an. No spoilers, but if you're the visual kind of person this hotel is the Hyatt Regency St. Louis if you'd like to see some of the spaces... particular relevance on the 'Business Suite King'. I promise that will make sense by the end ;)

Guest review responses below:

Guest 1 You're excused lol! I'm glad you like the inclusion of Shackleton & Hayward. I don't see why the non-continental territories of the US (and the rest of the world) wouldn't fair much better. Kind of lifting from COVID, I imagine AUS and NZ shut down immediately and are functioning quite well, but, without solid global communications – no one really knows. Wolf referenced being in Sydney in the Season 3 opener.

They do trade-off. I think for their characters it's always easier to be there for someone else than figure out how to deal with themselves. Tom for sure derives purpose & strength from 'doing'. You're right, he's losing his shit not being able to help his kids. Beating himself up over every perceived failure and struggling with the consequences of his past with Sasha so a 'timeout' on all that baggage just to do something simple like be there for someone when asked is cathartic, even though he hates why it's happening. Omg, I love how you wrote that: 'funhouse version of reality' that's totally it! Her whole world is over, and now collectively they're taking steps forward and she finds that very hard because she's just trying to make one day work at a time. I also love that you appreciated acknowledging how complex grief is in regard to her anger at Andrew. It's not some neat little bow where you only feel sad. I won't spoil this chapter, but I think it does answer your thoughts on how she feels about asking for Tom.

Lastly, regarding whether Tom has questions about whether she decided she wanted kids, he does. He's already correctly deduced that this pregnancy wasn't planned – his experience of Sasha is that she was always extremely cognizant and would never take an 'oopsie' chance. However, he's not stupid and recognizes that may have changed over the course of a decade. That being said, he's not going to ask anytime soon because he's scared to talk to her in general about anything she doesn't offer first. He's letting her set the pace of everything basically.

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Guest 2 I'm sorry it had to be so sad and heartbreaking. I've had that Mike & Sasha conversation drafted for months now! I was excited to reach it. I'm so glad you liked it. Mike is very loyal and he's just looking out for his best friend. I think its pretty obvious to Mike now he has the full scope that Tom's always going to hold regret over Sasha. I think Mike's also read enough of Sasha (though limited) that after revisiting everything with this new information, he suspects her feelings run deep for her to still give Tom the time of day. This was his way of confirming his hunch and making peace with the whole thing… and also hinting that maybe she might consider not disappearing. Before this context, Mike honestly thought she was the type of woman that loves the idea of someone chasing them and thought the whole beach thing was Sasha proving she could still hold power over Tom. Not the nicest, but Mike felt like in the past he was always making the effort for Tom's benefit, and she didn't give a crap.

Re: the question from last chapter. Ah! I get it now. Yes, Sasha and Tom's opinions differ on whether he cheated. She had broken up with him and didn't explicitly state 'I'm going to think about this more and get back to you' after he told her he was waiting. If she'd communicated, Sasha would agree that he cheated. Tom, however, knows he made a declaration and then didn't honor it. It's irrelevant to him whether Sasha and he were 'together' at the time because he was in love with her, and still believed they weren't truly 'over'. Really, Tom was cheating emotionally on Darien from day one – it wasn't his goal, but the black and white truth is he was. And the moment he decided to call Sasha to re-declare his feelings, he should have ended his physical relationship. That's where he fucked up and he 100% knew it was wrong and continued for purely selfish reasons. Aka, he was lonely. As you stated, Tom isn't the morally perfect caricature the show/he was touted to be. He's a flawed human. In the decade, Tom was able to resolve most of his guilt on Darien's part by giving her everything she wanted. References: Conversation: Chapter 5 'Pretty good sex, out of context' Scene: Chapter 13 'Show me your pieces' Conversation: Chapter 20 'Awake & Restless' Conversation: Chapter 28 'Living life in reverie'

Call Me Friend but Keep Me Closer

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For a few precious moments, Sasha existed devoid of self-inflicted rule and the bounds of time. It could have been any day. Any random day of their lives and it would be the same; legs entwined beneath the covers, back against his chest, weightless and wrapped in a place of quality difficult to define.

