an. Sorry this chapter took so long, I ended up re-writing it a few times because it wasn't cooperating. Also, to guest Luna, you're so welcome! I too have a major soft spot for protective Tom :).

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It took a moment to discern what plucked her from the deep, sated sleep. Vison bleary and mind languorous. Gently, she felt Tom disentangle their limbs. Lift her weight from his body where she'd been draped to shift her to their mattress instead and then he rolled to his right.

The phone, she realized. It was ringing.

"CNO." He sounded as tired as she felt. "I'm on my way, give me an hour, call me if anything changes."

That happy, sated feeling vanished. Replaced instead with brittle lead as Sasha watched him set the phone down. He angled his body back to her, but before having the chance to elaborate, her own chimed, verifying what she already knew. Something was wrong with Cobra Team. Sasha answered in the same manner to the simple, concise message. The team was pinned. She felt movement beside her, Tom's weight as he left the bed and went to their bathroom.

Her mouth was dry, and when Tom turned on a light, she squinted. Scrubbed hands over her face and exhaled.

Damnit.

Her head throbbed, dehydrated from the champagne she'd been drinking all night—definitely not out of her system yet—could still feel its swirling effects as she stood gingerly with stiff thighs, tight calves, and aching feet thanks to her heels. None of which was helped by the enthusiastic pounding she'd taken only an hour before. Things always got intense when liquid courage—or near-death experiences—were involved. Likely the reason her sciatic chose that moment to burn a fiery path down her right leg and lower back, eliciting a wince.

Haphazardly, Sasha stepped over her shoes and then dress, and then his shoes—all strewn throughout the room. Definitely in need of a shower to sober her up, wake her up, and remove the smell of sex from her body. She heard water trickling down onto tile, and before she joined Tom under the spray, retrieved her toothbrush—almost laughing when she squeezed in and noticed he'd done the same thing. For all their differences, some of their tendencies were unerringly similar.

His lip tugged into a grin when he noticed it too, and he moved, pressing himself against the wall to make room for her. When the cool tiled surface caught his bare skin, he stiffened reflexively. That was one thing, amongst others, that Tom missed about their house in Norfolk. This shower was not meant for two. She was watching him with that look on her face, one of mild scrutiny, and he knew what her question would be before it came.

"Did you get any sleep?"

The lie rolled easily off his tongue—removed his toothbrush momentarily to say it. "Yeah."

Unfocused, bleary eyes squinted back at him—like she wasn't buying any of it. Probably because she wasn't. But in truth, he'd been thinking about Mike's family. Christine, the girls… Lucas. He'd known them all too, and he'd just given up hope. Given up looking. There was a great deal of shame in that hard truth. Tom wanted to formulate an apology. Stared long and hard at the ceiling pursuant to his goal, while Sasha slept on his chest, her weight real and comforting. In reality, Tom was still uncomfortably aware that he'd come within an hour of losing not just Darien, but his children too. Mike's words had been percolating relentlessly and he didn't have answers.

Sasha spit the rest of her toothpaste out and placed her brush on the small cubby shelf. Waiting for Tom to do the same before she pulled him forward, mindful not to catch too much water on her hair. He complied, and she pressed herself against him, cupped the back of his neck, and captured his mouth while his hands found their spot at her waist.

After a few moments, she broke off, angling a peck at the corner of his lips, and then his cheek, lingering there. "You're a bad liar."

When he felt her pulling away, Tom tightened his hold. A hand trailing up to press between her shoulder blades, spanning the space between them. Sasha relaxed back into his embrace as he pressed his nose into her hair. "I'm fine, Sash."

This wasn't the time. It was never the goddamn time, and Sasha had to let it go. Biting down on the urge to ask if it was the same dream, or something else eating him tonight. Why he hadn't just taken the medication Grantham prescribed. It was almost as if he wanted to punish himself. Instead, she dropped another quick kiss against his shoulder and moved to wash.

Showered and now dressed, Sasha pulled her hair into a band, securing it up and away from her face while she walked toward the bedroom Ashley had claimed. The kids were still up when they'd stumbled through the front door closer to o-two hundred. Sam and Justin engaged in a racing game, and Ashley content to watch and entertain herself on her phone. They'd put in a brief appearance before bidding them a hasty goodnight, retreating to the sanctuary of their bedroom. Something Sasha felt a pang of creeping guilt about. They'd been in town since last Saturday, and so far, only managed one dinner together as a family. Work commitments as ever taking precedence, a fact that seemed to perturb Ash more than Sam.

With a soft pull, Sasha opened the door, peering around it, intending to check whether she was asleep yet, only to find Justin in the bed with her. Both teenagers paused, a look of horror covering not two, but three faces in tandem. Clothes were still on, thankfully—but that didn't mean they weren't breaking Tom's house rules. Severely. And should Tom find out Justin wasn't sleeping in the other guest room as instructed, the blowout was guaranteed to reach epic proportions. Tom, who was making his way down the hall toward her.

