an. Guest review responses below.

Luna Totally would not ignore your amazing heartfelt reviews! I regularly come back to read them when I get analysis paralysis and start picking my stuff apart. Also totally enjoy chatting with you Ahhh the other story that's driving me nuts thinking about lol. I am actively thinking through the plot. I keep bouncing back and forth on certain things, but I think it's going to be a true AU, so all bets are off. Obviously, it's still going to be about a virus and have the characters, but the rest is open to change. Hopefully, I can pull it off, and I definitely need to wrap either El Norte or St. Augustine before I can do it cause I won't be able to balance three long ass fics like this without going insane. RE: "after the end of the world" right!? It was the first thing that super hooked me about Tom/Sasha over any other pairing. That whole concept was a great proposition, and the show was not romance-oriented, so I get why basically all the relationships got screwed up and left so much potential unrealized. Really, the whole human part was kind of untapped. I think that's what pushed me to need to write for it. Right now, I actually like 1997 and 2012! LOL, ask me again in three months and I'll hate them, but I'm glad you enjoy them. Also, I'm sooooo glad the hope came through because everyone needs some and I want everyone to find as much solace as they can. Hated how the end of S5 basically left them all miserable with no resolution or even progress toward it.

Guest There is light at the end of the tunnel! I'm glad you felt the scene with Mike, which I think is one of my favs that I have written so far in anything. Mike doesn't get deep often, but when he does, I think it's profound and really resonates because he has lost so much, and on the show, he seemed to deal best out of any of the 'main' characters which fascinated me. He never gave up, was always positive, but I do think he actively processed his grief vs. burying it (ala Nostos in S4) which made all the difference. Sasha most definitely wants to speak to Kara about her influence here, but as of yet, the opportunity has not presented itself… and you're correct, we're in the home stretch on this one I think about 30-40K more words and it's wrapped, roughly. But take that with a grain of salt! There's a lot of little threads to tie up and I'm going to need to do a read-through to make sure I've got them all.

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Real work begins between acceptance and action.

Tom knew this, had known, always did. Could even identify the point at which he'd procrastinated. Stalled, in part, by stubborn choice. It was that particular cycle Grantham honed intensely upon, and Tom didn't like a single second of it. The issues were complex, compounded over time, but the first thing he'd had to acknowledge was on some level, he didn't want to forgive himself. The difference was, for the first time since this hell started; he did. He wanted to feel that he'd done everything he could to save Darien, not just know it intellectually. To feel that predicting the future was impossible, and he'd obsessed upon fallacy; the notion that he possessed ubiquitous qualities to inform every decision he'd made.

He wanted to accept that his father's death wasn't his fault, that he hadn't killed Sasha with flowers… hadn't killed Sasha at all, because she was alive, but she was right. He didn't feel it. Couldn't. His brain was stuck living in the immediate seconds of Martinez' bullet. A single sound could trigger it, a word, a particular conversation, or a smell could leave him standing in CIC, believing he'd just witnessed her die. That was the PTSD, Grantham had said, the now complex one, and it had triggered an extreme regression on everything he'd compartmentalized but not processed. It warped his mind. Put him in a near-constant state of fight or flight. Supercharged overwhelming crests of guilt, fear, and aggression before cycling back into apathy. There were a lot of things that Tom Chandler knew but could not emotionally connect to, and he would never figure that out if he didn't try.

But that didn't mean he liked it. Loathed every minute of the fourteen hours thus far spent talking about everything that shamed him, but perhaps that was the purpose. If it felt uncomfortable and hurt, Tom figured that meant it was working.

Monday, May 6th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

The incessant rhythm of Sasha's knee had reached the point where Tom could no longer deny his irritation. "Whatever it is you need to say, just say it."

The knee stopped bouncing, and she dropped the act—her pen, too. "I'm worried about you being in this meeting."

Tom wondered in those seconds which part of the human condition made it so difficult to receive a statement he'd made a dozen times in the past. Hadn't figured out aided by Grantham yet why he could not accept that Sasha should equally worry about him. Not when he'd defined his purpose as providing and caring for others. Always. Long before the Red-Flu ravaged his path. Couldn't decide if he was a byproduct of society, a traditional upbringing with a father who rarely expressed his emotions, or perhaps both.

He sighed. "I'm scheduled with the Doc right after." Her surprise was at least subtle. A mere ripple of something passed across her features before settling. "But now I have a question," he countered.

"Okay?" It was a little drawn out. Hesitant.

"He held a gun to your head and pulled the trigger three times, Sasha. And then he almost choked you to death." Blunt. To the point, though in a way she seemed glad they'd moved past his inability to string those words together. To voice them at all. "That doesn't bother you, you don't think about that?"

Briefly, she examined it. "Not the way you do, no." Gentle, not dismissive.