Tom was still sleeping, breaths even and deep, warming her shoulder where they fanned, and he hadn't moved.

At all.

That wasn't new.

In the past, she'd thought this another endearing quirk; Tom's ability to maintain a position guaranteed to bring dead arm by morning. Not until joining D.I.A. did Sasha connect the dots—slept cold on the ground in ten-minute bursts, ravaged by constant shitless terror that she'd be killed or worse—caught and maimed. After eight days of baser survival, Sasha had sat in an aircraft hangar slumped against a crate, satphone clutched between trembling hands, with one person and a single message in mind.

I see you now.

All those little things from before… why Tom avoided keeping his back to a door. The ability to re-count insignificant detail with alarming precision. Removing the ceiling fan from the master bedroom of their first place.

Somewhere between deciding to screw her mildly arrogant superior—to realizing she'd fallen in love—to taking the leap of faith and letting Tom in, they'd had it all. Everything. But it took a decade from their meeting and eight days that had redefined her, for Sasha to grasp the rarity of them.

It was one thing to trust with your life, another to give up your heart, but it was something else entirely to feel safe in baring your soul.

She never did find the courage to make that phone call.

Closing her eyes once more, Sasha curled her hands around the forearm hugged to her chest. Tom stirred; his own hand wrapped around her bicep tightening before it relaxed. Maybe they could stay here—just for a while—maybe this timeout could stretch the full day. Wishful thinking, she knew. Soon enough, duty would strip this from her too—but until then, she'd cling to him; the one person who'd always let her exist, precisely as she had to.

Mike could a' used a Red Bull in addition to the three cups of coffee. Tom's alarm rang shrill a full thirty minutes earlier than his own. Long enough to count, but too short for capturing more sleep. With every blink, Mike's eyelids felt gritty. Dressed in his working uniform, cold-weather turtleneck beneath, and below-zero jacket over top, Mike approached the Master Chief.

"How long's it been goin'?" His voice sounded rough as he felt.

Foreboding, Russ answered, "Approaching an hour, and the ground teams as far as Kansas City are looking at the same."

"Son of a bitch," Mike muttered. Beyond the lobby entrance, a view normally filled by Gateway Park and the courthouse, Mike could see nothing but white. "A goddamn snowstorm."

It was early, forty minutes shy of daily muster at o-eight-hundred sharp, but Mike was unsurprised when Dr. Scott entered the lobby, and, after briefly scanning, made haste toward him.

Stopped several feet away, ripping her hood down, she then removed her mask. "We've relocated everyone we possibly can into the designated buildings, but we need more space."

The declaration had been terse, and Mike recognized that look all too well. Also preferred when Tom was on the receiving end.

"You're suggesting we set them up here?" Skeptacism dripped. "After we just held an hour-long all hands on maintain—"

"Yes, I'm quite aware," she snapped. Blinked several times. "Apparently, you've already forgotten who devised it."

"Well you'll excuse me if I'm gettin' a little whiplash here."

Though his demeanor remained cool, Russ straightened. "I think it's best the Captain be involved before we make any decisions."

It took less than ten seconds to register the thing missing outside the window; the arch. From his position, and given the daylight, it should be visible. Another knock came, firmer—enough to rouse Sasha too, and the ever-gnawing confliction embedded since Ruskov's attack flared bitter and deep.

Five minutes.

He just wanted five fucking minutes to hold her before this happened. Scraped at empty resolve to keep answering the call, knowing it would prevent him from being where he was needed. Again.

But he had to.

How could he ask his crew, these people, to keep serving when they too longed for release? When Mike stayed with the mission over searching for his own? Twice. Wrenched, Tom inhaled, tightening his embrace before forcing himself to withdraw. Her toes had curled around his; still half asleep.

Then, steps from the door, Tom bent to retrieve the keycard on the carpet. Given pause, but not shocked to realize he'd spaced grabbing it after Andrea appeared. Mike must have slipped it under earlier.

When he opened the door, Mike appeared worn as Tom felt; dark bags beneath both eyes. "We got a problem. Doc wants to bring in the Bleeders."

Tom blinked. "I thought we agreed we weren't calling them that?"

