an. Sorry this update took a little longer than I'd like, despite being mostly written. I was sick for a week, and it put a delay on finishing it. There is nothing too referential to previous chapters during this one. Well, nothing of note at least. Guest review responses below:

Guest 1 Thank you for the review! You get your answer on who ends up in command within this chapter. Curious to see your thoughts on it, Christine is an interesting character to pin down, given we know basically nothing other than they appeared to have some issues in their marriage, but Mike clearly still had a lot of love for her. Kind of interesting too, bringing back someone who's been in Tom's life for this long… I won't spoil it, but I went with an angle that felt interesting.

Guest 2 Sorry to hear you're in the hospital! Thank you for leaving a review, regardless. I hope this finds you well or at least better!

The Shipyard

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February 8th, 2014—Norfolk Naval Shipyard, Portsmouth, Virginia

Captain Chandler stood with both arms folded in the communications room aboard Nathan James. Beside him, the Master Chief and Captain Slattery listened.

"No, sir. They're refusing to give any information," he said.

"Well." Michener sighed. "I'd like them brought to St. Louis when you return. We'll hold them in Fort Leonard, along with Curtis and Donaldson, until we have a more permanent solution—but I think it's safe to assume the remaining factions will continue with their agenda, regardless."

"Yes, sir. That's our assessment."

There was a lull where the three officers exchanged looks, followed by the sound of a pen hitting desk.

"I understand the concerns around Dr. Scott's latest proposal, but considering the recent developments, I don't see that we have any choice but to pursue the aerosolized cure in conjunction with our current efforts," Michener said. "I agree that it is too dangerous to consider sharing the contagious methodology with the global sphere—but we're fighting a battle we can't win with our current pool of resources."

"Has there been any progress on the agreement with Canada?" Tom redirected unfolding both arms and spinning absently his wedding band.

"The Vice President has made significant strides with the acting Prime Minister but they, of course, are demanding access to the newer formulas—I believe if we were to release the science for the aerosolized version—they'd just as quickly conclude that fuel is still a necessary component transcending political interests."

Mike scoffed, "Yeah—good luck with that."

It was low enough not to carry over the transmission. Tom glanced but said nothing. For one, he didn't envy the week Mike had endured, and two, he was preoccupied with the potential ramifications. Belatedly jaded over his latent understanding that Pandora's box was already open, and the cure was in fact a significant component of it.

"There is some good news," Michener's tone lifted. "Val was successful in creating a local cell network. It only works where there's still reliable power, but I intend to instruct the public tomorrow on how to access it. Our hope is that it will ease the burden of congestion on the radio frequencies, and in turn, will make it easier for the public to aid us in uncovering immune activity."

"I concur, sir. We have a plausible theory that they've been crossing the Atlantic for a few months now. Not sure which ports they prefer—there's too many left unattended to speculate, but we've been picking up chatter over HF. There's a full-blown war going on in Europe. Someone's producing cure using the original formula we sent to the labs before Ramsey bombed them. We're not sure who, or what authority they're acting under—if any—and we haven't been able to establish contact. Too much interference… but at least we know someone else is out there trying to spread it," Tom said.

Michener paused while considering the information. "Indeed. But a war is not something we can afford to get in involved in… even with former allies. Our focus must first remain on securing our national interests and curing our citizens before we can meaningfully consider how best to stabilize the world."

Tom lowered his chin, catching the Master Chief's subtle shift in posture.

"There's been another development. This afternoon, a surviving member of congress was discovered in Washington State. Senator William Beatty. I am familiar with him, and though we did not have a close working relationship, I intend to give him authority over the Pacific Northwest." Briefly, Michener paused. "It's a key step in our progression toward re-establishing a functional government and rescinding martial law. Along with the judge, myself, and the Senator, we now have the constitutional authority to ratify laws relating to domestic policy—and to confirm appointments to the White House. I'd first like to start by identifying a Secretary of Foreign Affairs, in addition to a Chief of Staff." He paused. "And with your permission, I'd like to appoint Lieutenant Green as Deputy Chief of Staff of the Navy. She'll spearhead liaisons with our ships once they deploy to spread the cure, and I'd like you, Captain Chandler, to focus your efforts on addressing national security and the immune threat."

