an. Can I just say, the timeline around the Cuban mission is so messed up!? Mostly, because it's daylight when they disembark, and that's mathematically impossible, but also because why was Tom on the plane in all blacks other than as a plot device lol? This is why I spend hours obsessing over details. Anyway, thanks again for your reviews and for sticking this marathon series out. We're off to Cuba!

Response for Luna: Just to clarify, Kara is the only one left who doesn't know what Sasha and Danny did in Panama (the first time). Mike figured it out in Chapter 16 but hasn't confronted Danny directly (though Danny figured out that Mike knows at the party when he saw how awkward he was being with Sasha). As for Kara... who knows if she'll ever figure it out! As of now, Sasha is taking the blame because she feels responsible for letting it happen and doesn't want his life to blow up.

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Wednesday, April 10th, 2019—Slattery Residence, Atlantic Beach, Florida

While Mike wasn't expecting a visitor this late, but couldn't call himself surprised to discover Tom standing outside his door. His friend's hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched. For an awkward moment, both men hovered, unsure, until Mike stepped aside, albeit with a clenched jaw, and Tom entered.

"Listen, I uh—I owe you an apology. I gave you my word I would never stop looking for your family, and I broke it." Tom let that statement hang there between them. Held Mike's reticent gaze, humble and sincere. "I have a lot of regrets. Made a lot of mistakes… but letting you down is one of my biggest ones. I'm sorry, Mike. I owed you more than that."

The sudden lump in Mike's throat was unexpected. Mostly believed he'd forgiven Tom. But hearing the words now affirmed the buried resentment and somehow set it free. Burned bright in his chest for several seconds before easing into acceptance. The tension in his jaw released a fraction, lips bunching into a gesture of acknowledgment.

"Appreciate you sayin' that." Spoken with a tight nod.

Tom returned the gesture, rocking on the balls of his feet a little, and let his eyes cast off to survey Mike's familiar living space. Cleared his throat before asking, "How's Eng?"

Andrea had declined visitors other than Mike since waking. Occasionally took calls and returned texts when she felt up to it but struggled intensely with reconciling feelings of weakness and pride. Parts of herself which wouldn't allow her friends to see her this way. Heard Mike inhale before answering. "It's slow, but she's making progress. Doc thinks she'll be using the walker soon."

Tom pulled a near-identical gesture of acknowledgment in response. "Told the kids to call you if anything happens while we're gone. Then figured maybe I should ask first—"

Mike brushed the comment aside. "You know I'd never leave them hanging just cause their Dad's a jerk."

Tom's eyes snapped up, relieved to find Mike's trademark mirth shining through, and the knot of unease loosened. Found a familiar rhythm again before something sincere broke through his friend's goading exterior.

"How's Sasha?"

Tom's brows rose a fraction, and he tipped his head. "Aside from dealing with me?"

Mike responded in kind. "That's a full-time job—one I do not envy." There was a knowing smirk on Tom's face when he ducked his chin. "Gotta say, I'm a little surprised you're letting her go…"

Tom's mandible clenched and bulged. "She made a compelling argument." Avoiding eye contact to look at the floor instead.

"Usually does. Should probably listen to her more often—she's worried about you… can't say I disagree."

Tom's deflection was easy and fast. "Thought you guys weren't talking."

"Working on it, life's short, and you know I'd never let a friend go on an op with bad blood."

Tom knew that to be true and felt it himself, unfortunate experiences and regrets that helped propel him to Mike's door this evening. Above all else, if things went south in Haiti, he needed to make peace. "What exactly she tell you?"

"Nothing. Didn't have to—wouldn't call either of you subtle when it comes to that." Mike walked over to his fridge and pulled out a beer, gesturing to offer Tom one.

He declined with a small head shake, wise enough to foresee chasing oblivion at the bottom of a glass if he started. The bitter ugly part of Tom wanted to rant, cast blame upon Sasha for spending two years courting death, pushing their luck, but the larger part knew it was wrong. Hypocritical, amongst other things. And his visit wasn't about that. Rather, a concerted effort to be less self-absorbed.