Mike huffed through his nose. "Yeah well, Immunes, Bleeders—who knows anymore? I'm not sure we're even in America right now."

Tom swallowed. "Let's just stick with the sick. I take it there's a storm?"

Jaw tight, Mike gave a short, bitter laugh. "Just can't catch a break, huh?"

Absent, Tom murmured, "No." Then, corrected his posture, rapid-fire searching for alternate solutions.

Red Flu wasn't the issue. It was everything else Dr. Scott detailed within her report; the critical need to protect and limit exposure amongst not just the crew, but their families. The sixteen children, in addition to Ray Diaz and his group, currently living in this hotel. "Meet in conference D—fifteen minutes. Bring The President."

It was not the lingering, but the modicum of sympathy in Mike's expression which struck. A stark change from jaded exhaustion. "Sorry it had to happen today."

Tom couldn't answer that. Not without projecting more than stoicism. Softly, Tom inclined his chin, and Mike responded with a brief nod before leaving to execute the directive.

Sasha was awake now, despite only facing her back, he could tell. Much as Tom had, mere hours before, he rounded the bed. Tried to ignore the burning sensation upon registering the blanket clutched and tucked beneath her chin. Same one he'd come to understand Sasha slept with every night, when not occupying his cabin.

"It's fine, Tom," she murmured, though her eyes remained closed. "Go."

Nothing about this was 'fine'.

Actively pulled in so many directions, Tom feared the snap. It would come for him; of that, he held zero doubt. Trapped in a twisted cycle where every move tore him from something he loved. Challenged the fundamental belief of his purpose, and he could see it now. How men went insane.

Made him question what pushed Ramsey so far. Morphed Ruskov from the leader he'd studied, respected, to a man he'd killed. Tried to reject how deep parallels of himself ran within Jeffrey Michener.

Maybe if he begged her forgiveness, it would help? But he didn't deserve it, not from the woman he'd failed before anyone else. And maybe he was projecting, but something told Tom there was a reason greater than sleep behind her choice to keep her eyes closed.

Tender, he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, idling while resigning himself. "I'm sorry, Sasha."

The flourish of a crease between her eyebrows formed before smoothing. "It's fine," she repeated. "Just go."

Kara froze while adjusting a bobby pin when the knock came. On land to date, her attention had not been required before daily muster. The immediate, fearful conclusion was Danny. Something must have happened in Fort Knox. After checking the peephole, dread intensified, color draining.

What else would prompt Captain Chandler to approach personally?

She turned the handle, willing her voice not to waver. "Good morning, sir."

Nodding, he responded cordially but detached. "Mrs. Green."

Oh god.

Kara had seen this plagued expression before. In Baltimore.

Stood behind Tex, and numbed by terror, Kara hadn't perceived something was off with CO until they'd returned to the Nathan James. Briefly, he'd visited to suspend her duties pending a medical review. Asked that she speak up should she need 'time' and inquired after her well-being. It was not the gesture but his outward appearance that drew Kara's scrutiny—hadn't learned about his late wife until Burk pulled her aside afterwards.

They'd been married for ten days. There's no way she could become a widow in ten days.

"Has something happened? With the ground teams?"

Chandler faltered first into confusion before swinging to understanding. Perhaps regret. "No. We have a storm. As of last check in, Fort Knox was unaffected. Cold, but clear. The mission is going as planned."

Air flowed with greater ease through Kara's lungs.

"It's looking like we'll need to house some of the sick for the duration. I haven't made a decision yet. I'll consult with The President and Dr. Scott, but I'm gonna have you stay put until we have a better grasp on things."

She blinked a few times; their recent briefing and Debbie's subsequent fear-mongering propelled to the forefront. Aside from being ravaged by Red Flu, their triage teams had identified sixty-five cases of tuberculosis. One hundred and three cases of hepatitis-A. Hundreds more of typhoid fever, different influenzas, pneumonia… everything, and the numbers grew daily. Before St. Louis, Kara hadn't known TB still occurred at home. Any of them, for that matter. The list of infectious diseases and viruses Scott provided had comprised many names that Kara previously held synonymous with 'overseas'. But then Sasha had mentioned the hell at their southern borders a full month before everything collapsed, and Kara had sobered.

