an. Only a few chapters left in this installment before it breaks. Part II will be called 'St. Louis' and serves as a Season 3 alternative. Given the diversions of this universe, I'd consider it truly AU from this point forward. Anything is on the table.

References: Safe Zone Chapter 2: 'The Devil's in the Details'. Quote from conversation in Chapter 20: 'Awake and restless'. Quote from conversation in Chapter 21: 'What we say now will make us dangerous', Sasha asking for tom in Chapter 30: 'There is no take two', conversation between Sasha/Tom in Chapter 15: 'Keep it subliminal' and quote/memory from Chapter 26: 'Cause it hurts to get lost in yesterday.'

Guest 1 I'm thrilled that I made you love Tom again after the season 4-5 character assassination. More of those small and big declarations are coming in this one. It's nice, of course, to say 'I love you' but I think Tom—pre character assassination—is more an action and follow through man. Tex and Pablo shooting up the natural history museum is my new favorite mental image lol. Eventually, after I finish all these WIPs, I'll have to do a mini-series set in this verse covering some of their adventures. Mike's fully accepted nothing he says, thinks, or does will make any difference to Sasha and Tom's mess, and so he has mentally moved on haha. I think he's pragmatic like that. I'm really glad you felt that brief volley felt like season 3! I channeled that scene where Sasha essentially tells him to sit the fuck down when he's going off the deep end and trying to bomb Peng lol.

Guest 2 Sooooooo—yes. To all of your points haha. You are totally on the same page and successfully called out all of this chapter essentially. In the show, I wondered how the cure was getting across the world in normal shipping crates and such, but also in the S3 opening, when the Japanese lady was injecting her son, the label expiration date said 10/2019!? I agree, actual pandemic kind of ruined this for me… and that's why the contagious cure is going to be used with the powdered cure in my universe because the show also seemed to forget that fuel degrades pretty rapidly, and Nathan James doesn't return until 8 months in. Anything sitting in cars, or abandoned ships and planes, is basically unusable in a little as six months, depending on type, mix and temperature. Anyway, I digress. I cannot fix all the squirely world mechanics from the writers this far into the game lol. Sasha for sure, is realizing some things and coming around from the 'hard no' on ever trying again with Tom. Re: Mike's family, yes! And also poses an interesting scenario that could change everything, which I am sure you will see from the chapter!

And This Is Not Our Fate

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"You got yourself shot." Sasha's comment, though dry and devoid of question, still bore an undercurrent of concern.

"Eh," Pablo deflected, hissing when Rios squirted sterilizing solution into his wound. "Through and through. You know I've had worse."

True.

While Rios worked, Sasha observed MacDowell where he sat zip-tied ankle and foot on the ground along with their other detainees. "What were they looking for?" she asked, redirecting attention to Pablo.

"Something in the research lab… but I doubt any of them are gonna talk."

Sasha pondered it. Her knowledge of the Smithsonian extended to that of a visitor, having attended with Andrew when they'd first begun 'dating'. That term seemed odd now. Like something she'd lived in a different life, despite feeling vivid as yesterday. Time didn't work correctly anymore. It inhibited conflicting properties; endless and slow, yet so fast a blink could wipe months. Warped and distorted, and it was never more apparent than when recognizing milestones… February 15th would mark six months since Andrew's death. Six months. That was only two weeks from now. It registered then that she'd been a widow longer than a wife. By two full months. They'd only been together for a year and nine months, seven of which she'd spent in Asia, and three overshadowed by the virus.

"You good?"

She snapped into focus. "I'm fine," she swallowed. "Just trying to figure out what the hell they wanted." A few steps removed, Tex worked the ready tables, disarming and packing away gear.

"Beats me." Again, Pablo winced when Rios started to field stitch the circular tear in his bicep.

"The civilians?" she asked.

"Gone by the time we got there."

Features now marred by mystery, she tried to connect the threads. None of them tied. At least forty-five minutes had passed since Slattery, and Granderson left, and the way Tom kept eyeing the comms between interrogating MacDowell screamed. Their conversation died until Rios was finished stitching, and the moment he left to change gloves and treat his next patient, Pablo leaned in.

"What about the other thing? Did you get it?"

Sasha tore her gaze from the prisoners and nodded. "No messages, but that doesn't mean anything. It was getting hot when we last spoke… a million things could have happened between now and then."

Pablo studied before accepting she wasn't going to consider the probable cause: Jesse was dead. "Least we have your little black book now." She held his gaze. "Time to make some calls," he said.

Any response was vetoed by the sound of wheels; Granderson had returned.

Pablo's brow furrowed. "What's up with that?"

