an. Review responses below.

Guest 1 :D unfortunately, because I have no self-control, there's basically an entire AU S3 being laid here. LOL. Avoiding big spoilers on the aspect of the immune threat... but at least they are not being stupid here. I didn't understand the complete lack of common sense in the show, but I believe the whole hallway scene/Curtis decision was done last minute because of the on-set issues. In reality, I don't see how they weren't considering security elements given everything they'd experienced in Baltimore. Poor/plot hole continuity in my humble opinion. RE: Tom jealousy, yes! I don't think he does macho jealous but Tom does have a healthy ego and while I don't believe he would ever be so poorly charactered as to say/do anything, he's still human and I think he needs someone to 'need' him if that makes any sense. So if he thinks he could be replaced, even though he kind of doesn't have a place in Sasha's life anymore, I think it would bother him. I always appreciate your very thoughtful reviews! They mean a lot and I hope to start real work on the 2012 extension soon.

Guest 2 You're welcome, I'm really glad you are enjoying it. It's super fun to write this one! Tom cannot seem to catch a break no... lol. You wanted angsty/heartbreak. Buckle up. It's coming for him in spades. RE: COVID, so glad you're okay! :)

Been Digging It Up Like Groundhog Day

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December 21st, 2013—USS Nathan James, In Port St. Louis, Missouri—1414 Hours

Paul/Pablo/Shemanski or whatever the hell he'd go by now was not so subtly pursuing the photographs adorning the CO's desk. Captain Chandler, a man that seemed based on his very limited exposure to be on the complete straight and narrow. The epitome of every square-jawed, good-looking, perfectly pressed, and starched, blue-eyed Navy Commander he'd ever encountered. Except that he was now peering at Sasha in Chandler's bed, who appeared to have recently woken.

"Nice digs you got here." He'd bunched his lips while bobbing his head in mock appreciation.

She felt the defeated sigh down to her bones and also wondered who'd told him where to find her. Optics. Exactly why she'd stayed in the wardroom after the meeting to catch up versus retreating to the cabin. Because she didn't feel like trying to explain. She'd glossed over any mention of her personal losses, and Shemanski hadn't asked. Knew better than. Mostly, it covered practicalities and the account of why she wouldn't be running amuck with him tracking immunes across the US and Europe anytime soon. A shame, really, because their days spent toppling FARC strongholds in the Columbian jungle had been some of her best. Once Shemanski was summoned to CIC to brief on their security plans with the ground teams, she'd returned to the cabin. Crashed for hours mere minutes after hitting mattress. Exhausted after spending nine consecutive awake, despite only standing for thirty minutes of that. When she'd woken just past o-two hundred—sleep pattern horribly disrupted by the injury—she'd been confronted with the food tray left on the desk.

No doubt in her mind who'd cared to retrieve it, and apparently, she'd been out so hard she hadn't heard Tom come and go.

"Not what you're thinking."

"No? You got another reason for a CO to give up his bed—other than being a sucker?"

Despite the annoyance, that long-standing joke still drew a small smile from Sasha.

Shemanski wheeled the desk chair around, sinking into it with a satisfied sound, and then propped his feet on the desk. "You know how much shit I'd get away with if I had tits and your face?"

"Not as much as you'd think. I don't know that he's into ladyboys… but if you wanted, I could ask?"

For a moment, she'd floored him, and then he grinned. "You know what I meant."

"We've worked together." Sasha was losing count of the number of times she'd issued that same flat non-communicative statement since stepping foot on Nathan James.

Both of his brows raised. "Well that's a vibe."

"Paul. Not the right time."

He threw up both hands in surrender. "Sure, whatever. Come on."

She squinted as he withdrew his boots and pushed himself out of the chair, entering the small room that housed Tom's bed.

"Get up. The weather's nice. You need some fresh air and Vitamin-D."

"You wanna sell me some essential oils too? One sniff and all my problems go away?" she drawled.

His features scrunched in defense. "If it works, it works." Then held out his hand to help her up. "Now move. Get dressed."