Shit.

Sasha turned, pulling the door closed with a sharp urgency. Her hand still gripped the handle while she pressed her back to it. Working hard to stifle the shock, projecting casual calm, and hoping against hope that Tom wouldn't sense panic. "She's asleep. We should just send a text. They'll see it when they get up."

Tom's eyes swept her features and stance, narrowing a fraction. "You okay?"

Damn it.

Sasha dropped her hand from the handle with measured precision, though the skin under her palm felt burned, and her heart rate was jumping in her throat. Hard enough for Tom to see should he happen to look. More smoothly than she felt able to pull off, Sasha grinned. "Yeah—though I'm not sure I should drive…" to her relief, the attempt at humor worked, and he gave her a lopsided smirk.

"You need food, or can you wait until we get there?"

She looped her arm around his waist, steering him toward the stairs. "I can wait. But some coffee would go a long way." In the pocket of her slacks, her phone was already vibrating with a text.

Runaway Bay, Jamaica

Burk felt another bead of sweat drip down his brow, trailing a path close enough to his eye that the skin itched with urgency. Impatiently, for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes, he swiped a forearm across his face. Catching the salty moisture in the sleeve of his all-blacks before readjusting his grip on his weapon. They kept watch in relative silence. Miller's delirious cooing toward that stupid mouse, Rhubarb, and accompanying bullets in the distance, the only sound penetrating the tense, heavy air.

"Gunfire's getting closer. They must have broken through the line in Grand Bahia," Wolf said, turning away from the window to address the room.

Pablo grimaced. His body rested against several stacked barrels of rum. In any other scenario, he'd have been overjoyed to find a stash this good. Even contemplated how he might bring some back for Danny to try, though he was yet to find a workable solution. "Gustavo's men will be all over us in no time," he warned.

Burk chimed in. "Helo's left Haiti at o-three-thirty. We just gotta hold the line until the cavalry arrives. Should be hearing from them soon."

Wolf sniffed, turning back to peer through the tainted and frosted glass. Choosing not to air his sinking suspicion that they wouldn't be so lucky.

Saturday, March 16th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida—0430 Hours

"What happened?" Tom wasted no time upon Ensign Clayton Swain's entrance into the conference room.

"Sir, the team requested extract from the Marines in Haiti. We just received word that Scorpion 1-2 went down over enemy territory, and we've lost contact with 1-6. Team lead made the call to return to base, the situation on the ground is too hot. They're attempting extract again at o-nine-thirty, three clicks south of Alpha."

"And the package?" Sasha urged.

Ensign swain looked down, his thick black lashes framing regretful eyes. "Package is not secure, Ma'am. Gustavo's forces stormed before the team could intercept."

Sasha's jaw tensed. Lips pressing together as her head shook in gentle, brief movements. Damn it. She was so tired of losing. Already putting the likelihood of getting another shot at Montano somewhere between impossible and zero. Just like that, against her better judgment, those age-old thoughts came into play. Ones that told her the outcome may be different were she there. If she hadn't been benched from leading the team that so rarely failed when she was on it. Perhaps it was ego or just control—it certainly wasn't a lack of faith in her counterparts—but she couldn't deny her unorthodox approach delivered results. The same approach which drove Tom insane because he knew she took risks that bordered self-destructive at times. Played bad odds just like him, yet always won. Not before shaving years off his life, though.

Tom glanced at his watch. "Five hours"—dropping his arm again with a foreboding look—"if our birds went down, that means the Jamaican's line is gone."

Sasha glanced at him, hearing the unspoken. Cobra team was running on borrowed time, and that second extract wasn't going to happen. "I'll see if I can locate some local assets." Redirected back toward Ensign Swain, "Do we know where they are?"

"Yes, Ma'am. They're holding six mikes east of the compound in a cellar."

"Get me the communication logs."

"Aye." Ensign Swain nodded, tight and curt at both the Admiral and Cooper.

Tom sighed as soon as he'd left the room, the layers of fatigue and stress pressing down on him so visibly at that moment, Sasha couldn't help the way her features knotted.

"We'll get our people." Her voice was soft and intimate, quiet in its reassurance.

He hovered mid slump, fisted hands almost resting upon the table where a map of Jamaica still lay sprawled from their earlier planning. Drawn by the simple resilience, he straightened again in a slow, controlled manner. A disorienting wash of déjà vu settled upon him. In a second he was transported back to CIC, stood leaning against a display board, listening as she told him the same thing. She'd been right then, and he could only hope she was right now.

