an. Guest responses below:

Guest 1 Thank you for your always thoughtful reviews. I love reading how you pick up the things that aren't explicitly stated. You worded it so well, the nostalgic wish to return to a time that was simple and happy and both of them choosing, for that moment, to exist on the fringe of everything. They haven't solved anything, but at the end of the day, that human connection is what they both need. I'm glad you enjoyed Mike's shift here, I don't see Mike as the type to keep harping once he has the facts, or to create continued friction now he understands where this is coming from. I will try to work in some of Tom's perspectives on the Kara situation! I think that would be a great area to explore! Re: Tom removing himself, I see this as his desire not to be seen as an 'ivory tower' leader. It seems to be both a strength and a flaw of his leadership. At times, getting in the trenches is right. In other instances, it causes side effects that could be avoided. I find it an interesting characteristic that this show established!

Guest 2 I did love writing them taking a timeout together, it was a nice deviation from constant heartbreak lol. BUT, I did promise you the angst would last a while in a different chapter haha. I miss Pablo and Tex's fun too! I've basically had to accept that a spinoff will need to be written for them, and some of the side missions I can't include without bloating this fic even further lol. Trying to juggle so many characters in the TLS verse is hard because I want to follow them all.

There are three references in this chapter. Tom's injury, touched upon in the opening of Chapter 14 'Every December', and the ever-prevalent beach meeting from Chapter 4 ' Tanah Merah' and the telephone call in Chapter 5, 'Pretty Good Sex, Out of Context.'

Will We Be Soldiers Left on the Floor?

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January 6th, 2014

"It's a ghost town, sir."

Tom exhaled and sank further into his chair.

"There was an outbreak, everyone scattered. We encountered survivors in the base barracks, they've been hunkered down since September, plenty of food left. All things considered, it's pretty cushy—powers still up, I put the number around five hundred. They're not sure if they're immune, so we administered some doses and they're gonna spread out like planned—but—no one's getting in that vault without some serious firepower, sir. The personnel with the codes are dead."

From the bed, that she reasonably should have exited, Sasha watched Tom run a hand across his jaw.

"Understood. I'll let POTUS know the mission's a bust for now—sit tight until the situation here is resolved. Take an inventory of everything we can use, and then see if you can find any more intel on the other bases."

"Copy that, sir. Cobra, out."

Tom placed the satellite phone down after ending with Green. From her position, Sasha couldn't see his features, rather his profile, and remained quiet when he returned attention to the papers spread before him. It occurred that neither those, the satphone, nor the breakfast tray had been present, which meant she'd slept through disturbance usually guaranteed to wake her; a thing that was still unique to being near Tom.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, attention still fixed upon the table.

It mildly startled Sasha but didn't shock. "How'd you know I'm awake?"

His cheek dimpled. "The snoring stopped."

"I don't snore."

Tom threw a look over his left shoulder— "Whoever told you that lied" —and then pushed himself from the black leather-clad seat and retrieved a mug. After approaching the Keurig, he glanced with both brows raised in silent question.

"I'll take some."

While Tom busied himself, Sasha used the restroom and went about her routine, which included checking the incision for signs of infection. A twice-daily occurrence that made the ever-looming feeling of disconnect surge. This wasn't a body she recognized anymore. Frailer than she'd imagined possible in contrast to strength she'd taken for granted.

Done with probing the thin red line, Sasha lowered her sweater and then paused. There was women's perfume on the counter—something not displayed on Nathan James; spent enough days in Tom's cabin to know. The pictures were expected, could draw a rendition of the one on Tom's nightstand for how many hours she'd spent dwelling, but this felt more intimate. Like she was a ghost trespassing in time unbelonging to her.

Blinking, Sasha finished drying her hands and exited. Tom was by the window, curtains now wide open. He handed the drink wordlessly when she joined.

"Thanks," Sasha murmured, heat spreading against her palms.

The storm was over, sun bouncing against crisp snow blanketing the city. His view was different, facing west over downtown versus east across river, and the perspective combined with Tom's presence surfaced a plethora of distant memories. A morning they'd shared eons ago, overlooking Central Park from the sanctuary of a different hotel, and the significance of the date occurred.

Eight years later and here they were; thrown together and engaging in the arguably unwise. "Not quite a beach," she quipped.

He side-eyed. "Eight is your lucky number."

A sarcastic sound escaped through her nose. "Lucky me." Took a brief sip. "So Fort Knox is a bust?"

Tom sighed, drawing his focus away from the snow. "Unless you have any bright ideas on breaking into a vault encased in twenty tons of steel—then yes."