Shemanski had a point. Not that she'd admit it, but the sun beating down, coupled with an unseasonably warm high fifties, felt good. A little shocked to observe the number of people packing Gateway Park, even if just from the James' deck. Unbidden, she pondered her lack of sunglasses, a trivial matter but a thought nonetheless. Unused to the bright light versus the dim orange glow she'd kept in the cabin, squinting was drawing an ache beneath her temples. Didn't know how long she'd been topside. Most of the crew was spreading cure, the rest manning watch stations and maintaining defense of the Nathan James. She was alone again. Shemanski's rest period had expired some time ago, and he'd disembarked to resume his agreed-upon duties.

Alone was about to change, however. The unmistakable was making way toward his destroyer, she assumed, to relieve Slattery, and she knew precisely the moment he'd seen her. Questioned what brand of crazy she harbored to make her think she could feel Tom looking at her from over a hundred yards. Up your dosage, Sasha.

Eventually, Slattery disembarked, and she was quietly still bemused that somehow, he embodied exactly what she'd pictured him being all those years ago. Sure, he was an asshole, but she was extending grace given the circumstance. Knew his core values had to be sound for Tom to care.

Tom settled in beside her, silent at first. Content to watch with her quiet company.

"Why haven't they shown?" he finally asked, though remained focused on the park.

It hung for a beat before she responded, chancing a look at his profile. Still more handsome than it had any business being. "Speculatively? Because you know I don't have any facts, just my gut."

"I think your gut's a little more informed than mine at this point." He dragged his gaze toward her; always had issues when the sun caught his eyes like that. "My days spent behind enemy lines were long over, you know that." His tone became entwined with a self-deprecating sarcasm that made her half-smile, but it was tinged; laced with long distant dreams that were crushed.

She started paying particular attention to the texture of the railing beneath her hands. "Regrouping? Rebranding? Just because you killed their leader doesn't mean you stamped their ideology out. All you can really do is be aware and watch your back."

He was squinting too, she noted. "And Michener? Issuing pardons to the chapters… you think he's re-branding? Biding time?"

Generally, Sasha knew Tom caught on fast, but somehow something close to pride still flared in response to his asking the right questions. "I'm not sure. Haven't decided yet whether he really believed in it or just needed something to live with the guilt. But I do think his fear of that getting out is real." She paused, recalling something from the sit-rep he'd delivered. "You said MacDowell knows what he did?"

His features pinched. "Can't say for sure if he knows all of it, but Michener almost lost it when he mentioned his family. What kind of state he was in when they found him… wanted me to drop a Tomahawk."

Sasha lifted a brow and made a small 'huh' gesture with her lips, leaning now on one elbow while facing him, though a little awkward while keeping her torso straight.

"And what did he say to you that made you go to all that trouble with Green?"

There was a beat, and then Tom's gaze left the park and affixed to hers.

"Standing over my bed's not enough. He had to have said something."

"It isn't?" he deflected.

Answering his challenge, she canted her head. "No. Not to involve your crew like that."

His exhale was reluctant, so too the rolling his jaw. "He went through our files. Asked me why I deferred and risked my spot when I was the one who petitioned so hard to go surface warfare."

Her voice came lower this time. "So he knows?"

Tom shrugged. "He suspects. I lied—told him it was because of the injury. He was posturing, and he made the mistake of thinking I give a damn if that gets out… but he needed to know that I'm willing to use what I've got." He rose his brows and tilted his head, "And he was standing over your bed, Sasha. While you were unconscious."

She fought the eye roll. "Yes, Tom. You and your XO have been very clear about that—pissing all over your territory may have been less dramatic."

"It would need to be mine first," he shot back, neck quirked with a soft swagger while he leaned on one elbow. This was why being around him was dangerous. No one else could claim her being the way Tom could with just his eyes. No one. Sometimes it was subtle. Unintentional. Now? Now he was stoking images, and she was wearing them upon her cheeks. There was one thing, she realized, while willing herself not to react; he did make her feel alive. Real. Like a version of herself she'd believed lost. It was almost as though his very existence demanded it; wouldn't accept nor entertain her apathy.

The smolder in his gaze eased, and he let it recede beneath that maddeningly cool exterior. Looked out toward the park again; the courthouse towering and gleaming beneath clear skies. "There's a Judge. He's officially sworn in, and he's already talking about appointing Mayor Oliver as Vice President." He tipped his head again, gesturing toward the crowd. "Think it's pretty clear Oliver stepped up to the plate… and then some."

