an. Back again with the third installment in my 'New China" universe. Halcyon picks up a few months after the end of Vengeance. This installment will lay the groundwork for the version of season 5 that I have planned. You will recognize themes but treat the rest of the show as non-canon at this point for the purpose of this story. One thing that I found jarring was just how prosperous America was so quickly after losing another 200,000+ people – I know it's just a show, and you have to suspend disbelief, still, I don't think the US, or the rest of the world for that matter, would be so easily fixed in 3 years after suffering a global pandemic, and a global famine back-to-back. I've done my best to balance a slightly more realistic approach to rebuilding within my version of Season 4's context because it's a significant factor in the decisions that our characters make. That being said – on with the story!

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Tuesday, March 8th, 2016—White House, St. Louis, Missouri

Sasha was busy typing away when vibration thrummed through the wooden panes of her desk. She smiled upon reading the caller ID. "How'd it go?"

"I'm officially cleared for desk duty again. Doc says I'll be combat-ready in six months."

She did the math in her head quickly—June. Her brow furrowed; he didn't sound particularly thrilled. "Mm, that's a good thing—right?"

"Yeah. We'll talk about it when you get home."

She sat back in her chair, abandoning the reports she'd been working on. "Still not sure whether you're coming back?" She heard a sigh and pictured him pinching the bridge of his nose.

When he'd reactivated his commission in the Med, it had been with the sole intent to deliver the seeds. As far as Tom was concerned, he'd made good on that commitment. "The kids are finally settling down, we have a routine… yeah, part of me is jealous as hell that Mike's gonna build a fleet from the James, but…"

She hung her head, contemplating. Wished she had the answers for him, but none of them did. "We'll figure it out—I could use some help here. And we both know Oliver would reinstate you in a heartbeat if that's what you wanted. Just think, you could help me with the thrilling logistics I plan every day." The sarcasm at the end of that statement earned her a slight chuckle, which was all she'd aimed for. This was not an attempt to pressure him.

"Sounds about as fun as the kid's homework."

"You're not wrong."

"What time will you be home? You want me to wait to make your dinner?"

Sasha glanced over at the wall clock—and then frowned. It was late. "Actually, I'll leave now—I didn't see the time."

"Okay, I'll see you soon—drive safe," he said before disconnecting.

Fond crease lines softened her eyes. Some twenty-plus years later, he still ended every call with a variation of asking her to be safe. Some people said I love you—he told her he needed her home.

Tom looked up when he heard the garage door open. Smiled when she rounded the corner and appeared in the kitchen. He still wasn't quite used to seeing her so put together every day. President Oliver had asked Sasha to serve as his Primary Intelligence Officer—a recommendation from a former CIA department head serving in office. They needed to rebuild intelligence assets and were severely lacking expertise. Frankly, after sitting around for nearly three months with nothing to do but ferry Tom back and forth to his PT appointments and epitomize the domesticated homebody, she'd been more than ready to go back. And having taken a look, it was clear she could add value. Though—she had specified that she needed to be land-based. Things were going well. Really well, and she and Tom were entirely on track with their 'happy ever after', she didn't want to shake that up by leaving again.

"Hey, how was work?"

Sasha rounded the island to give him a quick kiss, and he took her bag from her, setting it down while she shrugged off her jacket. "Good, busy," she answered, absently looking for a glass to fix herself some wine. Noticed after a few moments that he'd already poured one and it was waiting for her at the dinner table. She gave him an appreciative look. "How'd you know?" her shoulders slumped with relief. Kicked off her shoes, her bones protesting how long they'd been stuffed into mid-heel pumps. Dressing nicely and feeling like a woman was undoubtedly nice—but god, she missed wearing boots and comfortable clothes every day.

"It's past six-thirty," he mused, hand hovering in the small of her back as he walked with her to the table.

"I talked to Mike today. Nathan James is officially out of dry dock." Watched closely while taking a bite of the simple pasta dish he'd made. There were still extreme food shortages, and though they were given preferential treatment when it came to rations thanks to their service, it was pretty much packaged foods, not many greens, and canned goods from the federal reserves. Only had wine thanks to Miller and Green.

Their scientists had finally produced a viable specimen containing the cure in mid-February, but until the first crops had a chance to yield, they were still very far from solving the famine. The Vellecks had been little to no help. The Doctor had committed suicide, costing them months of failed attempts in engineering cured crops, and they were still trying to figure out exactly how Velleck had intended to input that same cure into locusts. To stabilize it and use them as a vector. They were crowdsourcing with the entire world at this point, but as of yet—no nation had cracked the code.

Tom inclined his head casually, "When are they heading out?"