Runaway Bay, Jamaica

Those gunshots and mortar blasts had been growing closer at a steady pace. Culminating into a pattern that almost sounded like a metallic rain. It had been hours. Hours spent manning their weak spots in that cellar. Staring at dirt-packed walls waiting for their time to run out, or salvation to arrive. It felt endless, it was maddening, and Carlton Burk was steadfast in his belief that Eric Miller was now in love with a mouse. "Man, you just keep that rodent away from me."

Miller scowled, his expression defensive, but his response was cut off by the radio crackling to life.

"Scorpion 1-3, Vulture Team. Come in."

Burk straightened up, slipping back into business to respond. "Vulture Team copies, over."

"Be advised, we're dropping CRRC nine clicks west of your whiskey, over."

Pablo strode over, producing the plastic folio-protected map and tracing his finger along that trajectory. Burk waited, and Pablo shook his head. "No go."

"Negative, Scorpion 1-3. Drop location is deep behind enemy lines, over."

"Roger, Vulture, but it's the best we can do. Airspace is a no-go; our birds won't make it past shore—orders came from command. Roger, out."

This just kept getting better. Burk suppressed the roll of his eyes, looking forlorn at the team. Wolf beat him to the punch in stating the obvious difficulty they had with that plan.

"That's in the opposite direction from the open beach, and it's too dangerous for us all to go."

Miller wet his lip before squaring his shoulders. There was that courage. The commitment. "I'll go. I'll get the CRRC to the beach and then come back here. Then we all go together."

"I'll go with you," Pablo piped up, straightening his stance from hunching over the map. Already plotting their best course out of the cellar undetected, and a route to the CRRC.

Burk held the newcomer's gaze, seeing his eagerness and conviction to prove himself. "Alright, you just make damn sure you come back. I ain't explaining that to Danny if you don't."

Pablo smirked, folding and tucking the map into the velcroed pocket of his vest with vigorous movements. "You haven't heard? I'm freaking Rambo." He gestured with both hands outstretched as if presenting himself.

Burk let out a stiff chuckle, one that kicked his head back a little while a lopsided grin adorned his face. "Then go get some."

Miller huffed out a breath, psyching himself up, and pulled his weapon tight to his chest. "Let's do this." Just before they both hit the stairs, after fist-bumping Wolf, Azima, and Burk, Miller turned to his friend. "You look after Rhubarb."

Burk twisted his features and clicked his tongue, "Nah man, I ain't looking after no damn rat!"

"He's not a rat—he's a warrior."

Before Burk could react, Miller was running up the stairs after Pablo. The weight of the metal door resounding like a bullet when it closed. His eyes trailed over to the small, white-furred creature, cursing himself, and his damn fool of a friend stupid because the next words that came out of his mouth were just that. "Guess it's just you and me now, Buddy."

USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

The sun had broken the horizon and with it the steady stream of personnel assigned to the weekend shift filed in. Danny had woken to a text from Sasha that unofficially speaking, something had happened, but she was working on a fix, and Kara had been watching him pace a hole in their living room ever since. MCPON and Vice CNO had been briefed, and now they each stood, tense and silent behind Ensign Swain, as he manned their comms, awaiting an update from the Marine relay station in Haiti.

Sasha had never missed their pre-attack comms more; had taken for granted things as simple as a real-time radio link. Ensign Swain perked up, placed a hand on the right ear of his headset, and pushed it closer, face contorted in concentration while he listened to the static-ridden update.

With bated breath, they each waited. Tom twirling the band on his finger with hollowed cheeks as he worked his jaw. Meylan with both arms folded tight across his chest. MCPON Russel Jeter stood reticent and believing as ever that their team would prevail with an earnest concentration upon his face. And Sasha with one arm folded and the other resting upon it at ninety degrees, her fist closed and pressing worried against her lips.

Swain shifted as if his entire body had inhaled. His back straightened. Without intention, Sasha felt her body do the same. The men surrounding her acting in kind. The Ensign's fist clenched, and her heart lurched. Tom dropped his hands just as Swain turned, pulling the headset down as not to rip the cord from the HF station.

"They made it!" His words came breathless and awed. Russel Jeter allowed a large, triumphant smile to adorn his cheeks. "They made it to extract Alpha and are headed to the base in Haiti as we speak."

The vice in Tom's chest loosened—enough for him to breathe again, and he did. One long, slow exhale with closed eyes while the relief soared. Sasha dropped both arms, her mouth parting as she too let out an exalted breath. Her chin tilted to the ceiling. Could still feel her acid reflex burning in her gut.

"Outstanding work, Son," Russ said to Swain.

Looking every bit as tired as he felt, Tom rasped his instruction. "Find me when they reach the base."

"Yes, Sir."

Tom angled his body toward Sasha. Tilting his head left to catch her attention, she peered back at him. "We need to figure out where they took Montano."

Hours later, after Cobra Team was safely en route back to the States, and with the knowledge they'd at least retrieved physical intel, Sasha met Ashley off base for lunch. An agreement made via text earlier that morning while Tom drove, oblivious to the pleading messages his daughter was sending begging Sasha not to tell.