"They think they found Slattery's wife up in Williamsburg. She's sick—Tom sent Granderson to get some doses they left behind." Sasha watched Granderson hand a small yellow case to Rios, but the more they dialogued, and the more Rios' features tightened, it became evident something was wrong.

"Left when?" Pablo asked.

Squinting, Sasha processed and then realized why Rios was now instructing a junior Army medic on caring for the injured soldier before ripping his gloves once more and approaching Tom. "Almost ten weeks ago," she confirmed, morose.

"Well where's the closet ground team?" Pablo was off the cot now, pacing toward the communications area. Tex too had left the ready tables, devoid of his usual easy nature, wearing a deep frown.

"I—I have no idea." In the past, she would. These were the details she'd thrived upon—intricacies that formed a broader picture—instead, she'd spent weeks reading names of dead people, packing MREs into boxes, or listening to hours of HF recordings from Hayward and Shackleton's logs.

They arrived in time to hear Tom issue a terse demand. "Get Dr. Scott on the line."

Of all the thought tracks to employ while hearing one side of the volley between Dr. Scott and Tom, questions about what exactly went down after she'd hit the deck on Nathan James was an odd choice. Every bit of his well-formed body was fraught with urgency, unlike she'd witnessed.

'Attempted to donate every drop of blood in his body.'

"How long will that take?" Pablo's tight response over a different comms line drew her focus.

Pittsburg? That had to be at least seven… maybe eight hours from Norfolk by vehicle? But that didn't factor in road conditions. Vividly, the magnitude of chaos she'd witnessed with Andrew from aerial view surfaced. Millions of people spreading from greater D.C. like a swarm of insects blocking every road on both sides. It had stretched for miles. Sasha doubted the ground team could even get within flight range of their choppers; and last she'd heard, the degradation of gasoline siphoned from cars was causing mechanical breakdown. Their diesel reserves fared better, but the trains were given priority. They desperately needed supply from the Gulf to keep the cure spreading.

Leaning closer to Granderson, Sasha murmured, "Has anyone checked if any of the civilians around base are still contagious?"

Eyes round with concern, Alisha unfolded her arms. "I wouldn't count on it, but it might be the only chance they have." She turned toward the small team of Marines, and moments later, they were back in the vehicle and destined toward the perimeter fence.

The flight from Williamsburg held the longest fifteen minutes of Mike's life. The hour-long search to discover his family—dying in a Fire Station—the most harrowing he'd lived. Christine was barely coherent, Hannah unconscious, and Lizzy hallucinating. Angry lesions marred their skin. Blood seeped from their fingernails. Mouths. Eyes.

Tom would have the sense to get those doses; he was sure of it. They just needed to land so this nightmare could end. The helo touched down, and the cargo hold opened, but the pallor of Tom's skin made clear something was horrifically wrong.

"What? What is it?!" he hadn't control to mask the terror in his tone.

Tom's mouth opened, and he faltered just as he had when Mike delivered the news about Lucas. "The doses are only good outside containment for three to four weeks…" it became difficult to hear after that statement. Rios was in the chopper, along with Tex, and some officers Mike didn't recognize, transferring Christine and the girls to stretchers. Green jumped up and assisted...

The choice to follow was not cognitive. While crossing the hangar, Tom had given other information—cure was en route from Pittsburg. Dr. Scott thought they could buy time by transfusing vaccinated blood, something about the antibodies helping—Mike couldn't say whether he'd responded or looked in any direction but that of his family.

"You can't outrun Darwin." MacDowell's smug drawl traveled the distance between the field cots and holding area.

"Get that piece of shit outta here!" Tex hollered at Lt. Damon. To where he didn't care—and if Commodore and Slattery were not occupied by filling blood bags, Tex believed they'd wield some of that burgeoning violence. He'd seen Slattery's axe buried in Norris' chest when his treacherous corpse was dumped in Baltimore's harbor. The glimpses of unadulterated rage that flashed across Commodore's gaze on occasion.

Even the best of men in the right circumstance could break.

Pushing away from a large storage crate, Pablo uncurled his arms. "We should have put a bullet in his head when we had the chance. You know they won't talk. No point keeping them alive wasting our resources and food."

"They did this," Green spoke, features twisted with hate. "Those sons of bitches are walking around in our uniform, pretending they're spreading the cure and infecting everyone who comes."

Sasha, who until now remained stoic and focused on Slattery's wife and children, removed the hand pressed to her mouth, unfolded her arm, and quarter-turned—"What?" The word was breathy.

Bobbing his head, Danny clicked his tongue against his teeth. "That's how they were exposed," he inclined his chin toward Christine Slattery, "she kept asking XO why he wasn't with them when they came to spread cure ten days ago."

