Sasha laid down the law with Green to keep an eye out, but Pablo didn't know his tricks and was still thoroughly intimidated. If he'd committed to, Tom could buy himself just enough time to kill the camera and crush Hector's windpipe again—to completion.

They approached a thick metal door, a grate to pass food and a small observation window its only penetrable features, and Tom stepped through once the guard opened it, keys jangling at his belt as he swung its weight. She was sitting with knees drawn to her chest on the cot, Steri-Strips holding her brow together, albeit jaggedly. Mindlessly, Tom noted it would leave a decent scar which seemed to satisfy him more than it should. Tom gestured with his head to the guard that he'd be fine on his own, the same steely gaze settling itself back upon Kelsi as she peered at him with deranged eyes.

"I already told them I won't talk. You can't make me." It was defiant.

Tom didn't even blink. He only had one question—the rest she could take to her grave for all he cared. Had spent countless hours painstakingly going over this in his mind, deducing that the most likely leak had to be her. With narrowed eyes and a cool stare, he deposed her. "I only want one thing."

Kelsi looked him up and down cautiously with those feverish eyes. He seemed disinterested, but there was a torrid intensity emanating from him which piqued her intrigue, and she bit. "What?"

He did blink then, slow and unyielding while he loomed towering in the dimly illuminated corner. "How did you know?" The depraved curve of her lip caused Tom's gut to fall in something akin to a g-force.

"The flowers—in her office. 'Happy Anniversary'."

Only his three decades spent controlling and suppressing his reactions stopped the way that statement hit from showing on his face. Instead, Tom merely inhaled, slow, and unfolded his arms. Cool and controlled when he knocked once to signify the guard. Clung to it, until he was out of sight, pacing in obsessive, erratic lines in an empty restroom before hunching over and scrubbing hands through his hair. There was that bile again. Nausea, dizzying in its intensity—enough that he all but ripped into a stall. He bent at the waist while he covered his face with his palms and willed his breathing to slow. The ferocity of his tremor alarming even him.

He'd almost killed her with fucking flowers.

Saturday, February 2nd, 2019—Naval Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida

Mike walked through the halls he knew as well as their home at this point, the same ones he'd been coming to for over a month now. Tucked under his left arm was a potted Hyacinth, powder blue—Andrea's favorite. Figured it might be good to brighten the place up, add to the various cards, bouquets, and mementos the crew had left in her long-term recovery room.

She was up when he walked in, propped against pillows and bed angled into a seated position. Greeted him with no more vigor than any other day and he tempered his disappointment, settling on smiling brightly at her instead.

"Morning, I bought you something," he held up the flower, heading over to place it on the small yellow-toned wooden table beside her.

"I'm sorry, Mike."

He almost dropped the pot but caught himself at the last second, raising his expression to look at hers. Those big round eyes he loved so much were sad and glassy. More life than he'd seen from them in a month and the overwhelming relief surged so steadily through his heart, that all he could do was quickly set it down and grasp her hand tightly in response.

Andrea squeezed it back with as much strength as she could muster, not much, her lips pursing and brows furrowing deeply. There was a crack in her cloud, a crack which allowed her to emote something other than brokenness. Mike immediately cupped her cheek with his free hand, unable to hide the swell of emotion from filling his eyes and beamed at her and that was when she knew. He was her reason. Her reason to try.

"Everything's going to work out," he told her. "You and me. We'll figure this out."

Andrea nodded, blinking back against the tears pouring down her cheeks, and welcomed his arms as he shifted her over to sit next to her on the bed.

"I missed you." His voice was gruff and pitchy when he struggled it out. "I missed you so much."

Wednesday, February 6th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

"Hey."

Sasha let herself in and held up a brown to-go bag from the canteen. It was only then that Tom realized how hungry he was, felt the pull in his stomach as it reacted to the sight of food. He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair while she approached. She'd done something different with her hair today, and it bounced and flowed beautifully with the smallest of movements. It sparked a sentimentality to permeate his overburdened thoughts, reminded him that there were still in fact simple joys to be had. Joys like his wife bringing him lunch at his desk.

"This is a nice distraction," he mused while she shrugged out of her blazer, draping it on the back of a chair before sitting.

Sasha took the comment with grace while his gaze swept her. "Me or the food?"

"Yes."

There was a playfulness in that blue as Tom took the bag, divesting its contents in the same particular fashion he always did. Napkins first, followed by food, then any condiments or utensils before smoothing and folding the bag horizontally in half and setting it in the same very precise line as his lunch. A process that still bemused Sasha which hadn't changed one bit in twenty years.

"You left early this morning," she began, cautious as those eyes peered at her while he took his first bite. Double meat, extra mayo, no tomato, lettuce, a pinch of red onion, seasoning, and a dash of salt. "Figured you'd be hungry, you've been holed up all day." Playing it safe, benign, choosing instead to bask in this favorable mood over the sullen, withdrawn one that had plagued them since that night.

"Thank you," he mumbled mid-chew.

Her lips tugged up a little, and she gestured with her eyes to the reports spread open. "How are we looking?"

Tom finished his bite before answering. "Line is holding, though we'd be in a world of shit if you hadn't stolen those war plans." An admission punctuated with a foreboding tilt of his head.

Sasha's features pinched into an expression of pondering. After sifting through thousands of pages of intel, she was inclined to agree. "I can't reconcile a guy that used to work at Disneyland pulling this off—I thought Martinez was behind it, but—" there was no need to state the obvious.

Tom nodded. "It's too perfect—" he paused to chew some more "—half the time I feel like I'm reading the tactical theory of a genius."

Sasha narrowed her eyes then, a spark of connection forming in her mind. "There has to be someone else, someone we're missing. Columbia barely had a military left after the outbreak, most of the troops are new, as are the Generals."

"Maybe we're looking for a strategist—" Tom mumbled, feeling as if he were missing a connection he ought to make. Murky, something he knew somewhere deep in his subconscious, yet couldn't formulate the path to. Like a word, forgotten and stuck on the tip of his tongue.

Her lips drew down a fraction and she ran with that thought. "It's worth considering. I'll see what I can drum up—" already working on how to begin her search. Logic leading her to conclude creating a list of war strategists likely to sympathize with Tavo's perceived plight was as-good-a-place as any to start. Really shouldn't take long either, it's not like they were abundant. She'd been about to bring up the kids, but the light trilling of his desk phone killed that thought and she closed her mouth, dismissing the apologetic look shot her way while he picked up.

"This is CNO." Watched as he ground his jaw. "Yes, Sir." Tom set the receiver back in its holder. "Reiss," he elaborated. "You have less than five minutes before he comes in here," he grumbled. Working on devouring his sandwich with more efficiency and haste.

Sasha bounced her brows up—"That's my cue"—as she ran her hands down her thighs, smoothing the fabric of her slacks before standing. She paused after tugging on her Jacket, looking at Tom with genuine curiosity. "Did you say something to him? He's been very agreeable since the opp."

Tom smirked as he chewed, and Sasha quirked her head, a little bemused. He took his time dabbing at his mouth with a napkin before leaning back in his chair. "No—but I think your driving won him over."

She studied him, perplexed, and untucked the hair from her nape while he continued to smile in a smug sort of manner. Obviously missing something, Sasha shrugged it off. Happy instead that he was coming around from the absent depression he'd been in.