"Well, I don't understand that." His response was flat.

Almost as fast, Tom recognized Sasha had never struggled with processing physical acts committed against her, only the emotional ones. Didn't know why he'd assume with Martinez she'd be different. Even at Dam Neck, after Meeks and Turner were washed and dishonorably discharged, she'd quickly moved on. But he hadn't. He'd never forgotten their names. Names that still possessed an ability to ignite that particular violence beneath his mantle.

"You got blown out of a plane, pulled a piece of shrapnel out of your chest, and then cauterized it by burning your own flesh," she countered. "Do you think about that?" She'd quirked her brow in a way that screamed 'checkmate'.

He inhaled. "No."

"Well I do. I've never been afraid of what could happen to me—I'm afraid of being the only one that's left—and you're exactly the same."

Had him by the balls on this one. His silence confirmed it, and he was projecting. That became obvious.

"What bothers me—is the kid that got shot for trying to help us exfil from Panama. Marco." Her gaze flitted across the marble table, lingering on the conference phone at its center. "I manipulate people into doing what I want and sometimes it gets them killed. I get to pick who becomes my collateral, and every time, I'm exploiting whatever it is they love enough to do anything for." She dragged her gaze back, pinning him, and he couldn't have looked away if he'd tried. "That's been my job for a long time—long before we crossed paths again."

It was like a vortex; the world felt as though it narrowed, air thick on the back of the hollow quality encapsulating her being.

Mike chose that moment to enter the conference room, wearing a more than distasteful expression. "Can't believe we're actually doing this." He sunk into a chair opposite them.

With a sigh, Sasha picked up the pen again. "Montano's adamant that he's flipped."

"Why?" Tom rasped.

"He told him about some kid that Gustavo executed, apparently he meant something to Martinez. And he verified that those pictures I showed him were real."

"You believe him?" Skepticism dripped from Mike's tone.

Sasha shrugged. "Whether it's true or not, I think Montano knows exactly what to say to control him. And Hector seems to believe it."

Ignoring the twinge over Sasha opting to use his first name was more difficult than reasonable. Tom actively had to suppress the desire to close his grip and then embark on a useless tirade of questioning why she'd said Hector and not Martinez versus asking himself why that bothered him.

Martinez shuffled through the war room, hands and feet bound and restricted by shackles, his chains rattling with resounding metallic clangs. The hexagonal room filled by dozens of khaki-clad personnel had stilled, every face stern, the penetration of hatred prickling his skin like the lick of a fire. Flanked by four guards, he was delivered into a conference room, surrounded by glass on all sides and greeted by faces he recognized. Greeted, a misnomer. The only individual who didn't make clear their disdain was Dr. Montano.

If Mike had thought the ride back from Cuba was intense, sitting in a room comprised of senior leadership, The President, a Columbian defector, and the man whom he truly believed Tom was within a hairsbreadth of killing was worse to an unquantifiable degree. It was close to impossible to stop glancing between the two, Tom and Sasha, sat rigid in the furthest, most distant seats from Martinez. And while Meylan had assured Mike the ground rules had been outlined, he had no confidence that Martinez would obey. Just as there was no disillusion that Montano and now his General were about to play them like fiddles. Everyone present knew exactly how much leverage Montano had.

"Our team will insert you here." Joseph Meylan used a laser pen to point to the section of map displayed upon the board. "It's five miles from a known Columbian forward operating base." He moved the pointer to circle an area marked with an X. "Your story's simple. A Columbian sympathizer aided you in escaping the base while senior leadership was engaged in Cuba. The defector was caught and captured, but in the scuffle, you prevailed. From there, you made your way across country to the Texas-Mexican border where troop levels were reduced and progressed through Mexico, until you crossed the line into Columbian-occupied territory."

Meylan paused, lowering the laser, and squaring his stance. "You'll proceed to re-integrating with your military. We have assets in and around Columbia. Once you reach Rubi, we'll know, and our assets will establish contact with you, where we'll then begin to coordinate a coup."

Mike watched Tom flick his gaze toward Sasha, who was maintaining a perfect flat. No doubt silently making it a point to catch up on what asset they'd managed to sneak into Columbia. In two short weeks, the stack of sit-reps piled upon Tom's desk was high enough to require days of reading to catch up, and he'd been back in Command for exactly two point five hours. He seemed better than five days ago, though. At least by outward appearances, not that Mike was obtuse as to believe the plethora of issues Tom faced were anything more than being acknowledged at this stage.

"Are there any questions?" Meylan asked, not quite making contact with Martinez, but looking past his head instead.

Silence reigned; The General's expression mostly hidden by the thick wiry beard, but the smug air of confidence still shone from his eyes.