All four exchanged looks.

"None of our ground teams have made it to Williamsburg yet," Green finished.

Tex exhaled audibly, then mumbled, "The rumors in Memphis—about Navy folk in trucks. That's what they've been doin'. That's their big plan."

Blinking, and disturbed, Sasha muttered, "Why haven't we noticed this until now? We should have heard some—"

"Because we can barely fuckin' communicate unless it's a secured channel," Pablo answered. "There's so much interference I can't even get through to the guys I was with before joining the James."

Stone settled in Sasha's gut. That's how much she hadn't been paying attention. So wrapped in her own pain, she had no clue what was going on. Sure, she'd been on limited duty restriction… but it occurred only now that she'd had complete freedom. She chose what to engage in when objectively, this was her duty. Not the census, rations, or ship logs. Intelligence.

Facing the cots again, Sasha watched. Rios was transfusing while Mike tenderly wiped the blood from their skin. Pressure burned hot behind her eyes. She'd done the same for her mother and Andrew in the end. Given up hope of escaping their conjoined fates. And Tom? The first bag was almost filled, a second prepared for donation, and she didn't doubt he'd bleed himself dry to help save them if he could.

Tepid water flowed over the planes of Tom's back, his head bowed, eyes closed, and palm braced against metal. The pattering, tinny sound helped dull his mind. A mixture of fatigue and donating twice the blood volume permitted ushered latent lightheadedness. Beyond his Commander-in-Chief, no one could overrule him, and it became easy to see the aspects of this insane world and newfound status he'd abused.

That type of power would corrupt him if he let it; fell prey to the intoxication of unrivaled control.

Over twenty hours had passed, not including the difference between St. Louis and Norfolk. Time blurred, and without the ticking date on his watch, Tom wouldn't know up from down. They'd left St. Louis at 0800 on the 2nd. When he'd retired his timepiece to the desk, it was past 0200 on the 3rd. That downtime he'd scheduled to go home to his house was postponed; his agenda covering for Mike until Christine and the girls were beyond critical. And now in the at-sea cabin aboard Nathan James—cleaner, and more secure than the barracks—he tried against picturing his children seeing their mother that way.

He ached. Head to toe. For everything and nothing at once. Release.

It was cold now—the water. It stung and raised tiny bumps along his skin. Sighing, he released the lever that kept it flowing and methodically performed routines he'd lived for what felt like his whole damn life. Dry. Dress. Shave. Teeth. Dress first, because he could be needed, at any second, of any day—even off duty, preparing to lay horizontal with hope that exhaustion claimed him before insomnia did.

It was the same, but the woman standing in his glorified stateroom was not.

Her chin lifted, shadow from the single desk lamp shrouding her in mystery. He feared, when she un-perched from the desk, that his restless anger would jettison and target her. Not through argument or words, but on a primal level because her gaze was heavy, and it had darted to his lips, before grazing his body and holding his. This was what confused him. How he lived with eviscerating guilt, but one action from her could send him hurtling in another direction. One that rejected reality and stemmed his bleeding wounds enough to believe the idea of being buried inside her was right.

It wasn't.

Not when mutual regret would stain the memory. He loved her too much to use as a Band-Aid for grief, despite the depth of his longing to taste her again.

"You've been protecting me." It was neither accusation nor question. Just fact. "From doing anything I don't choose."

Stood in the doorway, he remained reticent. "You needed time." His statement flat. "And control."

Her hair, which was now loose from its braid and cascading over a milky shoulder, swooshed when she gently shook her head. Not reprimand—something else. The oversized sweater looked cozy, like he could bury his hands beneath it and hold her against him; seek purpose in the way she would fit there.

"It's gonna get easier, Sash. I know you can't see it—but it will."

He was right. Back then, she couldn't—just as she didn't perceive how much love he'd extended without expectation. How much he'd engineered space for her to exist precisely as she had to. But isn't that why she'd asked for him that night? Because he was the only one who could.

Before him, she stood. Close enough to smell her soap and skin, and he breathed shallow over deep, for every inhale filled sense with sin. Around his bicep, her palm was cool but steady, it travelled higher, to his shoulder, and then she tucked herself against him, cheek to chest, hip to hip, soothing his turmoil with simple touch. His own hands came to rest both in the small of her back and around her shoulders until she was melded to his frame.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She couldn't know how close he came to breaking. Instead, he squeezed his eyes closed, and buried his face against prominent collarbone, willing his body to still. To ignore that beneath that sweater, there was nothing else—how against his throat her breath tickled, warm and minty. He needed her to stay. He needed her to leave. Wanted her pressed all around him. To sleep and then wake.