Ashley was nervous, that much was clear, and Sasha was… tired. Barely cracked a polite smile to the young server who'd recognized her but thought better of admitting so. And now Sasha stared long and hard. Long enough that Ashley started to feel uncomfortable under the severity of her gaze. Felt the tips of her ears getting hot.

"I'm going to be frank with you," Sasha warned. "I'm tired of you making reckless decisions."

Ashley opened her mouth to argue, but Sasha cut her off with a quirk of her head. "It's one week, Ash. One week and you can't just follow the rules?" There was an air of exasperation rather than anger. Disappointment over reprimand. In a way, it was worse. "I don't get it. I know you're smarter than this. I helped you out, I got him to agree to let Justin stay here—I know it's not ideal or what you had in mind, but it's a compromise. I'm tired of you being selfish, and—"

"But—"

"I'm not finished—I'm tired of you putting me in a place where I have to lie to him, Ash." The latter part of her statement trailing off into an impassioned rasp.

With a sullen, reserved expression, Ashley pondered her words, wanting very much to form a response that would absolve any wrongdoing or responsibility, yet struggling to find an out. Certainly not one that would hold weight with Sasha. Suppressed the knee-jerk response that she'd always side with her Dad because even that wasn't true.

Sasha softened a little, allowing some of the tension to loosen its grip from her stance and features. "Listen. I'm sorry we've been so distracted. I really am—there's too much going on right now outside our control. I know you've heard that before and we sound like a broken—"

"I get it," Ashley interjected. And it was the truth. "I'm not mad at you guys." Sasha looked skeptical, her attempt at reassurance falling flat. "I swear."

"Then help me, help you. I don't want you and your Dad to start fighting again, no one wants that. You don't have to agree with every rule, but you do need to respect them while you're in our house. And I can't keep running interference on every front to make sure he doesn't blow—"

"I thought you said he was doing better than before Christmas." Ashley zeroed in on that comment, her brow furrowing with concern.

Sasha's eyes flickered closed, exhaling through her nose in a way that communicated her regret. That had been an unfiltered, unintended slip let loose thanks to going close to forty hours on less than two hours of sleep. She pinched the bridge of her nose, elbow coming to rest on the table.

Ashely leaned forward too. "Is this about Sam? Because he moved?"

Sasha shook her head, dropping the hand away from her face and resting it palm down against the cool surface. "No. It's—" she hesitated, weighing the available options. Did she go with complete honesty and trust that Ash was mature enough to step up, or did she err on the side of caution? Continue crafting ways to avoid direct conversation because she knew Tom would never admit to not being okay to his kids… and barely even to her. Ultimately, she decided there was little point in ignoring the elephant. That it might cause more damage, in the long run, to keep cultivating an environment that allowed him to suppress everything.

"What happened in Panama triggered him—"

"But he found you." Her features were twisted in confusion. There'd been no details, of course, only assumptions. Like always, Sasha and her Dad couldn't talk about what occurred on missions. In Ashley's mind, the only reason the feed cut was because Dad got there and saved her.

"No—he saw the same thing you did, and he didn't know I was okay until almost a day later."

Ash's eyes got round and sad. In a way that made her look so much younger than her years. Almost like the ten-year-old in that family photograph with Jed. The one Tom kept out in their living room. In a way, it made her feel guilty. Reminded her so glaringly that she had no idea what she was doing acting as a pseudo-mother figure. Whether she was making the right decisions or merely adding to the complexity of their family situation. Possibly making everything worse.

"Oh." Ashley didn't need to elaborate further than that. Her soft, quiet acknowledgment spoke volumes.

"I need your help—he won't ever admit it, but he needs his family to take care of him for a while."

Ashley nodded. "I don't know why he won't just say that. He told us when you weren't okay…"

The frustration melted, and Sasha's mouth curved in a sad but knowing way. "Because he thinks it's his job to protect everyone else." She took a sip of water, shifting the mood from somber, and allowing a little mirth to shine. Casually, as though discussing the weather, Sasha continued. "Oh—and I'm glad you guys are using condoms at least… but he needs to do a better job of not carrying them in his pocket."

Ashely became an intense shade of scarlet.

Sasha smirked. "I can guarantee you, if your Dad had found the one in the sofa—Justin would be on a plane back to St. Louis within the hour, and probably so scared he'd never speak to you again."

Completely mortified, Ashely mumbled the words out. "Are you gonna tell him that we're like… having sex?"

Sasha scoffed and snorted at the same time. "Absolutely not. I value his sanity—but I suggest you guys do an audit before we get home."

Ashley widened her eyes and used her own glass of water in effort to dispel her embarrassment.

"And don't forget the trash—everyone always forgets the trash," Sasha added.