"There is only one problem," Martinez finally spoke. "Gustavo will expect intel."

Briefly, Sasha lowered her chin and inhaled before placing her palms on the table and pushing herself to stand. She retrieved the dossier before her, and walked with rigid posture to Martinez' location, dropping it before him. The paper smacked against the marble.

This time, Martinez smirked, peering up at her, and Mike's low-grade anxiety kicked into overdrive.

Refusing to engage, Sasha returned to her seat. Mike noted Reiss observing intently, his eyes tracking while he kept his chin steepled by his forefinger and thumb with an elbow perched on the surface. A position he'd seen Tom assume many, many times. Tom, who was now staring unblinking at Martinez.

Mike swallowed, and shifted in the seat, catching Russ's gaze for a second before returning to counting down the seconds until this meeting was finished.

"Salazar will be your greatest challenge. After your capture, he became his most trusted advisor," Montano spoke. Martinez finally switched his focus toward the defector. "The others will defer to him."

Hector nodded once.

Inhaling, Reiss straightened, clasping his hands together in front of him instead. "I don't think I need to reiterate to you that if our assets at any time question your loyalty, I have given them full authority to end you."

The blink Martinez gave was disaffected, slow and bored. "You do not need to threaten me anymore, Mr. President."

Mike squinted, sensing the shift in Hector's demeanor. A level of sincerity he'd until this date, not seen, nor believed the General possessed.

"I understand the position I am in, but you do not understand ours. We did not ever intend for our own countrymen to slaughter our brothers and sisters. American's… you are not joined by blood. That is something you will never understand. And something that Gustavo does not either."

Despite the visceral nature of Mike's disagreement with that vaguely insulting assessment, he kept his mouth shut. Then surveyed the room, seeing wisely that everyone was choosing to err on the side of de-escalation.

"Very well," Reiss said flatly. He then glanced to Meylan, and then Montano. "If there's nothing else?"

Montano shook his head once, and Meylan responded. "No, Sir. With your approval, we'll proceed with transferring Martinez to Guantanamo."

At least Reiss had the decency after backing them into this corner to let his hesitation linger, before clenching his teeth and then bobbing his head. "Get it done."

A half dozen chairs scraping filled the tense silence and Mike lingered, fixing Martinez with a stare that boarded a scowl while Meylan stepped out, instructing their guards to un-secure and transfer him. The smug was back, dripping from his every pore, and where Mike thought they may have been able to make it through this interaction without the slimy son of a bitch running his mouth, his hopes were dashed.

Casually, while being lifted from the chair, Martinez made a sound as though he'd forgotten something. It was enough to make the remaining occupants, Montano, Russ, Sasha, and Tom, pause in the varying stages of exiting.

"Where are my manners? Forgive me, I almost forgot to wish you a happy anniversary." He was smiling now, looking between them, and where Tom went rigid but remained stoic, Mike observed the lightning-fast way Sasha's expression faltered before she flattened it.

"Enough," Montano said, though the General remained defiant, only yielding when he was yanked and forced to turn his back and leave under escort.

Something dark began intensifying from Tom's corner of the room. A thing Mike had felt on the deck of the James, and again when Tom refused to yield his grip from Martinez' neck. As soon as the General was gone, and Montano accompanied by his own escort to the 'semi' office he'd been granted, Tom stalked out.

Clearly sensing Mike's concern, Sasha spoke up fast. "Let him go."

"The hell he's even talking about? You guys got married in November."

It looked as though she herself hadn't put it together until he clarified, and then slowly, after several drawn-out moments of contemplation, her expression fell. "The flowers," she muttered to herself.

His confusion only deepened. "You gonna clue me in? Cause I have no idea what just happened."

Finally, she lifted her gaze to meet his. "That's how they knew. April twenty-sixth he always gets me flowers. I left for Panama on the fourth. There was a note that said Happy Anniversary—Kelsi started right after that. She must have read it."

Quietly, Mike processed it, along with Tom's reaction, and then pinpointed the part that didn't match. "No way in hell he's not snapping over that right now."

She blinked and then swallowed. "He'd already figured it out and he didn't tell me."

"You sure I shouldn't go after him?"

"He's scheduled with Grantham."

The knot eased a fraction. "Thank god for the shrink. What about you? Are you okay?"

Sasha peered at the table and then blinked a few times before answering. "He must have gone to see Kelsi right after we captured her. I'd bet you a hundred bucks if I go check the visitor log, it's there."

Mike remained silent, though highly aware that she'd ignored completely his question, sensing perhaps that this was something she needed to say before trying to reconcile.

Slowly, Sasha shook her head. "I think he's just spent the last three months convinced that he almost killed me by giving me flowers."

It was not overtly emotional, in fact, Mike struggled to read Sasha's tone, and she seemed oddly calm.

