an. Guest review responses below:

Guest 1 Thank you! So Tom didn't 'lie' overtly, but 'lied' by omission to Mike and Jeter. He shared the comment Michener made about 'losing such a competent operator' but did not disclose that Michener also made it known that he'd read both files and assumed they had an inappropriate past - though Michener heavily implied vs. outright calling Tom out. Michener was trying to dig for something that would level the playing field because Tom knows his most damning secret. Essentially, he saw Sasha as leverage to 'control' Tom except it backfired. Tom managed to accomplish multiple things, A) protected Sasha from Michener's scrutiny, B) showed Michener he can't be threatened with exposing their history/kept it buried, and C) established to Michener that he's willing to tell people about the stadium if he steps out of line again. I'm really glad you liked the contrast of Sasha vs Mike. I think she has a lot of things to accept/reflect on before she can truly forgive Tom. I think she believed she had, but now they're forced to be around each other, things inevitably surface. Just as Mike is getting pissed because he has no real understanding.

Guest 2 Pablo/Shemanski is totally sticking around because he is the best. I agree, Sasha needs him a lot even more so than Tom at this point. Laughed at your fear that they were suddenly getting hitched... absolutely not haha. I can't do instant magic wand everything is perfect so rest assured, they will need to actually figure this out before magically falling in together again! LOL

Also, I am not sure which of you wrote the review on 1998 so I will just say a blanket thank you :)

Cause It Hurts to Get Lost in Yesterday

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December 22nd, 2019—USS Nathan James, St. Louis, Missouri

Home.

Danny couldn't grasp it, and he'd seen more than most. It should be easier for him. Sure, it wasn't Kunar Province bad. The distinct lack of jihadists shooting at him from mountains tipped that scale, but everything surrounding the small two-by-two-mile city grid in the immediate vicinities of the courthouse, Bush and Dome stadiums drew the comparison. Dereliction. Littered streets. Windows boarded or smashed. Bodies. A carbon repeat of all they'd experienced in both Norfolk and Baltimore—every other war ravished place he'd been—but this was the America his child would be born into.

Some days it hit hard.

Today was one of them.

Danny felt it beneath his palms when relinquishing his weapon to the Master-at-Arms. Found the weight didn't lift when he surrendered his vest but grew only heavier. The expected announcement 'Captain on deck' came, and he took a breath before correcting his stance to address his commanding officer.

While he liked Chandler, respected him, the CO's ability to see things Danny wished to keep hidden unsettled at times. He wondered about that. Whether he disliked or found it comforting that Chandler seemed to know, even when he didn't 'know'.

Now standing before him by their ready tables, Chandler swept his profile, remaining silent, and it left Danny feeling too seen. He'd defined himself a soldier. A warrior. But in less than six months—well, two, since his feelings for Kara became impossible to deny—he'd become more.

A boyfriend.

A father to be.

Boyfriend. He cringed—how pathetic that sounded now.

After some moments, Chandler finally spoke. "Green."

"Sir."

Chandler tipped his head toward the flight deck. "Walk with me."

Wordlessly, he fell into step, the CO's demeanor reminding Danny of another not-so-distant time when he'd approached at the aft. They stopped beside the rail, the unseasonable warm spike blessing them for a second consecutive sun-drenched day. Chandler stood at ease, both hands clasped before him, but Danny still felt it prudent to hold posture closer to parade rest. A mechanism he employed for control.

"I wanted to let you know, I've recommended Foster for a position at the White House."

Danny refocused his gaze sharp on Chandler over the distraction of Burk engaged in what appeared to be a debate with Cruz beside the hanger-bay doors.

"I'm also keeping you here until the James is ready to deploy," Chandler continued. "By Garnett's estimate, we're looking at six weeks dry dock minimum… and I'm gonna need my best operator on the mission to retrieve our assets back east."

Danny let it wash over him. In the last twenty-four hours, some five thousand plus active service status had reported in via HF. Spread and holed up in bases across the country with more radioing in their surviving numbers by the hour. From what Danny had gathered from Shemanski and Granderson, most had gone 'AWOL'. Abandoned their orders to enforce quarantines, or he supposed reached the same conclusion as Chandler; the best chance of survival lay in thinking for themselves. Danny's assumption was that he'd be deployed with immediate effect to deliver and distribute cure to those bases.