Yes, they'd been vaccinated against more than the average American upon joining the military, but she was pregnant now. They lacked infrastructure. Certain infections could still pass through the bloodstream and harm her baby, even if she presented no symptoms.

Chandler, advised by Scott, had implemented strict protocols to limit exposure between ground teams, those interacting with the sick, and all that remained. Repeated the importance of caution around their most vulnerable, and critical personnel; the President, Vice President, and recently promoted Chief Staff of the Army, General Bonner. Captain Chandler had removed himself from that list, Kara noted.

But three days ago, Miller had coughed and then placed himself in isolation.

Danny had taken up additional strange routines that Kara, though she understood, could pick holes in.

Chandler had switched from thinking his kids were safer in Norfolk, to wanting them within a Seahawk's distance of Fort Leonard's understaffed, but functional hospital.

"I'll have the Galley crew bring your breakfast up, along with a radio. Is there anything else that you need?"

Ripped from her musing, Kara refocused. "I'd still like to be useful, sir. I can continue working on the census from here, or the ration segments."

He nodded, sharp and stiff. "Very well."

With flurries of snow dusted upon his hair, Tom rested both fists against the conference table and braced his weight.

Dark mahogany, large enough to accommodate twenty people in a generic pale yellow-toned room with a presentation board hung on one side. Pinned to it were several maps of the Continental United States. One, bounded by the FEMA disaster response zones. An identical depiction lay sprawled across Michener's desk. A third upon the board in the green room of the White House.

The gravity Tom likened to a black hole was no longer skirting his orbit—he was consumed. Knowingly obsessing. Granderson had stared at the wall for four days after Baltimore. Eventually, he'd found the solution; Kara. But he'd left Sasha alone, and she'd asked for him. Sasha never asked for help. Should have listened to his gut and pulled Shemanski two days ago.

Needed Andrea verifying the generators would hold if power failed… and the way it looked, it seemed guaranteed. Tex was with Shemanski, hunkered down against the same storm in Indianapolis three hundred miles east, just like the team three hundred miles west in Kansas City. Didn't require a meteorologist to know that was bad news.

Kathleen was… still a kid. Didn't want to put that kind of grief on a teenager, and he'd be the definition of moronic to suggest Kara right now, yet Tom couldn't identify anyone else he'd seen Sasha engage with—maybe Ravit? She knew. After Sasha succumbed to fatigue, he'd been humble in his request that Ravit keep private anything overheard. Lifted in heavy spirit when Ravit responded with a wry, 'what conversation?' The first real thawing of ice toward him since Cody's death.

"How many are we talkin'?" Mike asked.

Stood twenty feet removed, at the opposite end, Rachel paced. "A little over eight thousand."

Tom dragged his gaze from the mahogany surface slowly to peer at her. Eight thousand people.

Michener, who'd been perched at the same end as Bonner, Oliver, Mike, Jeter, and himself, stood and ran a hand across his mouth before jamming it into his pocket.

Rachel stopped pacing and folded her arms. "Including children."

As though scripted, Rios entered the room, thermometer in hand, glasses fogging, which he hastily removed and wiped before re-wearing. "Twenty-three degrees in the tents and dropping, sir. It was twenty-five less than an hour ago."

"In English, please?" came Rachel's terse request.

"Six below zero," Tom muttered. "And we're looking at what? Twelve, maybe fifteen mile per hour winds?"

The Master Chief nodded. "Yes, sir."

Eyes shifting left to right, Tom straightened. "We can fill the James—push her to the limit of what she can handle and still float—"

"She is light on weapons and cargo—you think we could pack in five?" Mike interjected.

"Start with four. Add more if we can… prioritize the women and children."

Beside Michener, Oliver added input. "We can use the courthouse, fill both circuit hearing rooms and the main dome?"

"Yes," Jeffery muttered, the cogs of problem-solving turning within his own head now. "That could be close to a thousand… perhaps more?"

Studying now the hotel's blueprints laid across the table, Tom turned to Russ, "How many do you think we can fit in the main hall?"