"Intelligence, Tom—not a criminal."

"Says the woman who let herself in with a Sharpie?" Casually, he leaned a shoulder against the wall, mirth gleaming.

She made a dismissive hand gesture. "Okay, first of all—the systems for hotels are a joke. I could use the do not disturb sign to get in, and second, where do people keep files? Behind locks. It's standard training." She shrugged, "You could drop a Tomahawk on it?"

His brows contorted, a lopsided grin twisting his mouth. "Blow up the constitution and gold reserves."

Nonchalant, she bounced her brows. "Might help balance out the hero worship."

His eyes narrowed.

"I might not frequent the courthouse, but people still talk. I heard Dennis is a big fan—and Debbie is quite taken, in general—but you got an honorable mention."

"Is that so?" he drawled.

Grinning, she took another sip and waited.

"Thought you didn't like gossip?" His smirk was gone, but the warmth remained.

"I don't—people tell me things, and I keep the information that interests me." The response rolled smooth from her tongue.

He folded his arms, a quite regrettable action given he was dressed in a t-shirt, and she'd always fared better when Tom wore more clothes than not.

"It interests you that Green's mother likes my ass?" he challenged.

Shit.

"I didn't specify a body part—but clearly this isn't news," she fired back, congratulating herself for side-stepping, despite the touch of color dusting her cheeks.

There came a slow blink. "Mike's pretty in tune with scuttlebutt."

For a moment, Sasha tried to picture the conversation, a twinge of regret firing after accepting she couldn't. Simply hadn't seen them interact in a non 'sky is falling' setting. Clearing her throat, she sobered. "Speaking of, I'm surprised you told him."

Tom's steady ease evaporated. "He said something to you?"

"We've been known to talk, yes."

He pinned her with a look, and she prevented the eye roll, bringing the cup to her mouth and murmuring, "You guys are like an old married couple."

"What did he say, Sasha?" He'd shifted, drawing himself away from the wall.

"Nothing you need to worry about—just surprised, that's all. More so that you talked to him about Changi."

Accepting defeat, and with a modicum of remorse, he clarified, "I didn't share details—it came up a little over a year ago."

"After he found out about his wife?"

Gentle shock touched his features. "He told you about that?"

Softly, she nodded. "Seems to think you're under the impression you cheated on me."

Jaw set, Tom dragged his gaze to peer beyond the window, lips pursed in that defiant, stubborn way.

Exhaling through her nose, she set the mug on its ledge. "Tom—"

"Not today, Sasha." It was gentle. A quiet but humble plea wrapped within words.

Briefly, she closed her eyes and then studied the carpet. "Where were you—in o-seven?"

When no immediate answer forth came, Sasha ticked her focus up, trapped by his penetrating eye contact.

"Still with the Pickney, why?"

"I almost called you." A breathy confession that earned a crease upon Tom's forehead. "And then I realized you probably changed your number aga—"

"I never changed it," he rasped, though it was blurted. "The first time was an accident—I switched carriers because the coverage sucked in San Diego, and they screwed up the porting." Unfolding his arms, Tom stepped closer. "Why, Sasha? What happened in o-seven?"

Peering up, she faltered, yet another of her perceptions proven skewed. "I killed someone, up close." The words were quiet. "Thought I was gonna die."

Tom's gaze swept over her features. "When? Where were you?"

"June, in Lebanon—close to Tripoli. I'd been with DIA for twelve months—in country for four tracking links between Al-Qaida and Fatah al-Islam. They leveled a Palestinian refugee camp and the whole place went to shit—my cover got blown. Took me eight days to make extract."

While she spoke, Tom's lips parted a fraction, his breathing shallow. "We were in the Persian Gulf with the Nimitz, part of the carrier strike group supporting Iraq."

Silence followed while Sasha studied; committing detail to memory as he teetered between pressing for more and the patience she'd always required.

Trepidatious, a question came. "Did you ever change yours?"

Sasha shook her head, and the crease between his brows deepened. All those years.

"I would have called back… if you left a message." Though Tom's words themselves were flat, the weight in them bloomed.

Dropping her gaze to his hands, held loose at his sides, she examined the thought. Part of her had always known; despite the bitter lies she'd embraced to move on from Tom. Lifting her gaze once more, she inquired softly, "You still have that thing about ceiling fans?"

The crease at his brow softened. "No. Not anymore… but it took a while." Another beat of stillness passed between them where he studied, and then shifted until less than a foot separated them. "You'll figure it out, Sasha. It won't be this hard forever."