It appeared that way at rudimentary glance. This small pocket was less of a war zone than any other place Tom had encountered thus far, and for a moment Sasha didn't appreciate what he was telling her. Hearing it first as a general anecdote before it dawned. Though still leaning, she stopped watching the crowd and gave Tom her entire focus once more. Trapped and rendered mildly breathless by the weight of his gaze.

"I gave you my word, Sash."

Sash.

Before, she'd attributed his use of that old endearment four days prior to the obvious. A slip of the tongue manifested after supercharging untrustworthy emotions driven by insane circumstance. She'd let it go. Called it what it was, that entire conversation and the moment she'd almost kissed him, nothing more than an interlude.

Fantasy.

A leap into history because it was better than the present.

Now? His intention was impossible to misinterpret nor deny. This was between them.

Except that Tom always chose duty when it mattered. Responsibility in life-altering stakes. Not the girl that had loved him with such innocence as to give him her soul. Trust him blindly with it. Watch him look her in the eye and then shatter it.

"I never wanted to go to that stadium." Her whisper was almost lost to the gentle breeze, but he caught it and focused intently, lowering his elbows to mirror hers against the railing. "I don't know how I let him convince me that it would be different just because a member of cabinet was there." Under breath, she laughed bitterly.

Her life story could be book-ended by two course-altering events that boiled down to timing. This wasn't an attempt to over-pity, but damn if it wasn't hard not to despair. Hard not to question why the cruel jokes invariably ended with her. Why all these people who'd also lost everything could find happiness in spreading a cure and she felt nothing. Nothing unless he was demanding it.

"Because you weren't just thinking about you."

He was choosing very carefully, that much she could tell. And it was those precise words that clarified which path to take. Exactly the opposite of the one she'd desired to push him down eleven days prior.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this—but I think you need to wait."

Tom's surprise was obvious, though subtle, and he was listening.

"You said it. You have the leverage. We have no idea who any of these people are. Oliver could be great, or he might not. You don't know who he'll end up surrounding himself with as advisors… just because they upheld a duty before doesn't mean they don't have their own agendas now." She could see that the parts Tom perhaps didn't want to see, but also knew, were weighing on him. She understood it, and that's why she softened. "I know you just want to go home, Tom, but you're the only person I trust to do what's right, and you don't have a way to control anyone else. You need to wait, and you can't walk away. Not yet."

His nostrils depressed when he inhaled, and he dropped eye contact, peering somewhere beyond her shoulder. "I'm an O-5 Commander of a Destroyer, Sash." It was quiet. Tired.

"Not anymore, you're not—and I know it's the last you want, but this won't end with a story in the local newspaper that blows over this time."

Lightly, he scoffed. Bringing his eyes back to hers. "You planning on giving them a statement?"

That drew a smirk out of her. "I'm not Jessica."

The lopsided grin he'd worn softened, along with most every aspect of his demeanor. "No—you're not."

Warmth crawled her spine in response. It washed like a verbal caress; never encountered another man who could do it. Switch so smoothly from benign to intent and declaration subliminally. It was one of the many things about Tom that made it impossible to stop.

"You need to be careful. If Michener figured it out from our files, you can bet your ass a reporter will too if you give them a reason to go digging. Your kids don't need to read that." Almost congratulated herself for the cold dash of reality she'd effectively delivered, and how it reined in the undefinable power that kept drawing her to him.

Annapolis, Rhode Island, Norfolk, Vinson. Vinson. They all matched. And that would bring with it questions that she was willing to bet Tom was not equipped to answer, and before the nerve failed her, she went bold.

"Did you ever tell her about us?" It was close to whispered, laced with trepidation Sasha didn't normally allow to show.

He shifted, just a fraction closer, and for a second, she swore his hand twitched. As though he'd been about to do something and stopped himself.

"Which part?" he finally answered softly.

And now she was scared. Questioning and regretting her decision to open this topic, but more so floored by the ease with which he'd allowed it.

"Any of it," she breathed.