Mike knew he'd hit a spot, could see the thoughts bogging his friend's mind. Still, with hands in pockets, Tom straightened, angling his body toward the door. "I won't keep you. Told Sash I wouldn't be long." A lie—Sasha was sleeping and didn't know he was gone. Another detail that weighed heavy, exhausted enough to sleep through noise which usually woke her in seconds—because of him. He was sucking energy from her piece by little piece.

Mike inclined his head. Moving to follow Tom and walk him the few steps out. Tom was almost at his truck when he heard Mike call from the doorway.

"Tom?"

He looked up, seeing his friend's silhouette illuminated in the squared archway, though the contrast of light made his features indistinguishable, shrouded in shadow. Tom was silent as he waited, keys in hand.

"For what it's worth—I forgive you."

Tom cast his gaze toward a palm, inspecting the rigid, spiked foliage, and swallowed. Unable to accept forgiveness that felt undeserved, the awkward beat of silence indicating as much. "Have a good night, Mike."

Thursday, April 11th, 2019—Neptune Beach, Florida, Mission Countdown—T-Minus Twenty-Four Hours

She had a feeling. Something lingering in the pit of her gut. It was making her restless, though she'd die before sharing that minor detail with Tom. Suggested they take a walk to the beach instead, a little degenerate when she'd tucked a decent bottle of Bourbon into her tote. Earned a smirk when she'd produced it, and now they were sitting, two hours from midnight, listening to the waves under a blanket of stars.

The glass between her hands was solid and cool. The liquid in her stomach warm and soothing, like the man at her back. Despite everything, the world crawled to a stop whenever they took time to be Tom and Sasha. Sasha and Tom. Quiet and still and somehow eternal.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice reverberated at her back, through his chest, where she sat between his legs. The words mumbled into her crown.

"Your apartment."

Tom smiled a little. "The balcony?"

Could hear the nostalgia when she answered. 'Yeah.' Fingers tracing lazy circles on her forearm where it rested on his thigh.

"Did you ever think about us? After?" The question was quiet, didn't know why she was choosing now to address the curiosity. Not the first time she'd pondered it since colliding in Asia, rather the first time she'd felt secure enough to ask. Open enough. Vulnerable.

"Of course." There was disbelief along with reassurance when Tom spoke. But when Sasha didn't respond, he elaborated. "I told you I put Darien off for months when we met." Sasha gave a small hum of acknowledgment, remembering the little tidbit he'd shared when they'd embarked upon their 'fresh-start.' "But I didn't tell you she broke up with me after six months because I couldn't let go of you… I was fine with it. Figured I'd give dating a break, but she found out she was pregnant a month later."

Sasha stiffened, sitting up and turning slowly so she could face Tom. Her lips were parted softly in quiet shock. Every assumption she'd made about the origination of their marriage obliterated. "The one time we risked it, she ends up pregnant." It wasn't said with malice, nor regret. A bemusement fitting of the irony, instead. "I had to make a choice. I cared about her. Love came later—we worked hard at it, but it was different. Sensible—intentional." Tom paused for a beat, pondering his next thought. "I didn't marry Darien because I stopped loving you, or even got over you, Sash. I just accepted we wouldn't be together. It's a big difference."

She blinked. Quietly stunned while she processed. Her response was soft when it came. "I always thought—"

"I replaced you?" He prompted gently, finishing her statement while she seemed to struggle over the right words.

Her brows bounced upward in silent agreement, the intimate transparency hitting close. "Or hated me, for the way I left." Extremely honest in her admission.

Tom's brow furrowed a fraction, and he reached out, dragging his knuckles over her cheekbone in a tender caress. "I never hated you. Sure, I was angry—but all I wanted was to have you back, and if I couldn't have that—know you were happy, at least."

"Oh," she breathed.

His eyes softened, and a small grin tugged at his lip. "And yes, I thought about you. Every damn thing reminded me of you—still does. Why do you think I went blonde?"

She laughed then, thankful for humor because her eyes were glassy, and that niggling gut feeling intensified under the weight of his confession. The pad of his thumb was stroking now, while he gave that devastating look. Same one that ruined her heart for anyone else from the moment she'd received it. The one where Tom said she was his world.