All three men exchanged looks before Tom stopped spinning his band and lowered both arms. "Understood, sir—but if you intend to secure the East Coast, we'll need to consider a civilian fleet until we can locate more of our ships and find out what happened to their crews."

There was a lull before Michener responded, "Devise a proposal."

"Yes, sir."

"Captain Slattery—" Michener redirected "—I'm relieved to hear that your family is recovering well."

"Thank you, sir," Mike chimed in, hands now clasped behind his back.

"I'm to assume you'd like them to reside in St. Louis?"

"Correct, sir."

"Very well. I'll ensure that accommodation is made ready by the next scheduled transport." The sound of shifting, likely Michener leaving his chair, Tom assumed, carried over the transmission. "If there's nothing else, I believe I've covered what I need to—enjoy your evening, gentlemen."

"Mr. President," Tom acknowledged before Granderson terminated the line.

A collective silence followed, not uncomfortably, but in an interlude before Tom dismissed Granderson, and directed the Master Chief to hold command of the Nathan James while she rested in dry dock.

Once alone, he glanced toward Mike. "How are they doing?"

Mike sighed, sagging against a console, and stretched his legs out. "Kids are shaken… Christine's—pissed." For several moments, he was lost in thought, then shook his head. "When she found out we made port, and I didn't stay to look for them—" Mike swallowed, then scrubbed a hand down his face, and in a rare crack of composure, his eyes began to fill.

Something sank internally. The same feeling as words that had haunted Tom since October. 'Daddy, where are you?' 'Just get here if you can.'

"I'm gonna take command of the James—"

"Tom—"

"It's not up for debate." Tom stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, stance squared, and chin lifted. "I'll let POTUS know tomorrow. You can stand in for CNO—at least for the first tour—"

"Can't ask you to do that," Mike rasped.

"You're not," Tom cut him off. "It's an order."

They regarded each other, a plethora of confliction battling across Mike's features. "Sam and Ashley—"

"Will be fine with Dad." In his pockets, Tom's hands fisted. "And you'll look out for them. So will Christine. It'll be good for them to be back together with Lizzy and Hannah. They need something normal from before." Again, Tom paused, while Mike stayed affixed in dilemma. "And keep an eye on Kat—promised Tex I would."

Eyes red-rimmed, Mike looked away from the console and bobbed his head, his grip hard around the edge of the desk. He seemed unable to voice more without succumbing, and Tom removed a hand to clutch his shoulder briefly before leaving the room.

Tom heard shuffling behind the door of his former cabin. After several moments, Christine appeared. Her normally chocolate brown hair was deeply rooted with gray, cheeks sunken from weight loss, and eyes lifeless in a way he'd never witnessed before, and yet compared to courting death a week prior, it was a vast improvement.

"Tom." She pulled the door open further, one arm hugging an oversized cardigan he didn't recognize tightly around her body. "Come in."

He complied, noting the blanket and pillow laid upon the settee and Lizzy and Hannah sleeping in the bed. They'd only been released from Rios' care yesterday—and the thought struck Tom that Mike clearly wasn't staying in here, and probably holed up in a stateroom since he'd taken the at-sea. Christine closed the door to the bed cabin with a gentle click as not to disturb the girls and then folded her arms once more.

Since the affair their relationship had been fractured, the air between them strained and awkward, but now, standing amidst an apocalypse, it seemed remarkably petty to keep grievance with a woman whom he'd known longer than his own wife.

"It wasn't his choice," Tom started, the statement earning a painful furrow between Christine's brows. "The minute we found out, he wanted to come home, and I ordered him to stay." Her lips pursed. "So if you need someone to blame, you're looking at him."

Features hardened she peered at the floor, then sniffed. "You know Darien called me?"

Breath was snatched from his lungs, the desperate need to cling to any trace of her so intense it almost buckled his knees.

"Tried to get me to go with them to the cabin." Christine shook her head. "I don't know why I didn't listen. I thought everyone was overreacting… and three weeks later it shows up at the kids' baseball game. Not sure how to tell him I had a chance to get out and didn't take it." Her next anecdote bitter as it was dark. "Or that I even care to."