He remained silent for several moments. Looking out. Hands braced together while he continued to lean on both elbows against the rail. "I came clean about everything when she found out about Ashley. That was in March. You had already left when I tried to call. I wanted to explain what happened… We'd broken things off in January, she wanted something serious." He paused. "She was even willing to let me figure it out if I'd opened up to her, but I couldn't."

She waited for him to continue; the thread of her pulse heavy in her neck.

"I never told her about your voicemail. Or that you were on Vinson… or when I saw you in Changi." The way he swallowed was visible, and then he held her gaze. "And she was more than I ever deserved."

Why were her hands shaking?

Maybe because the part where she'd lied to herself about his feelings for Darien—so she could put tape on her heart—had just been proven untrue. She hated that. Being reminded of how very young and simplistic she'd been.

'Do you love her?'

'Now? Yeah, I do. She's the mother of my kid… it's different.'

It was etched into every line of his face. Laced within every syllable. Present in the sheen glassing his eyes. No way that should be so difficult to hear. Not after this long.

Robotic when she nodded to acknowledge. Hoped it wasn't written all over hers but knowing Tom, he could see.

Mother of his children. She'd failed at that too, in its most basic form.

Inhaling; Sasha pushed up from the railing. "I'm getting tired, I need to go lay down." The words muttered.

His softness lingered despite also correcting his posture. "I'll walk you up." And then cut her off when her mouth opened. "Gangways, Sasha. Not with a skeleton crew. I'd insist for anyone."

She shut up and followed and tried to ignore the part where she felt sick.

Lists. They were already buried in lists. Stacks spread across the wardroom table, outlined and verified by their crew detailing human capital and assets cataloged by their communications teams, and now provided for them to mobilize. Mike was more than a little overwhelmed. Earlier, they'd had to choose which of their crew to assign to the bodies. Who they were going to saddle with traumatic visuals for the rest of their lives. In the end, they'd protected the 'innocents', the ones who would likely never see frontlines or other such realities. It was the only thing that felt somewhat right.

Barely.

A sardonic laugh bubbled from his chest. One short brash stint. Tom looked up from a report, brows knotted in question, his dinner long since abandoned.

"Remember when I asked if you wanted to get into the nation-building business?"

It took a moment, and then Tom scoffed, a small quirk at his lip more than communicating his reciprocal feeling of being underqualified and ill-equipped to shoulder so much responsibility. Sure Michener was cooking plans about bureaucratic intricacies that frankly escaped Mike, but the practicalities? The manpower? Security? All the logistical realities of spreading cure across not just the United States but an entire world all the while trying to rebuild home? Damn if he wasn't intimidated.

Lost.

"Haven't found the contingency for an almost apocalypse yet—though I did find the one for invading Cuba. If you're interested."

Mike snorted. "Think I'll pass. Thanks."

"POTUS wants an inauguration."

Mike paused and then peered up. "You really think that's wise? Little bad taste to throw a party when the entire countries still dying, no?"

Tom sighed, put down the report, and leaned back in the leather-clad seat. "Trust me, it's all I'm thinkin' about. But we gotta give em' something, Mike. They'll never say it, but they are more than fried…" slowly, Tom dragged his gaze toward him. "I know you need to get back to Norfolk. I'm recommending that you take command of the James—it's the fastest way to get you back there. I'll handle the effort here, buy you as much time as I can before POTUS wants you out and spreading cure."

Mike's jaw clenched and then settled. "Preciate that. What about the kids and Jed? You bringing em' here?"

"When it's more secure."

Mike nodded. It was smart. Couldn't say he'd choose differently—immunes had far more reason to attack St. Louis than a suburb in Norfolk. Even after the James returned for dry dock.

"We'll need to figure out who's going and who's staying," Mike said.

Squinting, Tom acknowledged. "I know." The words more a sigh showing his decision fatigue. "Foster needs to," he began absently, leaning on one elbow and bringing a hand to his jaw.

"Well that's a given," Mike drawled.

"Green and the ground teams are the best we've got. I know we have bases and assets reporting in and coming back up, but I want our key objectives handled by them. At least until we have the bigger picture."