He drew his hand back, leaning back on his elbow until he was slouched in the sand facing her. "You ever tell Chris about us?"

Her smile was wistful, and she moved to mirror his position until they were parallel. "In not so many words—you know I'm not big on details." A self-deprecating remark. Tom merely listened. Her eyes cast off a little until all he could see was thick eyelashes before she returned contact again. "I think he knew… and he accepted me anyway."

The tug at Tom's lip was sad, a touch nostalgic. "Darien was the same. She got the raw end of the deal, but I loved her the best way I could."

Sasha reached out to smooth the guilt at his brow, cupping his cheek. "I know you did, and from everything I've heard from the kids, you made her happy—that's what matters, right?"

Tom's eyes narrowed a fraction, and he took her wrist, bringing her palm away from his face to kiss the back of it before intertwining their fingers.

Friday, April 12th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida—T-Minus Eight Hours

"We'll drop in at twenty-two hundred, three miles southwest of the target. Gives us an hour for staging before we push north." Sasha circled an area on the map. "Armando says we'll find Rebel activity pretty quickly if we hone in on these areas."

Pablo nodded from his spot. All six members of Delta gathered for a final briefing. He leaned casually in his chair; knees splayed with a coffee flask in hand. Beside him, Danny surveyed the map, Wolf, Azima, and Miller following suit.

"Potential hostiles?" Wolf asked.

Sasha shook her head. "Cuban military's mostly focused on cities and chokepoints—long as we avoid them, we're good." She glanced briefly at her wristwatch. "Marines are already inbound from Texas, we'll meet them in Key West at eighteen-hundred, Admiral by twenty, and we're wheels up at twenty-one."

There were affirmative nods throughout the group. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah," Danny piped up. "This still a Navy op?" There was a smirk, and Wolf chuckled.

Sasha grinned and fought against rolling her eyes. He and Miller had thoroughly prepared for a dick measuring contest over the coming weeks. Thrown their fair share of jabs over the vid-con between Lima and Delta on Tuesday. "We'll be outnumbered, but I've been assured we have operational authority."

"Damn straight," Miller chimed.

It was good to be back, Sasha mused. "Meet at the airfield, we leave in forty-five."

The team filed out, heading to change into working gear, but Danny lingered, waiting until they were alone. Reticent, he regarded Sasha, battling with the morbidity of the agreement he intended to affirm. "Neither of us gets captured."

Sasha swallowed against the weight in her throat. Recalling the hours of soul searching which lead to that conversation. The one held in secret hours before pitching Reiss. Hoped to god they didn't find themselves needing to execute what they'd committed to each other, but all the same—she understood his need for confirmation.

"You have my word."

Danny nodded his head slowly. Intense as his eyes bore into hers. Damned if he'd let Tavo's men exploit him to hurt Kara or Frankie. Over his dead body—quite literally—and Sasha's sentiment was similar.

"And you have mine."

Naval Station Key West, Florida, Mission Countdown—T-Minus Three Hours, Thirty Minutes

Sasha was packing her ruck with gear when the second cargo plane landed from Mayport. Heart in her throat as Tom strode toward the hanger, duffel in hand with the pink-toned hues of sunset behind him. Personnel stood to attention while he passed, occasionally offered head nods in response while making his way to her. And Sasha felt her entire being respond with anticipation. Feeling profoundly grateful that her natural reaction was still unadulterated happiness in response to seeing Tom.

There was a knowing look upon his features when he arrived, setting his duffel in the space beside her ruck.

"You're going on a diplomatic meet in all-blacks?" Her tone was light and teasing.

Tom chewed on his smirk, attempting to suppress it. But Sasha's blatant appreciative gaze was having exactly the desired effect. "It's a FOB. Anything could happen."

"Uh-huh. Pack your Digis too?" Tom's side-eye answer enough. "Does the Captain know you're planning a visit?"

"Probably has my stateroom made up and waiting," Tom quipped back. Inclining his head a fraction in Miller's direction—a silent greeting.

