an. Sorry. I'm the worst, but here's an update! As a reminder, relevant Chapters for the storyline tied in this update: 11, 12, 18, 19, 20 & 38.

Guest review responses below:

Luna Hi! Glad to read you're doing well; sorry it's been so long (again) :( Anyway, I'm pretty sure protective Tom is akin to crack because of normal scientific reasons, ha. But also, I think perhaps the 'I wanted you protected' line in season 3 was the precise moment I decided it was time to write the fanfic. LOL. It's very near and dear to my heart. Glad you understand. I loved how multilingual Sasha was too, and I'm always a fan of a woman with combat skills. When Ravit died, we were missing that on the ground teams, and I was pleasantly surprised that the writers chose to write Sasha with those skills. I have heard that quote too! I know they were always the heroes in the show, but I thought it would be interesting to play around with. If I had killed Danny, his secret would have died with him, and Kara would never know that he was involved in the Panama debacle... I figured tarnishing his legacy that way would be the most tragic thing ever, and no one would ever be happy again, so that didn't happen. If he's alive, he can still grovel and fix it! In the new fic, as of yet, I am undecided because Sasha will be coming from such a different place! (CIA) if anything, based on the excerpt I shared, Dennis is the co-worker she holds a professional soft spot for..., and I can't spoil the rest of the ideas... Your comments on Nina made me chuckle. I agree. Not sure what Nina expected to happen after essentially doxxing the CNO's wife after they both made clear there would be no official statement on personal matters. It made me sad to read about your stepfather. I'm sorry he was such a shithead, but you said former so good riddance! One of the very few parts of Season 5 that I did like, was showing that Sasha had a real relationship with Tom's children, and they seemed to confide in her, with no resentment, and it didn't seem forced - we'll leave the whole 'Tom = bad dad' storyline aside. In this fic universe, they are really sooo fluff, and I kind of adore it. HA. If I wanted to watch Tom be an asshole, I'd go re-watch Season 5. No thanks. Shamelessly choosing self-indulgence here where they have an actually nice relationship despite its bumps.

Guest Who needs accounts? ha. I appreciate the feedback and chats all the same :) A lot of key growth in the last chapter, and I think you'll find it in this one too! Danny reeeeeeeaaally doesn't have a very mature understanding of what a marriage is. My headcanon for him is that he led a relatively easy life pre-pandemic. Popular in school. Very attractive, easy for him to get girls, never met someone he felt deeply about until Kara, and then all hell broke loose. I don't think Danny had the chance before due to deployments to learn some of those basic relationship lessons, whereas Kara, in general, is several years ahead in maturity. I think in part, because her mother was an alcoholic, and she was forced to grow up and be self-reliant, so she is expecting a real partner in building a family (as she should), and Danny just isn't there yet. Sasha is starting to understand that existing with real relationships, versus lone-wolf, means there are actual ramifications for her choices too. Definitely important. Tom and Sasha on the same side again is such a relief! I'm happy to write it (actually miss writing it because in St. Augustine, they're not there yet, even though I'm addicted to angst.) Sometimes it's hard to swing back into such a different tone for them. Re: conversations, basically, Tom went home and was very honest with both kids that he is struggling with guilt over Darien, and for what happened with Shaw, and that it's become unmanageable, so he's working with Grantham. In my head, Tom's known where Jed died the whole time (since season 3) I can't imagine he didn't ask the kids where they were taken and what happened, etc... but he ran away to Greece and put it in the 'compartmentalize' bin until now, and he can't anymore.

Monday, May 13th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

Tension ebbed from Tom's body when he registered Sasha's approach. Since landing that afternoon, their schedules had not aligned. He'd been buried in logistical nightmares, and she coordinating the re-insertion of Hector Martinez, an objective that Grantham strongly recommended he avoid. Reality was, Tom still possessed a visceral need to kill the General, hence, oversight belonged to Meylan. Sasha's visit wasn't merely personal, however—that became clear in the manner of her stride. Purposeful. Determined. Files in hand. So, he leaned back in the chair emitting a gentle amusement, for these factors showed one thing: she was here to convince him. The only question was of what.