Chandler had just bought him another six weeks.

"Thank you, sir." Danny's words were simple, but he held the precedence in his gaze.

Chandler lingered for a moment more before giving a curt nod, and turning to complete his next objective, Danny assumed.

"I—I'm going to ask her to marry me." Why had he blurted that out? Why now? Why to Chandler of all people?

Pausing his retreat, Chandler considered him over his left shoulder before returning. "I think that's an honorable decision."

The silence that followed was awkward, on his part at least, hadn't figured out how to read CO yet, but he was waiting. Sensed, Danny supposed that there was more to follow. "I met her mom in Norfolk—I think she'd be okay with it. She told me to take care of her—and the baby… and with everything that's going on…"

Was this some weird need to seek permission, Danny wondered, from his freaking CO?

"I don't have a ring," Danny said. No shit, dumbass. An equally awkward and semi-stupid closing statement, and he clenched his jaw. Forcing his runaway mouth closed because he couldn't sound more juvenile if he'd tried.

Chandler's eyes were narrowed in that wolfish way, and then he almost smiled. At least that's how Danny would label it, and it was strange because Chandler's mouth hadn't exactly moved. Had the vague thought that if Cooper were fit enough to witness this, she might have been able to translate that gesture.

"Think we can handle that part," Chandler said.

There was another beat before Chandler did something he often didn't do. Removed the hand had that pushed itself into his pocket and clapped him on the shoulder. "Get some rest, we'll debrief in the wardroom at o-four-hundred."

He was already retreating by the time Danny found his voice again.

"Aye, sir."

Sunday, October 31st, 1999—Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

"It's kind of anti-climactic," Sasha said, pivoting to face Tom.

Through the doorway, dust swirled lackadaisical in the golden hour sun cast from the hallway beyond. His footsteps echoed on the beaten wooden floors, planks straining and protesting his weight as he came to stop beside her.

"You were hoping for ghosts?" His brows drew upward, teasing her.

Sasha rolled her eyes but smirked. Couldn't say she believed in anything more than tangibles, but she wasn't opposed to experiencing proof. If there was any.

"It's all Hallows' Eve. If they exist, you'd think they'd show today, no?"

This hadn't been the plan, just something they'd stumbled upon while exploring the western mountains of Virginia. Really, they were here to see the trees and avoid the shit show that was Virginia Beach during Halloween weekend—the immeasurable number of colleagues who'd inevitably descend upon the bars—clawing instead every remaining second of fortunate timing that luck saw fit to bestow.

Tom had received orders. He would join USS Eisenhower upon its return from the U.S. Virgin Islands for a six-month tour. She, on the other hand, waited in limbo. Graduated from Dam Neck three weeks prior and been granted her top choice of base; Norfolk. Thus far, she had no orders for deployment and served shore duty in the interim like Tom.

Drawn further into the room, she approached the crumbling piano, its keys yellowed and packed with dirt.

Arms wound around her waist from behind. "Sure, if they existed… but they don't."

Sasha knew why he felt strongly about that. Tom maintained that Bosnia held proof that death was final—believing anything else was wishful-thinking—Catholic upbringing be damned. There was no bright white light, no peace in the penultimate moments of ragged breaths, no spiritual epiphany one could attribute to God. Just the understanding of the condition and frailty of man. Of all that he could unleash.

Often she wondered if she'd experience death the way Tom had. Delivered it. Almost succumbed to it.

Unlikely.

She was an analyst; her job wouldn't draw her to frontlines, but there was risk in living aboard a moving target or a base within enemy territory. Facts that Tom said he preferred not to focus on in relation to her. Part of the feeling she couldn't shake; the trepidatious alarm. Caution that nothing this perfect lasted forever… and maybe, just maybe, it had already been stolen for too long.

"What's the matter, Sash?" Tom whispered against her hair.

She drew her hand away from the weathered ivory and encircled the width of his wrist she could span. Cast her gaze across the abandoned crumbling remains of the once proud farmhouse, its walls peeling and tagged with graffiti.