"Chrissy," he urged. More breathless than intended. "For god's sake, just give him a chance. He lost Lucas too—Hannah and Lizzy need both of you. You need each other—"

"What is it with you two?"

His jaw tightened.

"You'll do anything for each other." Her small chuckle was devoid, words hoarse. "I married a cop and ended up with a sailor who promised he'd be out in twenty years, and instead he hears you're getting a command and wants another six." She readjusted the cardigan, eyes red-rimmed. "Darien was a fucking saint. I hope you know that."

He clenched his shut.

"How many weeks have you all been in St. Louis? Both of you. It's all so honorable—" she spat "—duty always comes first, but what about the people who put their lives on hold so you two can run around playing God!?" Vehement tears spilled down her cheeks. "When is it our turn?" Her voice cracked. "When is enough, enough?!"

"He's staying," Tom rasped.

Just as fast, she threw another caustic jab. "Oh, I'm sure you made that choice for him, too. He wouldn't dream of turning his back on you."

More unsettled than he preferred to admit, Tom squared his stance. "He never turned his back. I understand that you're hurt, and you're angry, and you have every right to be—and I am sorry about Lucas. I can't even begin to imagine…" he broke off and blinked away moisture. Aggressively, she swiped at her cheeks and half-turned, pacing in a small area.

"He didn't have a choice—"

"There's always a choice!" She hissed, body lurching around like a snake primed to strike. "He should have been here. The second you had that cure and made port; he should have been looking for us!" She cleared her throat and wiped her face before turning, arms once again folded.

"He wouldn't be the man you loved if he'd walked away when the whole world is dying, Chrissy. And I don't think you would in the moment either… I know you better than that," he murmured.

Silence passed between them, her refusal to face him its own act of shunning, and he exhaled heavily. On his way to the door, Tom paused, reiterating his primary objective in subjecting himself to the blows she'd landed. "Just give him a chance."

There were no crickets in February.

Why now, she pondered Sasha didn't know, other than perhaps that sound should pair well with the night.

The moon was only half in the sky, but with the world plunged mostly dark, it shone brighter than she'd seen. Clouds formed of her breath when she exhaled. Face taught like a surgical lift in the crisp air that measured a sharp thirty-six degrees. Four less, and there'd be a frosting on the hull at dawn.

She liked this weather; it embodied her.

Since she was a child, she'd thought that. Nothing was more satisfying than the crunchy underfoot of grass on a cloudless, frozen morning.

It made sense for her to be topside approaching the bridge wing—but Tom's place was late spring—and the pilothouse was empty. A rare extended moment of liberty for the crew. They'd moved the James twelve miles south on the Elizabeth River to Portsmouth and stripped replacement radar from a relic moored in the shipyard. It was the last remaining installation on Garnett's checklist, and after verifying the hull damage from Gitmo and New Orleans was appropriately rectified, Nathan James would return upriver to await cure.

"I always hated dry dock," she said.

The depth of his inhale gave him away. She'd crept up on him. Sasha couldn't recall a time that she'd been able to approach Tom without his knowledge.

"When were you in dry dock?" he murmured, silhouette illuminated by both moon and the red lights pouring out from the bridge.

"Third tour with the USS Kitty Hawk. It was meant to be a short cruise, but we were re-routed—spent a hundred ten days without making port and got dry docked when we returned to Yokosuka." Casually she glanced left, arching an eyebrow. "Never painted so much hull in my life… think that's when I accepted my ship going days would be limited to seeing out my contract."

Now standing beside him, studying his profile she caught his soft grin—all she'd aimed for—but a moment later he squinted. "That was in o-three?"

"Mmhm."

"I was on Nimitz."

It seemed he'd almost said more, but something stopped him.

"So we were floating within fifty miles of each other for months," she surmised before inhaling and quirking her head. "Small world." That wasn't why he'd paused, she sensed, but in the same thought, she chose to trust whatever made him withhold. He'd earned that from her in the two months at least.

"Good ol' Battle Cat's still sittin' in the Shipyard in Bremerton," she chimed, her tone leading. "She's one of the last nuclear carriers we've got, right?"