Through the glass Tom could be seen waiting, and thus Sasha didn't knock, but her coy, if suspicious head tilt widened his grin. "Aleksandra."

"Thomas."

"What can I do for you?" he drawled.

There was a slight flare in the sway of her hips when approaching, wearing that Mona Lisa smile.

"I received a visit from Nina Garside while you were gone—" she produced a sample screenshot that the journalist provided and placed it on the desk between them.

He blinked, recognizing at once Gustavo Barras, and surroundings that appeared suspiciously similar to a home. Tom sighed through his nose, annoyed. "What does she want?"

"First dibs on all official statements. Her press credentials re-instated… and a place on the Nathan James when we invade."

Tom's brow quirked, and he resumed his original position. "That's an ambitious list." It may have been humorous had he used a different tone. This one, however, screamed 'no'.

"Funny," her eyes gleamed, "that's exactly what I said."

Pivoting to survey who was outside, Sasha took a seat, prompting Tom to switch frosted the glass.

"She also shared some things about my mother—" his demeanor shifted considerably, mirth evaporating upon understanding this conversation was no longer held with his pain in the ass Director of Intelligence "—and I did some digging."

She surrendered the other file.

He flicked it open.

They were records from the CIA, and FBI—preserved at Michener's behest. They'd suffered vast gaps, of course, across the agencies, but a relative wealth still existed from electronic archives. He saw names. Real names: Yuliya Minsky and Dmitri Polyakov. Aliases: Liliya Martin and Richard Jennings, and while reading with rapt attention, the slivers of information he'd garnered both from the article, and Yuliya's visit, slotted into place.

"I think I know what happened," Sasha said, more timidly. "And I think I need to give this to her." Tom peered up, surprise evident. "I have a number. I'm going to ask her to meet… and if she will—then I'd like for you go with me."

"When?" he asked softly.

"Maybe soon?" She half shrugged. "This weekend?"

Tom reached across the desk, catching her hand. "Okay." Then hesitated. "But can I ask one question?"

"Yeah," she said, as though his caution was undue.

"Why are you doing this for her? After everything she's done… why give her the closure?"

Her gentle smile was contemplative. "Because I'm not her." She paused. "And I think this is how I let it go."

Tuesday, May 14th, 2019—Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, Cuba

Reclined in a foldable plastic chair that passed its shelf-life a decade ago, Pablo watched Brawler attend to her bird in hangar one. It was a beautiful thing… both the Huey and her…

Lifting a brow, Barco observed then rolled his eyes. "You didn't get the memo that any of us could die tomorrow? Make the move, dude."

Throwing down his cards, Pablo sighed. That was just it. They could die tomorrow. They could die today. And he'd spent enough hours digging beside Kara, looking for Danny that he was back to square one. "I don't know… doesn't seem worth it, you know?"

He'd come around to Barco—maybe their hours spent captive at Fuentes compound helped. Either way, he respected the guy; wasn't so monolithic once you broke through the intimidating exterior.

"Why?"

"Have something just to lose it?" A humid breeze prickled his skin, bringing with it the unique scent of fuel, salt and something else Pablo had only ever defined as war.

"Fight for nothing?" Barco countered.

"Pretty much what I've been doing my whole life, yeah." Brawler was smiling now in response to something her co-pilot shared… wiped a palm covered in grease against her pants before taking gulps from a canteen.

Over his own cards, Barco contemplated, then kicked back, crossing an ankle over his thigh. "No rule saying things can't change."

Finally removing attention from Brawler, Pablo turned to Barco. "I wasn't looking for philosophical but, can we at least do it with a decent rum?"

That earned a small grin. "Just saying."

"You have someone waiting for you back home?" Pablo inquired instead, shifting in the chair.

"Used to."

"Sorry man."

Scrunching his lips, Barco dismissed the notion, "Yeah. Guess what I'm trying to say is it's worth it. Even on the other side."

He'd been yet to respond when Burk appeared at the knife's edge—the XO gestured in a way that summoned. Those thoughts of running his hands across Brawler's body slipped away, replaced with a different type of anticipation. Barco noticed the change and glanced over his shoulder toward Burk, and while not privy to the details yet, clearly something was up.