"Well, that's one way to save fuel on the way back." She zipped a compartment, satisfied with its contents.

"Read my mind." He paused, watching the gleam in her eye steadily grow until it glowed, illuminating her features. After several moments where she merely looked at him, he finally caved. "What?"

She smiled wide. Teeth bared with dimpled cheeks, heat smoldering in her gaze. "Always did like the all-blacks best."

He couldn't help but engage, allowing the slow smirk to spread, and his head to list left. Wondering how she could be so radiant without any intention. Some women liked dinner and drinks, romantic gestures. Sasha on the other hand fell head-over-heels whenever he geared up. Sex and adrenaline. Hell of a drug.

A few feet away, at a different table, Pablo leaned over to Danny, speaking under his breath. "They always like that?"

Danny paused and stopped loading his vest to look. Followed his friend's gaze until locating the source a few tables over. Close enough to see, but not hear. He'd stopped finding that interesting years ago, had to remind himself it was Pablo's first time loading up with both. "Pretty much, you get used to it—why?"

Pablo shrugged, turning to grab another ruck. "Dunno." Wasn't sure how to explain to Danny the feeling of being an outsider. How it seemed magnified in moments like this. How it triggered thoughts and regrets. How he constantly wondered if they all knew how lucky they were. Inevitably drawn in the end to Maddie. How he might really like her but wasn't sure if he was just clinging. Latching on to the first good thing to cross his path, real or not. Real like what Danny and Kara had. Like the Admiral and Sasha. Nah. Couldn't let Danny know he'd gone soft. Sentimental, somehow.

Kara thought it funny, as she stood at the helm of the James, sailing into the dying light, how one could simultaneously dread leaving home, yet crave it all at once. The morning had been marred by Frankie's tears and her Mother's impending ones. Wasn't the first time she'd left, nor would it be the last—but Frankie was older now. Understood a lot more than she gave him credit for, and cruises since returning from Greece were undertaken during peace. It was different, Debbie insisted. Harder because they'd both be gone, and she'd seen what they tried to do to Sasha. 'What if they do the same with Danny? Or you?' Morbid scenarios Kara refused to talk or think about—Debbie's fear-mongering be damned. Still, it was remarkable how readily duty soothed their lingering melancholy goodbyes.

"On course, 2-1-0, making sixteen knots. Estimated time of arrival based on current speed, three hours and forty-five minutes," Meija said. Elbows rested on the navigational console as he hunched over a charter map at the starboard side of the bridge.

Kara nodded her acknowledgment and headed port-side to retrieve the internship comms; her XO crossing paths as she neared the handset. "Anything pop up in the shakedown?"

Carlton shook his head, thumbing the page on his clipboard. "Some trouble out of two gen but we'll have it online in the hour, and we haven't sprung any leaks, so that's a good thing."

Kara gave a soft chuckle, his dry humor welcome and frankly missed over the months, and picked up the phone. "Roger that—CIC, Bridge, Report your status."

"Sub-surface clear. All systems go."

"Surface clear. All systems go."

Heard the voice of Carl Nishioka ring proud in response. "Bridge, T.A.O. Testing is complete. All combat systems are up and ready to go. It's good to be back, Ma'am."

It was infectious—the energy, the sense of purpose, and Kara was sure her smile came through in her voice. "Glad to hear it. After three months dry dock, I think we set a record."

"Captain, Radio. All circuits up. HF Channel is encrypted and secure."

"Who else is on the line?"

"Patching through Command now."

Mike surveyed the war room, catching Meylan's eyes when he joined the tactical table. Retrieved the HF handset Ensign Swain hooked up previously and responded. "Nathan James, we hear you loud and clear. Much as I enjoyed Moby Dick, it's a pleasure to hear your voice. CNO, how's the Herc?"

Tom un-holstered the oversized radio from his belt, watching as Sasha paused and glanced up at the sound of Mike's voice. "Weapons supply is currently being loaded and on schedule. Hitting Cuban airspace in three hours, landing in Haiti in five. Sound about right Captain Green?"

"We'll be waiting. Have a safe flight, Admiral."