Gentle, but insistent, he turned her within the circle of his arms. Canted his head and stooped to catch her eyes.

"Just thinking," she muttered.

"About?" The word was drawn. Coaxing her to divulge.

"That I'm going to miss you."

To date, the longest they'd been without seeing each other was three weeks. A joke compared to the reality of facing concurrent active-duty tours spanning thirty-six and thirty months respectively. Three entire years where they may find themselves in the same place but a few weeks of the year. Possibly not at all.

Relationships didn't survive like that.

Not when she couldn't so much as email him. Command reviewed every single one, would have to rely on coded letters sent by proxy through his sister; a thing that would take weeks if they made it at all. None of this was supposed to happen. She wasn't meant to fall in love with him. Not like this. Like she didn't know what to do with a day where he wasn't in it. An ever-increasing fear that she'd do anything to keep this.

Anything.

Sasha never thought they'd make it this far.

Both of Tom's hands framed her face; a thing that still possessed her heart.

"It'll be okay. I promise you, nothing's going to change how I feel about you."

She swallowed and tried to will her soft smile not to falter. Kept her lips shut because what she didn't want was to ruin this weekend.

A loud bang tore through the space, sounded like the slam of a door. They both jumped, but Tom recovered faster and drew his sidearm from its holster. In her throat, her pulse ticked, adrenaline and she had to admit fear kicking through her system.

"Stay behind me," he mumbled low.

On this, she wouldn't protest, not when she didn't have her own weapon. They passed through the foyer, the large double-wide door left open thanks to Sasha's impromptu decision to trespass upon the property, driven by curiosity.

Tom paused.

A frown creasing his brow when they reached a closed door. A door that most definitely had been open because they'd walked through it less than five minutes prior. Approaching slow, Tom readied the gun, checked once more that she was heeding his instruction to stay behind his cover, and then swung it open.

Four sets of feet scurried scratchy and fast across the checkered tile of what was once a kitchen. Tom relaxed, removing his finger from the trigger well before flipping the safety on.

"There's your ghosts," he grinned.

Biting her lip and trying to pretend like she hadn't been scared, Sasha stepped in, watching the last raccoon scamper away through the rear patio door which hung valiantly from one hinge.

"Cute," she grumbled.

December 22nd, 2019—Hyatt Regency on Chestnut, St. Louis, Missouri

Garnett peered up from the service space beneath the elevator, a flashlight secured between her teeth. Russ watched, hands laden with cabling and supplies, ready to assist per her instruction. The hotel comprised 910 rooms, 62 of which were executive suites, 0.1 miles from the courthouse, with two ballrooms spanning 20,000 and 17,000 square feet respectively—the perfect staging areas for stockpiling, protecting, and disseminating supplies. A task made easier by Mayor Oliver's generous cooperation in allowing their teams to access reserves at both Busch Stadium and The Dome.

The expansive lobby was abuzz with activity. It was clean, selected early on to house citizens for quarantine. One of the few they'd encountered that had worked. Earlier, the occupants of the lower floors had been relocated to the smaller of the two hotels which anchored the south-west and eastern blocks adjacent the courthouse. A temporary measure until the suburbs surrounding the safe zone could be cleared and re-established.

It was the hope Russ personified.

The immovable vision he'd believed in, given to him by God.

"Alright, we should be good," Garnett mumbled, voice strained when she pushed herself back on the dolly. "Let's fire her up."

Russ extended a hand to assist her in standing, a wide smile adorning his face. "Yes, ma'am."

USS Nathan James, St. Louis, Missouri

Spread across the wardroom table lay blueprints and city maps. Danny leaned forward, pencil in hand to notate borders. "Everything outside of here looks the same as Baltimore. We couldn't get past these streets, they're completely blocked. Looks like people tried to make it out and hit gridlock."

"Pretty much how it went, yeah," Shemanski confirmed absently.

Tom shot a glance to the younger man, quick, but noticeable to Sasha if the way she quirked her lip indicated.

Today, she seemed better. Less like she was existing because she had to, and more like she'd found a purpose—however fragile it seemed—sposed he had Shemanski to thank for that. He, on the other hand, was still cursed with knowing that most everything he did hurt her; their conversation yesterday more than showed it. Kept him awake long into the night amidst the avoidance of seeing Darien in his dreams, and attempting to heed Slattery's incessant caution against bias... the silent but simmering judgment he felt approaching its peak.