"Pick this up later?" Pablo asked.

Barco gave a single nod, collecting the cards strewn upon the storage bin functioning as a game table.

It took but a few minutes to reach the wardroom where Captain Green waited, along with Wolf and Azima. It was then, after feeling the absence of Miller, Danny, and Sasha, that Pablo realized he felt like part of this team. Like he belonged somewhere.

"Gentlemen," Captain Green greeted, while Burk secured the door.

In her left hand, she held a remote, a laptop set before her.

"You're gonna wanna see this—Command obtained footage from within Gustavo's compound."

She pressed play, and the screen lit up with an image of Barras at his desk. Pablo shifted closer and Burk unfolded his arms, resting them upon the table.

"Well shit," Pablo drawled. "Time to cut the head off the snake."

Thursday, May 16th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

"I don't know if I'll ever get used to this."

Manning his favorite spot—the upper galley walkway of the war room—Danny regarded Sasha as she mirrored his position. "Used to what?"

"You. In service Khakis."

While Sasha's good-natured jabs usually elicited an eye roll or smirk depending on his mood, today it stirred restlessness. His resounding lack of response did not go unnoticed. Beside him, Sasha sighed.

"Nothing in the mail run today?"

For a moment, he debated ignoring the question, noting eventually that shutting everyone out led him to this point. "No."

"I'm sure she's just busy, Danny. It's a big week."

That's the lie he was telling himself too. He studied the silver flask between his hands. Couldn't even do that without thinking about Kara; how their mornings spent together while posted at South Comm involved her preparing their coffee while he fixed breakfast, and Debbie helped get Frankie to kindergarten. It seemed every minute held a dawning of every small thing Kara did daily for their family. How had been so foolish?

Below them, surrounding a console, Slattery, Chandler, Meylan, and Jeter had their heads together over a map.

"Where's Martinez?" he asked, using the opportunity to try focusing on something other than his fuckups.

"Just crossed over the Darien Gap, he's officially in Columbia—the rebels confirmed he hooked up with three of the Generals in that area already. So far, the intel he's giving us on troop levels and activity checks out… at least according to Montano, it does."

In a foreboding manner, Danny slid his gaze left to meet hers.

"You figure out a way to control that son of a bitch yet?"

The quirk of her brow was anything but hopeful. "Not a single goddamn thing. Wife and kids died in the plague. No siblings. No parents. No friends." She held his eyes. "He's the most dangerous type of player there is—he's got nothing to lose."

Brooding, Danny ruminated, his attention now directed toward the office Montano occupied; upper level, two doors removed from The President. His soft scuff was bitter. "Only one way to stop a guy like that."

The air thickened. Practically felt the way Sasha stiffened. "That's exactly how we ended up in this mess."

He interrupted by making a sound through his teeth. "Too deep to walk away without finishing it. You know it. So do I. Don't kid yourself, Coop—"

"Danny—"

"We use Armando and the rebels to our advantage. All we need to do is convince Montano he needs to meet with Martinez and the other Generals, get em' all on the ground and then take em' out. One fell swoop—we're inside Tavo's compound now, we don't need them—"

"And who ends up with the Army?" She lifted her chin. For that, he didn't have an answer. "We cut them all loose? None of them will pick up the agenda right where Tavo left off?" she challenged.

Defiant, Danny huffed, "Yeah well—odds are the next guy isn't a strategical genius."

"And then we hit another stalemate because we're outnumbered five to one." Her head was titled. "That's too many people, Danny. We can't keep this up, even with Jamaica and Cuba…"

His hands curled tighter around the flask. "Well we can't be Montano's bitch either!" He hadn't intended for the outburst to be so… robust. In his peripheral, he noted Chandler and Slattery glance upward. Pushing away from the glass barrier, he turned his back.

"I know you're frustrated—"

"I know," he sighed. Regretting the display already. "I need to get my shit together or he's not gonna clear me when it's time."

Sasha's blink was the sole answer she gave. Lingering for another moment, tongue wedged hard between his teeth and lips, Danny suppressed the explosive frustration that suffocated him, and walked away.