Sasha gave him a soft smile before refocusing on packing her chute. The rest of Delta was gathered in a circle doing the same. Marines hanging on pop-up cots pulling double-duty as seating. Tom leaned his back against some crates, folding arms across his chest. A silent witness while both teams bantered back-and-forth, suppressing his jealousy because he couldn't join. Strange how he always came back to this. The yearning desire to go out and fight, even though intellectually Tom realized he couldn't bear the cost anymore.

Apparently, deep enough in thought, that Captain Utt's approach went unnoticed until he registered boots. Tom straightened though left his arms crossed and peered at the younger man. Putting his height somewhere close to Mike's.

"Sir, I just wanted to thank you, for everything you've done."

Funny, Tom heard variations on that statement almost weekly since bringing the cure, yet to this day, didn't know how to respond. Stopped answering verbally years ago because things like, 'It was a joint effort,' or, 'Dr. Scott made the cure,' didn't encompass his failures. Like murdering Shaw. Abandoning his crew, only to find himself enveloped once more in a mission to save the world. But he hadn't been there, didn't sacrifice a year tracking those seeds. It wasn't his victory to claim. And so, he answered the only way he knew how. With a small nod and curling of lips in a thin line, wondering when the day would come, and he finally snapped.

"Wheels up in thirty, load up in ten!"

The mild chatter died down, heads turning toward Flight Lead while they all hung on cots. Iridescent hanger lights rendered the world beyond its cavernous doors indistinguishable save for the few blinking lights lighting their distant runway. There was a collective inhale before Delta moved. A non-verbal lull, the inevitable shift into focus, and Tom watched as Sasha stepped into her chute, shimmied the pack up before fastening. Fought the irrational urge to check it himself—seen her verify its working order a dozen times over the past hour. Stood abruptly instead and forced himself to retrieve his duffel, palms suddenly itching with anxiety.

He used Danny as a distraction when they'd congregated near the ramp, waiting to embark. "How long's it been since you jumped?"

Danny titled his head, his tone hesitant. "On purpose? I don't know, six or seven years."

Tom clapped him on the shoulder and gave a lopsided grin. "Like falling off a bike."

Sasha approached in his peripheral, still radiating that kind of buzz, one that only came before an op. Tom still remembered how much she'd loved Jump School. "Not gonna lie, I kinda wish you could come."

Tom couldn't resist looping an arm around her shoulders, drawing her until she was flush at his side. "Someone's gotta convince Jamaica to join the fight."

"Hmm." She glanced up at him, a little coy in her response. "I'm sure you'll be very convincing." Watching his cheek dimple as he smirked. When they reached the ramp, he reluctantly let go. Hand hovering at her back instead—a silent indication for her to embark first. Fist clenching against that tingling sensation around the leather handle of his bag.

He spent the entire fifty-minute flight into Cuban airspace sat opposite her, committing every minor detail to memory. Intentional in his efforts against the rampant thoughts. Kept his face neutral, though he could feel his elevated heart rate wild and unchecked in his throat. Fought the flinch when turbulence rocked the plane and some cargo bounced, sounding almost like a gunshot when metal hit metal. The sound immediately propelled visions of Martinez pulling that trigger, piercing his careful focus. Until he was staring at her forehead just to assure himself there was no bullet hole there. Relieved more than anything that she was zoned. Focused on the mission, and occasionally laughing over Miller's repeated faux pas with the Marine, Barco, to scrutinize his demeanor. Or maybe she was just so scared he'd fall apart if she returned the forlorn looks. Either way, as the hour drew closer, and the two-minute warning rang true, the vice in Tom's lungs wound tighter.

Barely managed 'Good luck' as the seconds went on, and so with it his internal counter. The one which realized somewhere on this flight that this was the longest she'd been home continuously—safe—with him in two years.

One hundred and fifteen days.

And then he watched as she jumped out of the plane, out of his sight, and away from his ability to protect her. Tom started a new count. One that lasted mere seconds before an explosion of fire and twisted shrapnel slammed him back into the belly of Liberty One. And then, there was nothing but darkness.