"By the end of the week, President wants them assisting supply runs again," she mumbled while chewing, taking a sip of the wine to wash down her food. Tom wasn't able to hide it this time. "I'm a little jealous too—I actually miss it, even the lukewarm showers," she admitted tipping her head slightly and raising an eyebrow.

Tom blinked softly; he felt the same way. The pull—the mixed priorities. The love of having a mission and the sea at their feet. Yet ultimately, the need to re-engage with land-based life had won out.

Their attention was drawn by the sound of heavy feet bounding down the stairs, probably two at a time. Tom closed his eyes in frustration, and Sasha smiled ruefully—no matter how many times he told his son not to drag his feet, he just didn't seem to listen.

Sam shuffled over, paper in hand, with a bright smile. "Hi Sasha."

"Hey, how was school today?"

"Good, Mrs. Decker gave me an A in Spanish."

Sasha played along. "She did?"

His nod was vigorous. "Yeah she said my homework was the best in the class and then Dad said I had to remember to say thank you because you helped me with it."

"You're very welcome," she replied graciously, not missing the frown on Tom's face—that wasn't what he'd envisioned as a thank you, but Sam was right back to talking a mile a minute before he could correct him.

"Yeah it was really cool I got to leave five minutes early, which was awesome and so I was wondering if you might maybe be able to help me again with this new one?" he pushed the paper in her direction.

"Sam," Tom interjected, "boundaries. Remember?" He gestured to Sasha's plate, accentuating his point. "We're eating dinner, and Sasha just got home."

Sam's eyes went wide, and he snatched the paper back. There had been several recent lectures about what was and was not appropriate. Things like not opening closed doors without knocking, being quiet in the mornings until he was sure everyone was up, waiting for people to finish what they were doing before asking them to do something else… "Sorry."

Sasha chuckled and roughed his hair. "It's okay, give me an hour, and I'll come up and help."

"Okay cool"—Sam caught his father's insistent glare—"thank you," he added quickly. He shuffled off, climbing loudly up the stairs while Tom looked on at a loss.

Once beyond earshot, Tom groaned and scrubbed his face. They weren't bad kids, not by any stretch of the imagination, and maybe this was more about his failures as a parent during their time spent in Greece. Mostly, he'd let them be. Too lost himself to re-enforce behaviors that had slipped in the absence of Darien and his father... "What am I doing wrong?"

"He just gets excited," she said tenderly. Sasha had developed quite the soft spot for Sam. He was just too innocent and loveable, still twelve years old and not yet full of the teenage angst like Ashely could be.

"I tell him something, and it's like five minutes goes by, and he's forgotten the entire conversation. I feel like I'm talking to a wall." Tom took the glass from her hands and drank.

"Well, he's not a sailor. Kids don't just fall in line."

"If he was then he'd be you. You never listened to me either."

"But you loved me anyway." She took the glass back. "Have you thought about what you want to do?"

For a time, silence lingered, and Tom reclined further into the chair. "I don't know... part of me wants to be out there, probably always will. But I have to be here for the kids. I can't risk getting pulled again, passing them off to different strangers every time there's a crisis. It's not fair."

Gently, she nodded. "True, but I'd be here if you did get pulled. And the Greens are just down the street. It wouldn't be the same as it was before."

"Can't ask you to do that," he said sincerely, despite being touched that she'd do that for him. For them. "You already do more than enough."

"I'm serious, Tom. I really could use your help," she replied. "About the only useful thing I've found is that program you started before Asia. The personnel files? Logistically there's just so much to consider. I don't even know where to start. The skill gap? The lack of resources? I can't even plan a supply run in less than a week. We need solid manufacturing, we need trade routes, agreements, fuel, food, concrete communications—it just goes on and on, there aren't enough skilled people to do it." She paused for a moment, reining in the impassioned nature of her tone.

"I know you're not ready to make a decision on re-instating as the CNO—but if we had you as an advisor, it would make things a hell of a lot easier." She picked at a few more pieces of food before drowning the rest of her glass.

Tom pondered in reticence. It wasn't a half-bad idea. He could stay enlisted and take on an administrative position under her branch. There would be no travel, knew she'd make sure of that. No life-or-death decisions in his hands. He'd still be helping, in a very real, meaningful way. Still be able to keep his finger on the pulse, so to speak. Could be around for the kids if they needed him. Take them to school and drop them off—like a regular father.

"I'm not opposed to it," he agreed after a time.

Sasha smiled slightly, a twinkle in her eye. "Is that your way of saying I can talk to Oliver?" Her tone was entirely too hopeful for him to deny, and he nodded once. It earned him a wide smile, and she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

"I think this means I'm your boss," she said suggestively, and he groaned.