"Blockades are still in place across the bridges. Didn't have time to make it Lambert yet, but Kara said the satellite feed shows the runways are clear. Same with the airfield across river," Green continued. "Everything useful in the immediate areas was looted. Even inside the quarantine grid. All the office buildings appear to be deserted, but I need to be honest, sir—we're looking at a nightmare in terms of security. There are hundreds of viable spots to set up a sniper post or sneak past the barricades."

Leaning again, Danny circled more buildings and Tom braced both hands against the table, fists closed.

"At minimum, we need to own these five, excluding the hotel, before we can move POTUS."

The sound of paper flipping filled the silence, Slattery scanning down a list. "Four hundred sixty-eight of the folks who showed up yesterday listed themselves as having prior formal weapons or security training. Eighty-two are veterans," he said.

Tom inclined his head in acknowledgment and straightened. While the idea of entrusting such a critical aspect to civilians—who could also be immunes—felt too risky, this was pure arithmetic until their troops could be cured and shipped in. He directed focus toward Green, and Shemanski, who Sasha assured him was more than accomplished at forming guerrilla armies sleight of hand at the behest of Washington. Helped topple unfavorable regimes and insert leaders indentured to write trade; the shadowy, murky underbelly she'd inhabited over his polished and forthright one.

But an army was no good without weapons; immediate conundrum number two. Or five hundred. Tom's temples throbbed for the overexertion of his brain, and this day was only half done.

"We need everyone we've got… at least we found enough fuel to get our bird up. We'll hit as many bases as we can starting at o-six hundred. Rock Island, Fort Leonard, M.C. Command, see who or what we can find. God willing, one of them still has an arsenal," Tom said. "Run basic drills with the civilians tomorrow. Have them hold Broadway to Memorial and Pine to Walnut. Once it's secured we'll move POTUS."

A silent chorus of nods from both Green and Shemanski followed his directive, and then Slattery inhaled, the air hissing between his teeth.

"Good news on the hotel, at least." Mike put the clipboard down and stood at rest. "Garnett says the power's holding, got the elevators working… kitchen's up and running, Bacon says we have enough food from the federal supplies sent for quarantine to last a month, and Jeter said there's booze left."

Tom blinked and then chuckled softly.

"Great," Sasha chimed, tone erring sarcastic. "Guess he's getting his inauguration."

Despite wearing four layers, Sasha still shivered. The unseasonable temperate afternoon had evaporated when the sun set beneath horizon. Beyond the Seahawks' green deck, light glowed. The courthouse was illuminated by bright floodlights, and for a moment, she stared. Reminded vividly of home. Her reaction in hindsight was stupid considering she'd read all the sit-reps—attended the twice-daily debriefs between naps—knew that the zone was trickling power from a hydroelectric plant. Beyond the hanger doors, crisp air flowed, the breeze stinging at her cheeks and carrying with it the distinctive scent of dew-filled grass and civilization.

She drew the standard-issue cold-weather jacket tighter over the sweater, tucked flyways behind her ear, and approached the ready table where Pablo was suiting up. Tex glanced over before resuming conversation with a young girl—around fifteen if Sasha had to guess—that she'd never seen before.

"Wish you could come," Pablo said while loading extra mags into his vest. "For old times' sake."

"You and me both."

"How long you got?"

That was just it, she had no definitive answer. "Could be anywhere from eight to twelve weeks. Maybe longer. All depends on how the core muscles heal… and it's not like I have access to a physical therapist anymore."

He paused mid-way through loading up another mag. "It's a big country, bound to be some left. We'll find you one."

She smiled softly. "Did you come up with a name yet?"

This time, he grinned. "I was thinkin' Uncle Sam."

"Uncle Sam?" she drawled, one brow now quirked.

He gestured with both hands in defense. "We're in America, what's more American than that?"

"Jesus," she scoffed, shaking her head and stuffing her hands into the center pocket of Tom's sweater. "You planning a recruitment video in cut-offs with a fuckin' eagle and mohawk too?"