"Sasha—"

"I know," she mumbled against his sternum, ear pressed to his heartbeat. "I'm going—I just want five minutes."

'Stay.' He'd swallowed the word before it came out—part of him had hoped, perhaps, that she would be smarter and stronger than him. But the rest sensed whatever she'd set in motion by joining this mission had more to do with leaving than coming home, and her appearance now confirmed a gut feeling: she wouldn't be returning to St. Louis with him in ten days.

She was tying ends. Closing loops.

He could see now everything she'd said. The warnings he failed to heed about breaking his own heart.

Sasha was wind, and he was earth. He could get close, had been close, so close to having everything he could almost fucking taste it. But he could never fly free like she could. He was rooted. Fixed. Carried responsibility like the physical mantle held all things, and all she could do was erode him. Keep the pieces ripped free by trying to follow.

Eventually, there'd be nothing left.

In another life, he could be what she needed. Tom believed that, still, to his core.

But maybe not this one.

Damn if he didn't want to cling to the dream. Shut out the voice telling him this was goodbye, but a deeper one. A goodbye he'd been refusing to accept for thirteen years. This idea that one day, he'd be free to love her the way he so yearned. Maybe when his kids were grown. Maybe when they had lives of their own. But love didn't beg someone to wait another decade. Love needed to let go.

His fingers curled in the fabric, tightly knitted and gray, her hair smooth against fresh shaven skin.

Stirring, she shifted to study his face, though her weight still leaned. Only now did he perceive that she'd risen to tiptoes, the extra inches bringing her closer to eye level. He didn't know what this was—wasn't wise to push her away—there was conflict dotted in every crease. Conflict and want. And his body was over-aware of her chest where it rose and fell pressed firmly to his.

He should speak. Or think. Or call this reckless—press pause on the vortex of indecision practically humming in the dense particles of air surrounding them—but when her fingers ghosted across the tip of his left ear, then to his temple, before trailing his cheekbone down to his jaw, and along his throat to hover where his pulse strummed erratically, he could no longer breathe.

Color blossomed her skin, the blue precise like glacial water over ice. Silent, her lips shuttered, and as though something kicked into overdrive, that indecision was stripped by stark clarity.

"I'm sorry."

Anticipation was shredded by harsh context. She stepped away, a decorous gap of space now separating them as empty air rushed where she'd been.

"It's okay—"

"No—" her mouth stayed open, but nothing else passed, and then she clenched her features and quarter turned. Head shaking. Berating herself.

"Sasha. It's okay. You're human. It's been a day."

Her jaw worked, and she swallowed before composed enough to face him, though shame still lurked in the apologetic gaze. "You've changed—do you know that?"

Twice, he blinked. "How?"

"You're more patient…" she paused, quiet over her next words. "You haven't lectured me yet about the risks of going to China—"

"No one left on this earth who can talk you out of it, Sasha." His eye contact this time devoured her soul. "Believe me—I'd find them."

Her reaction, though subtle, brought color once more to her cheeks; a gentle lift to her chin. God, she wished his voice didn't feel like that. Like balm and promise and safety. Though she could accept how miserably they'd failed at this delicate game of give and take. Near and far. A balancing act seldom achieved… and right now, she actively repeated to herself not to kiss him.

Tucking nervously her hair behind an ear, Sasha nodded—aching more when her gaze mapped the ridiculous vascularity of his arms. Amongst patience, other aspects of Tom had changed, physically speaking, and though she'd never regarded him as a boy, it was very difficult to ignore what a beautiful man he'd become. In every sense of the word. Heeding threadbare wisdom from the mistakes of the past—like falling into bed before communicating—she took steps toward the door, aware of his heat at her back.

It was half open when she paused and looked over her shoulder. "I have to try, you know?" she swallowed. "I can't live with myself if I don't."

The bump in his throat worked, trademark semi-squint morphing his eyes. "Why do you think I'm not fighting to make you stay?"

It lingered between them, blanketing the space. In a way, it felt like that beach—not the first time, but the second. After they'd run down every minute of Tom's curfew and regarded each other with bittersweet understanding. Skirting their truths through eye contact alone. Timid, she swept his form a final time with a smile that never moved her lips and closed the door softly behind her.

At least they still had coffee. She'd come accustomed to its bitter taste without creamer or milk, though lately, she'd been craving carbonation like crazy, and the last soda cans Bacon sourced were flat. Kicked back in the wardroom, feet unceremoniously stretched on an empty chair, she worked beside Pablo. It was late morning, closer to noon than daily muster; the plan of the day simple: attack the black book and see who was alive. Tex, Green, and Tom were grilling their prisoners. Pablo would be too had he not been shot. Instead, over a continental map, he was plotting, seeking to uncover which routes the immunes were using. She'd help, but lacking recent ground exposure, the value of her input derived from theory, and the old world saying prevailed. Experience wins the day.