Her scoff was breathy, a half-formed sound, and her words sour. "Time heals all?"

Goosebumps erupted beneath the sweater when Tom's palm traversed her bicep in a gesture of comfort. "Something like that. Enough to keep living, at least."

January 11th, 2014

Sasha entered the courthouse—which she still refused to call 'White House' for reasons unknown. Sure, technically she should avoid any potential contact, but stir-crazy sailed five days ago, and something was going down. Thanks to Granderson fixing the landlines, she'd been mid-call with Pablo—restricted from visiting high-risk individuals until he'd cleared Scott's recommended isolation period—when he'd been summoned at Tom's behest to said courthouse. Too unusual for Sasha to ignore, and after the third unsuccessful attempt to reach Tom's desk, she'd been driven to act.

After clearing security and declining another ridiculous map, Sasha made for the green room, rewarded with not only Pablo, but Val, Dennis, Mason, Granderson, and Tom huddled around HF, from which streams of Spanish broadcast. Several feet removed, Dr. Scott stood with arms folded, strained, and intently staring at Pablo, likely seeking translation if Sasha assumed.

"What's going on?" Sasha asked.

Pivoting at the waist, Tom snapped around. "You shouldn't be here."

Both Mason and Alisha spared looks before returning attention to Pablo, whose body language was tense, headset donned and hands on both hips.

Ignoring completely Tom's terse and expected reaction, Sasha focused instead on the response Pablo gave in Spanish to whoever spoke; a strong directive to stop and wait at the southern border.

Sasha frowned.

With a hand outstretched, as though to pacify, Tom tried a different tack. "Please—"

She caught more words before he could finish and cut him off, eyes widening. "Eighty thousand people?"

That was enough to garner Dr. Scott's attention too, who dropped both arms and peered sharply at her.

Pressing his lips into a frustrated line, Tom clenched and then released a fist. "Sasha—"

"There are eighty thousand people heading north looking for the cure?" Sasha reiterated.

"You speak Spanish?" Dr. Scott interjected.

Sasha gave a curt nod, the burgeoning tension disrupted only by Pablo's continued communications.

"What is he saying to them?" Dr. Scott demanded.

Dropping eye contact with Tom, Sasha looked at Scott. "To stop and wait at the border."

That seemed to offer relief, though slight, and Scott redirected to Tom. "You need to send me—"

Tom raised a finger, and Scott made an irritated noise. "We will make a plan, and you will be involved, but I am not doing anything until we have the full picture—" he switched back to Sasha "—and you need to go."

Squinting, Sasha surveyed the room. "Where's Michener?"

"Down with a fever. Which is exactly why I am telling you to get the hell away from here," Tom bit out.

Sasha's defiant flare eased, and though distracted and still evidently frustrated, Dr. Scott stopped pacing and added, "He's right. As far as I can tell, it's no more than a nasty cold, same one that Miller, Bertrise, and the others have—but—in your condition that could very easily become serious, and we've almost exhausted the antibiotics."

Softening in effort to pacify, a shift Sasha was over-familiar with coming from Tom, he spoke again. "I'll conference you in if that's what you want, but only if you leave."

Features tight, Sasha shifted focus left, observing a map of downtown St. Louis. Same one Tom had poured over, searching for more buildings to clear of bodies, that could sustain the overflowing number of people crowding the city. A task made more difficult by a need to keep the sick separate from the healthy. Last she'd heard, joe public was getting vocal about forcing the sick out of the area and into the suburbs. Problem was, power and water only worked in a small radius, and even that wasn't guaranteed. Since the storm, blackouts had been frequent.

Biting back an irrational and petulant desire to debate the merits of their paranoia, Sasha attempted to dampen a vivid memory; Andrew's matter-of-fact confirmation that a case had made it to Bridgepoint Hospital. Tried not to recall the increasingly weighty phone calls communicating that it wasn't safe for him to come home. The number of hours she'd spent more powerless than ever before, wondering if the next would be what she dreaded. The one that told her Andrew had caught the virus.

Blinking, Sasha pulled her focus back to Tom, who she realized had observed the entire lapse of presence. The errant but subtle concern swimming beneath his mantle was obvious to her.

"Okay," she conceded. "I'm going."

By his rough calculation, he managed three minutes of peace before a knock came. Letting out a long breath, Tom lifted his head, which he'd braced with both palms, elbows on the desk, and corrected his posture.

"Come in."