He peered this time with a peculiar quirk to his lip. "With the Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln missing, yeah—she's the one until we figure out where the others went." Relinquishing his stance, he turned his body and leaned an elbow against the solid, chunky rail. "Why? You hiding some Top Guns in that little black book of yours?"

Bemused, and not exactly surprised that he knew she was moving pieces, Sasha shook her head. "Just trying to get your attention." And then grinned. "Looks like it worked."

A begrudged but gentle amusement settled over him.

"Not gonna join the crew and watch?" she pried, though her tone remained nonchalant.

He made a dismissive facial gesture.

"You know—" she leaned forward, settling both elbows against the same rail "—even you need a little downtime."

"This is downtime."

"Brooding at a dry concrete dock isn't it." She leveled him with a droll look.

"You have a better suggestion?" he drawled; neck quirked in that moderately arrogant way. The mischief bloomed first in her eyes. Raising his brows, Tom added, "That doesn't involve skipping base and running around Norfolk."

She mocked a pout. "Come on, it would be fun—for old times' sake." Her condensed breath clouded between them. "We could go to Virginia Beach, see how messed up the boardwalk is." Her head lilted. "Find out if Beach Bully's still there—" he stopped fighting the grin "—god what I wouldn't give for brisket plate from them right now. Double meat special with grits, potato salad, and a giant fountain soda—" she gestured with both hands "—and I mean giant, like more obnoxious than the Double Gulp at 7 Eleven."

Chin lowered, he smiled, teeth and all.

"Drink a bucket of that—and then spend the rest of the night bitching because my pants won't close, and I've got the meat sweats."

Eyes shining, he chuckled. "Almost sounds familiar."

The smile on her face morphed from wide to soft, air seeping from teasing to intimate as smoothly as the way his own settled into something so recognizable and yet gone that it clenched her heart. The effortless charm trademark of the old Tom.

Fuck, she was in it now. Buried toe to chin and sinking deeper.

"I wouldn't say no to a drink."

She couldn't describe how that gravel in his voice seemed to reverberate through her cells. Sweeping his frame with her gaze, Sasha grinned, subtle triumph radiating, and led the way to the mess.

After stepping out of the cabin, Mike took advantage of the barren p-ways. Aside from power, heat, and water filtration, every function of Nathan James was dormant. Against the cool metal, he sagged, both hands braced against his knees. If it weren't for the unconditional love from his kids, this would be his breaking point. The circular rounds of questioning were exhausting as the profound grief driving them, and yet, beneath the raw chafe of Christine's vicious words, remained a foundation of love. He guessed the house just needed to burn down first before they could hit bedrock.

Much as it tore him, this was where he needed to be for now. Intending to thank Tom, Mike searched, but after checking the usual haunts and coming up empty—even so far as to float by Cooper's stateroom—he'd been stumped. More so when the choice to check in on the crew's pre-sanctioned poker tournament led to discovering Tom sat at a mess table actively engaged in it.

"Captain," Jeter greeted once Mike had shuffled through the sizeable group.

Mike lifted a brow but said nothing. In the old world, the half dozen sworn-upon articles Tom was currently breaking would see him stripped of command. In the new world, Mike recognized it was isolating to steadfastly adhere to codes preventing 'unduly familiar' relations with the crew. They'd all been changed, yet until moments like these, Mike didn't perceive how much.

The din was a low constant hum of banter, and Miller's speaker set filling the space. Contraband was stacked deep on a table close to a presentation board. Candy bars, soda cans, hard drives, various types of alcohol, packs of… condoms—Mike almost rolled his eyes—and the board detailing house rules, tournament standings, and which types of duty were approved for bartering; mostly watch and hull painting.

It had been going long enough that the final table was set. Tex, Shemanski, Cooper, Cruz, Tom—none of those surprised him, but Rios, Nishioka, and Mason?

Garnett appeared at his side with a wry twist to her lip. "Too late for you to buy in, but we're still taking bets on the winner."

Bemused, his stance relaxed. "Who's your money on?"

She sucked a breath through her teeth. "I haven't picked yet—Shemanski and Cooper are bluffing together, though I'm fairly sure CNO and Tex are onto that and doing the same. Rios is smart. Knows his cards—plays it safe, but that'll be his downfall up against the rest. Cruz just got wiped out, Nishioka, I think can count cards, and Mason is… a total shock."