Jeter raised his brows regretfully. "With all the supplies?"

Walk through a room of contagious and sick people to access their basic needs.

"We modify Circle William—all non-essential personnel stay above level four; everyone below wears a suit. We should still have enough oxygen to run it that way for a few days."

Bonner shifted. The man was in his mid-fifties, medium build with mousey brown hair, and thick wiry eyebrows. A touch taller than Tom, but less than Slattery's height. "I hate to be the one—but we're talking about risking the health of a group of people essential to rebuilding this country—when most of those folks outside are already dead."

Rachel stiffened. "That's not true. Yes—some of them are beyond help. But you're talking about sentencing them to what—hypothermia? Freezing to death? They're sick, and we can cure the Red Flu, and treat the other symptoms as best we can to give their immune systems a chance to fight back. Some of them are simply malnourished—what you're suggesting is certain death when we have the power to provide a chance for survival!"

"Agreed," Tom spoke up. Folding arms across his chest and facing Bonner with a steely gaze. "That's not what we're about—it's one thing when we don't have a cure… but we have that now—"

"For the Bleeders, sure. But what happens when the antibiotics run out?" Bonner shot back.

Visibly flushed, Rachel countered, "Both Guam and Hawaii still have functional laboratories and facilities capable of mass-producing cure and medications… and I would assume with the discovery of additional functioning ships developing a supply chain will take priority. If anything, this should be evidence enough to convince you all of its importance."

Peering to his right at Mike, Tom noted the suppression of a smirk.

"Dr. Scott is correct—" Michener lifted his head, pivoting his stance toward Bonner "—the actions we take now will define who we are as a nation. All that we intend to rebuild. Our enemies have already sought to divide us; our communities are scared. We must send a clear message of compassion and unity." Pausing, he addressed the wider room. "I want it done. Find a place for as many as we can—women and children first."

Around the room, muttered echoes of 'Yes, Mr. President' followed.

For a while, Sasha watched the snow or rather zoned out, sat in a chair by the window looking at dull white. The radio delivered along with her breakfast remained untouched. Lunch too. Made a request not to waste dinner on her, then slept some more. The method to occupy changed—the blanket, a pillow, the hem of Tom's sweater—even plugged in her cell phone and regretted the choice. Ignored the idea of charging Andrew's laptop. Flipped at a book filled with meaningless words instead, then tried to picture Pablo holed up with Tex, moaning and bitching about the cold.

Yet, the option to distract with duty felt viscerally wrong on this day. The idea of continuing to pour over death records, searching for any trace of Andrew's parents or sister. It only made the weight in her stomach triple tenfold, and nothing else that she held was dulling the broken ache in her palms like clutching Tom's forearm.

He'd tasted this in Baltimore. How it felt to stand packed with a crowd of desperate, sick, and dying people, but the stadium provided more space. This was unlike anything Tom had ever seen. The sound alone, children's cries, and the frantic, shrill tone eerie and un-nerving where it bounced and then echoed against granite-clad walls.

Through the narrow walkway left clear for their people to maneuver, Granderson approached.

"It's up and running, sir. We rerouted the IP PBX to the same satellite we hacked from the DOD. All test calls were completed, landlines between the hotel and White House are working." Granderson presented a clipboard and peered up, expression unreadable under CBR gear.

"Outstanding, lieutenant." Tom took the clipboard, scanning the handwritten notes detailing instructions. "Make sure you hit decontamination before you head up."

"Aye, sir."

Bustling through the crowd, Slattery approached, also kitted in his own CBR. He gestured for Chandler to move closer to the service space behind the check-in counters designated for rest breaks and oxygen tank exchange. Both helmets hissed when removed, Slattery's short hair damp from sweat, and skin limned.

"You should head up—we've got this in hand—"

Tom made to protest but was cut off when the power failed. The eerie din turned into a chorus of gasps, and a few terrified wails from kids before Jeter's voice rang loud to calm the civillians. The small service space glowed green under the illumination of emergency battery powered lighting they'd pre-set in anticipation.

Jaw tight, Tom pursed his lips, but Slattery raised a hand.