"Hell yeah, I am."

"Well your hair's long enough to do it."

"Captain on deck."

Her expression faltered, and Pablo didn't miss it, observing with keen intrigue. His focus slid between Chandler's approach to the way Sasha avoided looking in the Captain's direction. "You know, for a sucker that let you take his cabin, you sure aren't friendly with each other much."

Tom became gravity whenever he entered a space. She despised it, couldn't seem to escape his orbit… and she also didn't want this conversation.

"Least not like I've seen you be with anyone else you've worked that close with," Pablo continued.

This time, the way Pablo's bullets pressed into the magazine seemed to resonate. Loud metallic clicks while she tried hard not to feel Tom's gaze from the other table. Tried not to notice the action of him putting on a TAC vest.

"He's the Captain. He's busy."

"And you call him Tom."

She didn't recall doing that in front of Pablo. Stepping closer she narrowed her eyes. "Who told you that?"

Coy, Pablo shrugged. Loaded the now completed mag into his vest before checking his gun's chamber and returned the favor of ignoring questions.

"This isn't high school, Paul."

"Come onnnn, not much else to talk about—unless you wanna rehash how the world's gone to shit?"

The look Sasha gave was withered, her silence resounding.

"Fine. No details on Captain America—I got the message. But I preferred him before he figured out that we know each other. You know he can be a real hard son-of-a-bitch?"

"Now you're being dramatic."

"I'm serious. The guy's face hasn't moved a muscle since I hugged you. And it was all good before that."

Drawing her head left, she sobered. "There's a lot more going on than you, Paul. He has a family, his wife just died. Cut the crap—go get us a stash and mind your own business."

He smirked. "You know you're not doing anything but convincing me I'm right?"

"Be glad that I can't come. You'd find a stray bullet in your ass."

This time, he laughed, the sound carrying across the bay.

Shemanski watched Sasha walk away, choosing to approach the tables occupied by both Green and Wolf. Tex's daughter handed him some completed mags and then left herself to go speak with Diaz who hovered. Watching them work. Good kid, in his opinion… Diaz spent a lot of time on the ground asking questions. Learning. Shemanski was all for that; the more people who could take care of themselves, the better.

After shifting the gun onto its strap and securing it to his back, Shemanski approached Tex, about the only one he believed would tell it straight. Shemanski made a vague gesture with his head in Chandler's direction. "You know what their whole deal's about?"

Tex snorted, "Beats me, my friend. This ships like the damn love boat. Foster got herself knocked up by Green. Burks got it like a puppy-dog for Ravit, and listen, I make no secret that I'm all for the Doc, if she was interested, but she ain't—she's sweet on Commodore and he's married, or was married—wife died less than a month ago—but then your girl shows up, and I gotta tell ya, I got the same questions as you." Tex lowered his chin and peered. "I was hoping you'd know."

He made a noise. Something close to 'huh' and rechecked his sidearm. "Not a single clue."

There was one thing Sasha would never do: be stupid enough to let Tom go with nothing. Couldn't. The burden of falling deeper paled against the very plausible prospect of him not returning. There were just too many variables now to play those kinds of games.

"Try and rein in the cowboy."

His cheeks hollowed before he peered up beneath hooded lids. Within the second, that damning echo beneath her sternum rang true, and she'd long since learned how to prevent it from showing on her face but never once to stop the way it felt when he did that to her.

"I'm not the one that almost got myself blown up," he countered, resuming his pre-op routine.

"You're right, just kidnapped." Tom said nothing, but it still smoldered in her direction. The silence. "You heard what Donaldson said… you're number one on their list and Scott's number two—just watch your back. Please."

Finally, his stance thawed. The tension loosened and he lifted his head this time. Stopped using the items on the table to disseminate his attention. It trapped her. Kept her locked in some type of intimate exchange that had no place in a hanger bay full of personnel while the light wind pulled that stubborn lock away from her ear. The strands danced across her cheek, and she saw Tom fighting himself not to do it. Do what he'd always done and tuck them back.

"Wheels up in fifteen!"

She'd almost flinched such was the depth of the vortex she'd succumbed to.

Almost.

Instead, she tucked the strand for herself, broke eye contact, and walked away.