The messages she left varied in language, but she'd yet to reach anyone live. Including Jesse. She set the satellite phone down beside the Moleskine and leaned back. The scratch of Pablo's pen and low electric humming in overhead lights filled the silence. Aimless, her gaze wandered the bookcase, proud cherry wood, then to the ductwork, stencil painted with instruction and identifiers.

Val and Dennis came to mind. Establishing reliable communications proved a larger challenge than anticipated. The Deadman network had taken three months to create. They'd hoped with more minds to shorten that timeline—but as with everything in this apocalypse—patience was key.

Patience.

Patience was the man she'd almost kissed. Now, all she could ponder was the state of her being had their paths not intersected. How long denial would have propelled her before killing what remained of who she'd been. No one looked to her for strength, purpose, or guidance—they saved that for him. Their leader, and yet he'd still found the energy to pour into her.

Sometimes, she'd looked for Tom in someone else's eyes. It never made much sense, but it's what she'd done. In the way they'd throw their head back if they laughed, in smiles or world views, she'd searched. Wanting and waiting for a glimpse of him. She'd always loved him. Part of her would always be in love with Tom. It couldn't be changed.

At least she'd accepted that now... the only question was how that might morph the future she'd sentenced herself to. If she'd let the volume of its suffering, agonized plea derail her maniacal quest for punishment.

Right now, the beginning of doubt had sparked.

And that was enough to terrify her.

February 6th, 2014

If he'd remained in Norfolk as planned, Tom could visualize the outcome. He'd obsess upon order until nothing imperfect remained. Dust every surface, wash every textile, clean every trim, make the house so goddamn spotless you could eat from its floors. Then he'd perceive more shortcomings—realize he didn't know how to make shit with rations provided, nor how to occupy kids without school, stores, or movies to go see, and then at night, he'd sleep in an empty bed, sorrowed by the lack of snoring beside him. In his solitude, he'd imagine what Darien had to provide during his absence—food, safety, security—everything he was responsible for… and finally, he'd succumb to the path. Hear those thoughts spreading venom. Maybe he should have been selfish? Maybe Mike had a point—it would have been better to die with them—avoid the suffering and hope Heaven was real.

The emptiness echoed.

No barks from the neighbors' dogs. No jets leaving base or chopper drills. No lawnmowers or junk calls about a damn car warranty. The brakes of his kids' school bus didn't screech. Darien wasn't propped on their sofa, spewing gossip, or watching shows…

For a long time, he stared at the photographs adorning his mantle, sat immobile in the armchair by the fireplace. Katie's most recent family card was framed there, along with a dozen others taken over the years. God, he just needed to talk to her. Any of them. Maybe he should. For one month and five days after Darien's video, he'd recorded daily accounts—waiting, hoping—to share them with her. Everything. Every detail. Down to the kiss that helped them escape the Vyerni. He'd been blisteringly honest when he told Sasha that all he'd wanted was to get home to his wife. To his children. The only secret he'd kept in thirteen years was his lingering loyalty to her.

"We found Christine and the girls. They're sick, but they're gonna pull through…" he sighed through his nose, fingers running absent across both lips. "I gave Mike command of the James. Took CNO so I could be with the kids…" he swallowed; ever-present ache beating his sternum. "He never wanted this mission. I made the choice for him… but I can't ask him to leave Christine after Lucas. Not after everything he's already sacrificed… they need him, Darien. Christine won't forgive him if he leaves again… I know our kids need me too, but I can't ask him to walk away from his family so I can stay." He lowered his hand, curling a fist around the armrest. For a long time, he paused, breathing through the surge. "I don't know what you want me to do," he bit out, "or why I'm talkin' to you when you can't hear me—"

There was a loud thud, followed by a metallic crash. Tom froze, then gradually stood, withdrawing the Glock tucked into his pants. He approached the threshold, avoiding the spot by the archway that always creaked. Through the shadows cast by the late afternoon sun, he stepped, silent on hardwood floors with shallow breath until the adrenaline settled, and his lips parted in the same seeping manner as the coiling of his stance. Something else claimed him—a different echo—descended when a raccoon scampered from his kitchen into the hallway.

'There's your ghosts.'

It froze, rising onto hind legs, and stared.

Tom merely blinked and stared back; its beady little nose twitched and quivered while sniffing—whiskers, too.

He was losing his goddamn mind.