Rachel rounded the door and remained against it, ever mindful of maintaining distance. Tom questioned what difference that made when he'd touched every common surface and failed to wash his hands before burying his face in them…

"I finished profiling the samples from Nebraska and the patients we've been treating here. As of now, I'm confident that global immunity is closer to ten percent." Her delivery came slightly breathless, as it seemed when stressed, Tom noted.

He processed. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes," she replied tightly. "But that doesn't solve anything. Though it does mean creating a test is pertinent if we wish to avoid wasting millions of doses on those who are already immune. I understand there's some controversy around that idea."

There was a beat before Tom answered. "It's not a popular option, no—there's concerns it could aid in the division."

"You mean MacDowell could use it as a recruitment tool?"

His cheeks hollowed, and gently, he nodded.

"Yes, well, unfortunately, society has always made Lepers of those who are different… but we're talking about millions of lives."

For a moment, Tom held Rachel's adamant stare. "I'll push it through."

Some of the tension seeped from her frame. "Thank you."

Almost imperceptibly, he lowered his chin in acknowledgment.

Rachel turned, her palm circling the door handle before hesitating and pivoting around to face him again. "Five days without developing any symptoms should suffice—after that, you'll be free to interact as you please with your crew."

Whether intentional on Rachel's part or not, she'd hammered the gnawing sensation devouring his gut since discovering Michener that morning. A type of sinking damnation related to Mike's point. His kids were due in a week, and yet after two days spent coordinating from the confines of his suite, Tom began testing luck. Unable to stand the isolation after Sasha wisely returned to her own—invisible bounds pushed almost beyond limit—he'd cracked.

"Understood."

Rachel pursed her lips in a way that dimpled her cheeks and then left.

Alone once more, Tom reclined and retrieved the landline, punched in the numbers, and then waited.

"I don't need a lecture."

Despite thinking a frayed thread personified his state of being, Sasha's infinite stubbornness remained grounding. "You don't?"

"Not from the king of ignoring his own rule, no."

Tilting further horizontally in the chair, Tom let her scathing comment settle. "I'll admit I deserved that."

Briefly, she paused before continuing with less sting. "What's the plan?"

"We'll send a team to release an aerosolized version of the cure. That was Dr. Scott's idea before she—discovered it could be contagious."

"You mean before she killed Neils."

Wasn't surprised that his careful word track triggered Sasha's ever-perceptive radar. "Right. Between that, and the doses, it should be enough to keep the peace… but who knows what else they might be suffering from."

There came another brief lull. "Pablo's going?"

Tom peered at a pen. "He volunteered. Made a compelling argument that we need solid intel on whether any of the government survived—and hopefully he can figure out if the Canal's operational."

"And Dr. Scott?"

"Staying. Too many variables."

"I'm sure that went over well," Sasha said, impeccably dry.

Tom's lip tugged upward. "About as well as me telling you to leave."

"Last time I checked, I don't take orders from you."

He almost snorted, reaching out to twirl the pen, droll when he responded, "You wanna tell me something I don't know?"

Tom imagined Sasha suppressing a smirk. Or perhaps hoped. In truth she'd retreated behind careful boundaries; found footing once more, and while he preferred anything to rock bottom; he still felt like the dog left behind at the shelter—wondering and waiting for people that wouldn't return.

He heard a sigh. "How long do you have to isolate for?"

"Five days." With a flick, he discarded the pen. Dragged his gaze lazy and unfocused, until it landed on the framed photo collage. He lingered on Darien's face. The pitfall of questions he'd compulsively visited since Baltimore surged, supercharged days prior by one of Sasha's tearful confessions.

'I think I hate him.'

Ever since the number of hours dedicated to pondering whether Darien had died resenting him increased to unsustainable levels.

'Just get here if you can.'

How many times had he replayed that video just to hear Darien's voice? Punish himself with destructive guilt. Concluded that if life beyond death were in fact real, and Darien could see him now, she'd surely be blindsided. Hurt. Heartbroken.

"I'm sorry," Sasha said.

The vice was making it difficult to breathe; a thing he'd been experiencing more since making port. "Mm."

One simple request from his wife that he leave the past where it belonged, and he'd never been able to honor it. Not when it mattered. Tom clenched a fist and closed his eyes, temples throbbing under pressure.

"Tom—"

"I gotta go, Sash."

This time, her stilted silence pierced. "Alright, just—you'll tell me? If something happens?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll tell you."

"Okay. Bye."

A click followed by a dial tone followed. Tom lowered the handset, clutched in a white-knuckled grip, and slowly dissolved.