Saturday, May 18th, 2019—North Beach, Jacksonville, Florida

The nerves had strangely been missing until the moment Sasha saw a vehicle pull up and observed her mother's subsequent exit. They hit so hard she was glad of skipping lunch. Around the small photograph, her fingers tightened.

"It's okay if you want to change your mind—"

"No." She peered left and offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm okay, I promise you… there's really nothing left for her to say that could be worse than the last time." And while the comment erred on the side of self-deprecating, it still hurt to know it was true. "I need to do this."

Tom squeezed her thigh, nodding once, and after taking a breath, she exited.

Her mother was already waiting, poised at the empty parking lot's edge regarding the boardwalk and ocean beyond, hands hidden in the pockets of a summer trench. Despite the lingering heat, the day carried with it a strong wind, and it was approaching sunset—its orange hue cast low across the sand and stretching long shadows.

"Aleksandra," her mother acknowledged without turning.

It struck that outside Tom; she'd never allowed anyone to call her that. Next came the acceptance that she no longer knew what to call this woman. Liliya? Yuliya? Mom? Perhaps a simple 'hello?' In the end, she chose neither.

"I spoke to that reporter," she began, lamenting her clothing choice, for stuffing her hands into the back of her jeans felt too exposed, and leaving them loose felt worse. In the end, Sasha folded her arms, the picture tucked in her palm.

Yuliya offered little reaction, and Sasha continued, Tom a few feet removed, leaning against the hood of her SUV within earshot. "I thought she was the one that found you—but I don't think that's the case—"

"Why are we here, Saška?"

Her mother's tone almost elicited a chill. "Because I know what happened to Dmitri."

Seconds followed in eerie silence before Yuliya finally established eye contact.

"He was captured by the FBI. CIA was involved too. They'd been watching both of you for a year—waiting to see which of Dad's clients was the KGB's target. Six different senators with twelve non-profits, every one of them laundering grant funds overseas. It would have taken counterintelligence years to figure out which one the Kremlin was interested in." Sasha shrugged. "When Dad died, and you tried to run from the KGB, they had to act—after the funeral, you went to the station as planned, but they got to Dmitri first." Sasha paused. "He didn't change his mind, or double cross you. Whatever you had—it was real—"

"I know it was." Though terse, Yuliya's features remained flat. In a way, Sasha felt like she was looking at herself—or at least the darker version.

"So why didn't you run without him? Even if you thought the KGB had taken him, you still had time to disappear. You could have looked for the answers yourself or tried to help him escape."

Uncharacteristically, Yuliya appeared to hesitate. "I tried. I boarded the train… a woman sat beside me. She opened her book—and in the page was your picture—I knew then that it was over. The Kremlin's price for my freedom was your life, Aleksandra."

Softly, Sasha's lips parted, and the burgeoning tension she felt seeping from Tom changed. Something like a soft inhale, and though she couldn't see because he was at her eight o'clock, she could still picture his expression.

"That's why you went back to the house?"

Once more, Yuliya cast her gaze toward the ocean, the breeze teasing a few silvery strands from the neat chignon. "I was given clear instruction as to how my treachery would be resolved without jeopardizing the remaining agents. I had no choice but to comply."

Tom was no longer leaning at the waist, but standing, listening intently.

"How long did they keep you in Moscow?" Sasha breathed.

"Twenty-two years. I was sentenced to thirty-five." Her chin jutted proudly.

Blinking, Sasha did the math… the missed call from a Russian number all those years ago… "That's when you called. Because you were released."

"I wanted to know that my decision was not in vain."

Something horribly close to hope rose through Sasha's chest. "You came back to the states after the plague?"

There was no verbal answer, but a near indistinguishable nod. "I'd assumed you were dead. Like most," Yuliya offered.

Dawning rippled across Sasha's features. "But then you saw the video... and thought they doublecrossed you by recruiting me?" Silence followed, and Sasha too looked toward the ocean, blinking and reeling. "Why didn't you just tell me this?"

The ice was back. "Leverage is a weakness I refuse to have. Your anger was an obvious tool to exploit."