While objectively, Mike and anyone who was well adjusted could easily pick it apart, the problem was Tom was not objective, or well adjusted within context, and knowing beyond any doubt that Tom took the most literal path on most everything, Mike was inclined to agree.

Oh Tommy.

The day had been packed, they always were, and she'd chosen the route of hoping and trusting that Grantham was the answer she couldn't provide. Battled with the desire to ask, and busied herself instead with creating contingencies and hunting for the leverage they needed on Montano. Same thing she'd been doing for the past two weeks.

"I'm thinking of going to St. Louis this weekend… spend Mother's day with the kids…"

Moving away from their kitchen, she approached the couch, meeting Tom's cautious gaze. One that was completely unwarranted, but one she understood. "I don't need to go. If that's what you're worried about."

His sigh was heavy, his confliction of loyalty clear, and it had everything to do with exercising sensitivity over anything that could infer he'd 'replaced' Darien. He hadn't. Sasha hadn't, but he felt Sasha's contributions went unrecognized most of the time. Not that he was placing onus on his kids to do that. Not at all. This kind of scenario was just a facet of dealing with a blended family. A deceased parent. In the years prior, Sasha's schedule had aligned in that she wasn't around. It had taken care of itself, but Tom was also concerned about the part where her mother had shown up on their doorstep alive...

"It's fine, Tom. It's got nothing to do with me, I know that. And you know how much it will mean to Ashley that you put in the effort."

"You're my wife. I don't like having to exclude you, especially not when you've done a better job for them than me over the last few years."

"You're not excluding me, you're just putting them first when you should. And I also don't think that's true. I'm just a little easier for them to talk to." She settled in next to Tom, one leg curled under her, facing him. "And I think they give me a lot of grace because they saw how screwed up I was, and because they want you to be happy."

He didn't appear to have a rebuttal, and instead, his gaze flittered up and then down her features.

Reaching out, she took his hand. "They know it's hard, they're not blind. I think you'd be surprised by how much they understand if you were a little more open with them." She debated broaching this topic before deciding this was part of their problem. That she wouldn't say things that were uncomfortable for fear of making it worse. "I told Ashley that you thought I was… gone for a while. She thought the feed cut because you were there." His brow immediately furrowed, and his body stiffened. "It came up while they were here—she asked me why you won't just admit that you're not okay when you told them when I wasn't."

For a few moments, he only stared at her unblinking. "What did you say?"

"Because you think it's your job to protect everyone."

"It is my job," he shot back fast.

"You can still do that and let them in a little," she countered softly.

"That's a little ironic coming from you." While it mostly aired on the side of humor, there was still an edge. She let it go. It was true, at no point could she absolve herself of the part she'd played.

"I'm not disagreeing."

The defensive posture he'd taken eased, and he took to studying her hand in his. Absent-minded when he brushed the back of it with his thumb. After taking some time to mull it over, he lifted his focus again. "Message received."

Her lip quirked, and she squinted. "That was too easy."

Tom canted his head. "I don't live in a vacuum, Sash. I've been ignoring things for too long because I didn't know how to accept them. I still don't, but I'm trying. I promise you, I'm trying." He made a dismissive facial gesture. "Figured doing the opposite of what I've done might be a good start."

It made her more emotional than she'd expected. A thing that was happening more frequently as of late. Things that usually wouldn't elicit more than a blink could flood her sinuses in a second and squeeze a fist beneath her ribs. It was different but cathartic—kind of wondered if this is what 'normal' people felt like. People who didn't swing between polar extremes of so compartmentalized that a wall of apathy separated them from living to feeling so much that they suffocated. Maybe this is what happened if you dealt with emotions in real-time.

He squeezed her hand. "You alright?"

She nodded, unable to press words through the constriction in her throat or explain that she wasn't sad but overwhelmed by the amount of light flooding the end of her tunnel.

The way his brows drew and then the round quality his eyes took showed he was more than lost, and touched her cheek. "So why are you crying?"

Shifting, she moved until she was resting with her head against his chest while he held her, and mumbled the words, "I don't know."

His hand rubbed the length of her back, and she felt him drop a kiss to her crown. "Okay."

Several minutes after the wash receded, Sasha tentatively spoke. "Are you talking to him about the flowers?" The question was whispered against the fabric of his shirt. The gentle rise and fall of his chest pausing for a few seconds before proceeding, and then he sighed.

"I am."

Pushing herself up, she framed his face with her hands. "It's not your fault."

Beneath her fingers, she felt the way his jaw twitched. Regarded him softly and without expectation but needing to express the truth. The quiet stretched between them, not uncomfortably, but enough for the pain he carried to shine from his eyes, except this time he didn't mask it.

"I'm workin' on that too," he whispered.