"So any of them?" he surmised.

"Either Tex, Shemanski, Cooper, or CNO I'd say… they'll work together to get the rest out before they start picking each other off."

He grunted in acknowledgment, watching Javier withdraw from the table where he was consoled by Green, Miller, and Wolf. Mike flicked to the tournament board, and his lip tugged. "Miller came last. Why doesn't that surprise me—red ears every time the guy lied?"

Andrea's snort was delicate but audible.

"You placed well, though." His tone harbored a melodic quality. "Tenth." Mike tipped his head. "I'm impressed."

Her smile turned wistful. "Bill hosted poker night once a month. I picked some things up."

Ah.

Some of the weight returned. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It okay… there's," she broke off and dropped pretense, "sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to have a normal conversation again. Any of us." Cautiously, she glanced left, catching eye contact through peripheral. "I've been meaning to tell you how glad I am that you found them."

"Yeah," he said. If Garnett noticed the conflicted undercurrent of his smile, she chose not to react, and Mike was thankful for it. Puffing up his chest, he switched the mood. "Think I'll take a page outta CNO's book and grab a drink. You want one?"

Gracefully, Andrea shook her head and shifted to give passage to the makeshift bar.

Rios fell next, claimed by a rogue bluff from Nishioka… but Mike was inclined to agree with Garnett after watching enough rounds. Mason had the luck, but the big dogs were gatekeeping, and after four more, he was out too. Burk switched out for a freshly shuffled deck before dealing the next hand and the remaining players shuffled seats to better face each other.

"Nice job," Mike called when Mason left the table, clapping the younger sailor on the shoulder.

"Thank you, sir."

He wasn't alone in offering congratulations. Most of the crew high-fived or embraced Mason while he meandered toward the prize table to collect his share. Not Wright though… Wright, who'd placed twentieth, seemed put out.

Huh. He'd need to ask the Master Chief about that.

This time, Cooper was quick to fold, Chandler immediately thereafter—Mike squinted and made note for it was the second time Tom had adopted the tactic of following Cooper's lead, and it was new—Nishioka played the flop before he too folded, leaving Tex and Shemanski in a faceoff. A prospect that seemed to please Tex.

Shemanski was already half bet in at the turn, but after the fourth card was drawn by Burk and placed on the table, a king of hearts, he went bold.

"All in."

And stuck down a blank post-it too. Frowning, Mike leaned closer to Garnett. "What's that?"

"House rules—it's a wild card. Three per player, and you can raise a bet with something non-tangible."

Mike shifted closer. Now they were getting to the good stuff.

Tex chuckled. "What'd you got in mind, my friend?"

"Cut your hair and lose the beard."

It drew noise from the crowd.

Skeptical, Tex raised his brows. "Come again, boss?"

"You heard me—standard short back and sides, regulation shave," Shemanski taunted.

Cooper, who'd maintained an alarmingly neutral flat for the entire duration, cracked a smirk and peered at Tex. "Did we just find the weak spot?"

Tex postured, shifting his back straighter. "Sweetheart, ain't nothing weak about me." He pushed his pot forward and grabbed his own post-it, countering Pablo's stakes. "You make an honest woman out of your lady… no more sneakin' around."

Shemanski laughed while everyone, but Cooper, appeared confused and Tom, whose eyes had near imperceptibly narrowed, failed to hide the tick of his jaw.

"We both know she's not in it for that," Shemanski threw back.

Tex grinned, running a hand through his beard. "Well we're gonna find out—"

Burk gestured between them. "The terms are agreed?"

"Agreed," Tex answered immediately.

Shemanski pondered it for a few more seconds, before shifting and leaning forward. "Fuck it. Agreed."

They both turned their cards, and Shemanski immediately grinned and smacked a fist on the table.

"Three of a kind," Burk announced, his own lip drawn into a satisfied smirk. "Sorry, Tex. You out."

"Son of a bitch." Tex flicked his losing two ace pair away and relinquished his spot.