"It lasted longer than we thought—Garnett's got the generators, they'll be up in a few minutes—but you're no good to us bedridden and if you won't get the hell out of here because you should, then you need to do it for your kids. Last thing they need is to get here and find their dad sick."

Tom locked eye contact without blinking.

"No one's gonna hold that you against you—and you'd tell me the same if the roles were reversed."

Dropping eye contact, Tom exhaled through his nose. "I hate this, Mike. Asking the crew to take risks I'm not willing to take."

Softening, Mike's head bobbed. "We know that. And you've taken them and lost just the same… but that doesn't mean you gotta lose everythin' else too."

Again, the silence stretched while the ramifications and depth of what Mike was saying percolated. "You know, it only occurred to me after Scott's report that I don't even know what shots my own damn kids have had?" Tom scoffed. "Darien did all of that."

Mike's bowline drew, and he swallowed. "Yeah, well—I don't know my head from my ass without Christine."

Tom was grinding his jaw, focused intently on reading an instructional label stuck to one of the oxygen tanks.

Sobering, he heard Mike inhale. Same thing he often did when sticking by reaffirming an order, except it was coming from his XO.

"We have this in hand—nothin' you can do here anymore that's gonna make difference… but you've got someone you can help sittin' up there alone in the dark, livin' every parent's worst nightmare."

Tom pushed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth; held his breath to maintain control while that scorched beneath his ribs.

Mike clapped his arm, firm. "Get outta here."

The low-grade anxiety threatening full-blown panic settled when Tom spied the figure in his bed. Tension melted from his frame, and he set the flashlight on the table occupying the living space of his business suite.

"I've been looking for you," he said softly.

Though the room was dim, illumination seeping through the partially open blackout curtains, Tom could still make out her features. Mostly hollow, and sad.

"And you found me."

He toed off the boots he hadn't bothered tying after decontamination and approached. "You can break into hotel rooms now, too?"

Relieved when it earned a gentle if tepid lip quirk. "Surprisingly easy. Stick a marker in the bottom—pops right open."

She was closer to his side, his pillow clutched in her arms.

"You're just in time," she continued. The lilt was gentle, the thing normally entwined when she was teasing except it was off. Always had been able to tell when it wasn't quite right, but now it only made him ache.

Removing his watch, Tom set it on the nightstand. "Why's that?"

"I was about to try and guess the password to your laptop—for some reason, I have this hunch I'd find every Bruce Willis movie in existence. Maybe some Bourne—and if I was lucky, Casino Royale."

Warmth sorely missing spread itself into a half-smile upon Tom's face.

Next, he removed his belt. "Technically, no—half are on an external drive."

"So I'm right," she said.

And then Tom retrieved the nightclothes left hanging over a chair. "If you're looking for Casino Royale, then you're in luck."

For the benefit of boundaries, he changed in the bathroom, exiting with his BDUs in hand, and placed them folded on the table before grabbing the laptop and setting it next to Sasha. He adjusted the pillows for her comfort; seemed like the injury hurt less, but every so often, he caught the stiffening if she moved the wrong way.

It could have been any day. Any random day of their lives. And were it not for the constant thing Tom could only compare to taking steps with a blister, he'd fall prey to delusion. The desire to pretend this was his life. The alternate parallel that didn't exist. He was wrapped around her again, James Bond long over, storm raging outside, feet entwined, with her hands on his forearm and the length of their bodies pressed together.

"Tom?"

"Mm?" He was back to wondering how her hair could still smell the same, despite knowing the product was different.

"It's a little kinky that you picked a room with a conference table in it—" he snapped both eyes open "—but I kind of like it." Her nonchalant statement lilted softly through the air.

He spat out a breath; a sound between bewildered and amused. "You're not right, Sasha."

Somehow, he could hear her coy grin—and it didn't make a damn bit of sense—that, or how she could keep finding ways to lift the throes of despair; make comments like the Sasha of old even at her worst.

"You like that too," she chimed, sighing, and adjusting her head on the pillow, toes fidgeting between his absently as before.

God, he missed her.

Drawing his arms tighter, Tom pressed his forehead against the back of her head, closed his eyes, and inhaled deep.