Mike lowered his chin in an affirmative but silent agreement. Didn't need any convincing on the conspiracy front.

"Val's critical for communications," Tom rattled off, "but we got problems with Eng and the Doc—we're both gonna need em'."

That was a conundrum that Mike had already been ruminating. Couldn't run a ship without its Chief Engineer and Chief Medical Officer. And the list of qualified anything with medical experience was severely lacking. As in two; they'd identified two junior nurses out of ten thousand people, and they were only alive because they were immune.

"You're not keeping Milowsky?"

Tom shook his head. "POTUS wants him in Nebraska. They think they have a mutation."

"Not sending Scott?" His brow furrowed.

"Considered it, but with the security concerns and how short we are on personnel, she's coordinating with whatever secure labs we can find. Milowsky will send samples."

"Thought she said mutation wasn't possible?"

Tom quirked a brow. "She did. Hell if I know anything about science—POTUS still isn't convinced and Lincoln's on his list of key cities, so that's where Milowsky's going."

Mike couldn't reconcile why Lincoln, Nebraska, had any more relevance than any other place, but he also didn't care to go find out. Not when there were a million other pressing matters to address. "Still pissed about that whole thing?"

Tom lowered the hand from his face. "Not anymore—I said my piece, and it's not my problem." He paused and then continued. "But I still don't know what she was expecting me to do."

Mike had his own theory on that; whether he'd share remained undecided, though Tom seemed to be in a 'no bullshit' mood that might lend itself. "I don't think she thought you'd dig that hard—or that I'd even bring it to your attention."

Tom peered at him with a very flat, stony look in part confirming Mike's thought that Tom was not oblivious to the red herring. Not that he himself was paying attention, but the tidbit about Vyerni courtesy of Tex's overzealous mouth had pinged Mike's radar. The plan was to pass the note and small blade; the method with which she'd achieved it? That was on her.

Smirking now, Mike leaned further back in the chair, pivoting it, and looking up at the ceiling. "Kinda reminds me of that Ensign… what was her name?"

Tom groaned. "Isaac." The stony look prevailed.

Isaac. Thaaat was it. Back when Tom first made O-4; sposed Cooper gave context to how fast he'd shut that down and then covered his ass entirely with the Master Chief, and XO. Driven to kill any misunderstanding that might infer misconduct on his part, or hinder his chances of making O-5 and earning a command of his own. Mike had faced his own awkward cinches over the years; the need to work with an individual in a professional setting, who appeared to have deeper interest, on a boat with bored sailors who'd run anything through scuttlebutt in a second. Sure, it was always flattering—but in the end paled pitifully compared to his commitment to Christine and his kids—the very reason he was out working, providing, and protecting.

"I doubt it was ever really about me, Mike. These aren't exactly normal circumstances. It's not like there was anyone else willing to give her a chance at first, and I did. I think that's where it came from."

"I'm not sayin' you did anything to warrant it. You didn't, but then again—you've never really had to do much," Mike added. The clarification seemed to ease Tom's defensive sting. "Cooper though? Not sure you have an objective bone in your body about that."

Tom's cheeks hollowed, and then he sighed. Apparently too tired to keep fighting that battle, if for this moment. "I'm aware."

Exactly why Mike felt the need to remind him what felt like daily since she'd appeared. Even if at this juncture, it was a moot point. Whatever kind of spook she was would report to POTUS and handle intelligence. Not any of his business what those two did off ship, despite his personal disapproval of their entire deal—whatever the hell it was—but it bothered him, and Mike was past pretending like it didn't. How Tom was so mixed up in Sasha's shit when the loss of Darien was so fresh.

Then again, Darien hadn't stopped Tom from going to that beach…

For a hot second, Mike almost did it. Almost asked if he was really still in love with her or just spiraling because Darien was dead. He was due his own righteous tirade, just like the one Tom had taken about setting examples after Lizzy implied to Ashley that Darien was cheating with Mr. Fuller. After all, they spent a lot of time together. Same way her mom had with 'him'.

Except Mr. Fuller ran a book club and was gay… context that an eleven-year-old Ashley and thirteen-year-old Lizzy couldn't perceive.

Almost.

Instead, Mike picked up the report and went back to work.