A crease of confusion marred Sasha's forehead. "Yet you're still looking for him. Thirty years later. In my world, that's called leverage."

Her mother refused to yield. Her profile proud and gaze defiant on the horizon. Sasha shook her head softly, accepting that she'd never understand this woman's motives, or untangle the depths of their past… but maybe what she had now was enough. It had to be enough. It was but a scratch on the surface, and it was obvious her mother was still running from something. Someone. Perhaps even herself? But this wasn't a mystery Sasha could chase. Not anymore.

Sighing through her nose, Sasha unfolded her arms and extended the picture of Dmitri Polyakov, a copy no larger than a credit card, scanned from the CIA's files. Looking right, Yuliya regarded it, the clench of her jaw almost unnoticeable, but to Sasha—it screamed.

Untucking a slender hand, Yuliya took the photograph, studying it.

"He agreed to cooperate with them in exchange for your clemency. He maintained that you were a Russian civilian whom he'd falsely trafficked to the States, and then used to infiltrate Peter Martin. The FBI agreed—and then they lied to him. He never knew that the Kremlin took you. They told him that you were placed into witness protection. He burned an entire KGB cell in New Jersey—one of the largest raids in the US' history… and once the agents were captured, he was traded to Moscow without trial for a US operative who'd been caught spying without diplomatic immunity. They executed him in 1990." Sasha paused. "I'm sorry."

Something in her mother's throat worked, causing the tendons to move, and after several moments, Yuliya returned her hand to the pocket along with the picture, peering once again at the sea.

"Томас," Yuliya called.

Sasha watched him approach until standing beside her, guarded and unreadable.

Without removing her focus, her mother spoke directly, "Когда ты встретил?" When did you meet?

"Ninety-seven." Tom's answer was flat, and Sasha again folded her arms, confused by the purpose of her mother's questioning.

"конкретно." Specifically. The word came sharp as a whip, equally demanding.

"February sixth, three minutes shy of fourteen hundred—it was a Thursday."

This time, her mother established eye contact with him, her lip curved, and Tom was more than unnerved by how uncanny that was. Subtle, but spread in a way that gave life to her eyes as it did Sasha's…

"тогда ты заботиться о ней, как Дмитрий заботился обо мне." Then you care for her as Dmitri cared for me.

"я делаю." I do.

Sasha blinked, staring at her mother, who looked Tom up and down, before drawing her gaze to her. It was insistent. Intense.

"я уже предупреждал вас раньше, но повторюсь, Александра. Редко когда игра, в которую ты играешь, заканчивается хорошо. Подумайте, что у вас есть. Было бы мудро не проверять это дальше." I have warned you before, but I will tell you again, Aleksandra. It is rare that the game you play ends well. Consider what you have. You would be wise not to test it further.

Déjà vu prickled the fine hairs upon Sasha's skin, and after a drawn moment of silence, her mother spoke again.

"ты меня больше не увидишь." You will not see me again. "какие бы вопросы ни остались, вы должны оставить их в прошлом." Whatever questions remain, you must leave them in the past.

Before turning, Yuliya spared Tom another glance and then walked the few yards to her vehicle. The tires gripped stray sand on the asphalt, crunching distinctively, and Sasha wasn't conscious of how long she'd stared at the vacant spot until Tom placed a tentative hand on the small of her back.

She leaned into him and peered up, catching gentle eyes. "Did my mother just smile at you?" she mumbled.

He appeared equally disturbed; gaze narrowed while replaying the bizarre interaction. "You know, I always thought it was bad when you call me Thomas—but that woman genuinely scares the crap out of me."

Dead silence followed, and then a snort of undignified laughter burst from her throat. He smirked, drawing her into an embrace, and she unfolded her arms to encircle his waist, somewhat breathless as she tried to process how many conflicting emotions assaulted at once. Tom's hold tightened, and it was only then that Sasha perceived her laugher had turned into a breathy sob. It felt like relief. Like surfacing for air, lungs bursting, and as suddenly as they wracked her frame, they left.

"You okay?" his voice was muffled by her hair.

She wasn't just okay. It was more than that. "I think I'm finally free."