Green grabbed Shemanski on both shoulders and hollered. Wolf and Cruz equally boisterous in their triumph. Cooper laughed, and it struck Mike that he'd never heard it before, nor seen her smile fully, now that he pondered it. He glanced at Tom, who remained mostly impassive but there was subtle cunning in his features when he propped his elbow on the table and braced his chin with thumb and forefinger. A position he'd seen Tom take many a time in the wardroom.

The next rounds mostly shifted the pot with no substantial upsets between Chandler, Cooper, Nishioka and Shemanski, until an insane swing of luck turned Nishioka's losing all-in bet into a winning hand against Shemanski when the river was turned. Even Cooper was shocked by that one, it seemed… and it had all been surface-level fun, Mike thought, until the absence of Tex and Shemanski's banter could no longer mask it.

The part where Chandler and Cooper were sitting opposite each other engaged in eye contact that could evaporate an ocean.

The game break was temporary where Burk switched the decks, and Sasha accepted a fresh beer from Shemanski, who then sat on the table directly behind her. Casually, she sipped while Tom made blatant the part where he watched and silently challenged her not to react. Truly, she didn't care to win. Her goal had been nothing more than to force Tom from the pit to which he'd succumbed since Slattery's family arrived, but now they were here—several drinks deep—sitting in state that had always belonged to him. Back to reckless, playing games, and falling prey to the power between them.

And when the game started up, a few non-consequential rounds passing before Nishioka folded, leaving nothing but burgeoning friction and a smoldering gaze, Sasha registered this wasn't poker anymore. Instead of a simple opening bet before the fold, Tom moved his left wrist, unfastened his watch and deposited it precisely front and center without breaking eye contact.

Her pulse jumped in her throat, and she vaguely registered the shift in the room. Murmurs and collective anticipation rumbled like distant friction between clouds.

There was only one thing on her person she valued like that, and he damn well knew it.

Next, he went all-in, methodically stacking his chips, and then waited, his gaze steel and blink slow.

Fold or let fate decide.

Dropping the contact, she stared at its face, watching while the second hand ticked a quarter of the way from its original position, then almost half…

"Ten seconds," Burk warned.

She threw in her time-out marker with a second to spare, and Burk hit his stopwatch.

Her hand was good—but not unbeatable—but then again, this wasn't about bluffing a hand. This was a blind bet based on drawing cards alone and not skill. Maybe he just wanted to see what she'd do after that display in his stateroom. Perhaps he was testing how deep her resolve truly ran… after all, she'd shown him the cracks…

Ten seconds.

Inhaling, Sasha shifted to the jacket hanging from her chair and pulled the satellite phone from its pocket before grit wavered. She added it to the pot along with her chips.

Tom's cheeks hollowed.

Behind her, she heard Shemanski stand. Even registered Slattery's double take, while the weight of Tom's gaze intensified to the point where perfunctory breathing felt hard.

"Cards," Burk prompted when their mutual inaction lingered too long.

Robotically, she turned hers and then checked his.

Shit.

Excitement rippled around the room, and Nishioka left his seat, whispering urgently to Mason.

They couldn't be more evenly matched. A king-queen offsuit, and ace-jack offsuit, respectively.

Burk turned the fold which changed nothing.

Tom was still slightly ahead with the high card. Tex shifted closer, both hands rubbing together, though he stayed uncharacteristically quiet.

Next came the turn, which earned more murmurs from the crew, and gave Tom a winning straight and ace high, and she a losing three of a kind.

Their gazes locked again.

Burk turned the river. A king of hearts.

Tex erupted, "Full house!" over the crew's reactions, a collectively disruptive moment of disbelief.

Gracious in defeat, Tom merely made a facial gesture close to a shrug, though his gaze continued to scorch against her skin. "Well played," he offered, baritone delectably smooth.

Her lips parted to answer, but he was already withdrawing.

Picking up his drink, he turned to Slattery, who leaned in to share something Sasha had no way to discern over the crowd. He squeezed Tom's shoulder, and then Russ and Andrea moved in.

She stared at Tom's watch, unaware of Pablo's approach until he was hunched at her side, close to her ear.

"Did you just let a deck of cards tell you whether to stay?" he murmured.

She swallowed.

"No. I just let them show me how much I want to come back."