"Now it makes sense."

She laughed. "Never thought I'd see the day. Sasha really does know best, huh?"

Tom rolled his eyes and smirked. Sasha had never forgotten that comment, nor let it go, and it showed.

"Aye aye?" he drawled sarcastically, earning him another laugh. Tom grabbed her glass and went to the kitchen to refill it, the sound of her happiness following him, its own personal reward.

"You haven't been that pissed at me since I stole those course plans."

He side-eyed. "You called me Tom in front of my crew."

Sasha leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. "That's what you were mad about? Not the fact that I called you out?"

Tom turned to glance over his shoulder while the wine poured. "That too, but mostly Tom. At least before you called me sir."

"That's because I had to, for obvious reasons."

"I was the CNO!?" He gestured while making his way back to her.

"And? My orders came from Michener, not you, Admiral. Despite you telling me to fall in line," she countered with a wry expression, accepting the glass.

He took a sip of his own while he sat at the table again. "Scuttlebutt had a field day with it." Smacked his lips slightly and twirled the stem between his fingers.

Sasha pulled a face. "Oh come on. That started because you put me on lookout in the minefield. Not to mention your tone, and that display in the hanger bay after we rescued Mike?"

Tom scoffed, his head recoiling back. "My tone?"

"Tom, you don't speak to me the way you do everyone else. Unless I've stepped on your balls, it's softer." Her brow was raised as she silently baited him into attempting to deny it.

While he sipped once more, mirth gleamed in his eyes. "That like some universal code?" Rhetorical, of course. He knew he did it—unconsciously at times—a habit he'd never been able to break.

Sasha smirked, bringing her own glass to her lips. "Something like that."

After slipping beneath the covers, Sasha groaned. One of the smarter moves they'd made was to hunt down a decent mattress. After years of sleeping on hard surfaces and lumpy beds, it was indeed an indulgent experience. Tom finished brushing his teeth and darkened the room before climbing in, immediately moving his pillow closer so they could spoon. She rolled to her side as he settled behind her, his hand slipping under her shirt and feet tangling with hers. The scent of her shampoo filled his senses, and he lingered there for a moment committing it to memory before dropping a few kisses against the base of her neck.

Such a simple luxury still felt surreal to Tom.

"Goodnight," he mumbled.

"Goodnight," she echoed, eyes already heavy with exhaustion.

Some time later, Tom was pulled from sleep by the sound of faint knocking. It took a few for his brain to catch up—the door—one of the kids, he assumed. Sasha hadn't heard it yet to his relief. The one lingering point of contention in their relationship was her refusal to discuss those night-terrors and her avoidance of sleep. The first time he'd seen it, he'd caught a right hook trying to prevent her from scratching her skin raw. They weren't every night, sometimes they'd go weeks without one—but when it came, he was left shaken, and every time her answer was the same. 'Don't worry, it's just a dream, and I'm fine.'

Whatever that was—it was not fine.

Extracting himself with the utmost delicacy, Tom stepped out to find Ashley on the other side, arms wrapped around herself in the fluffy robe she preferred. "What's wrong, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?" he whispered.

She hesitated before she shook her head. "Is Sasha there? I didn't see her downstairs."

Tom's expression showed his confusion. "She's sleeping Ash—what is it? I can take care of it."

"Dad, can you just get Sasha?" She asked again when he continued to squint and appear torn. "Please."

Tom studied her for a moment longer, brows furrowed before he sighed. "Give me a minute," he mumbled. Sasha was already sitting up, wiping her eyes and peering toward the door; their conversation, however hushed, had stirred her.

"What happened?"

"Ash is outside, says she wants you, and won't tell me why." Her expression registered concern, and she lifted the sheets, swinging her legs around, and shivered when cool air hit skin. He noticed and went to the bathroom to get her robe. "I'm sorry," he muttered using hushed tones so Ashley couldn't hear them while he helped her put it on. She cut him off with a hand gesture. Pulled her hair free from the neck of the robe without thought as she tied the belt.

"It's fine—I'll take care of it," she mumbled, voice thick and marred by the distinct slur of fatigue. She squeezed the hand that was lingering by hers.

Ashely was shuffling nervously on her feet when Sasha emerged, relief immediately evident that she'd come. Sasha squinted against the hallway light and drew her robe tighter. "Hey, what's going on?"

Ashely bit her lip, she looked nervous about something and glanced at the door. She was sure her dad was eavesdropping, ear probably pressed against it on the other side. "Can we go to my room?"

"Of course," Sasha answered, following her down the hall.

When they reached the bedroom, and after Ashley verified a couple more times that her dad wasn't lurking in the hallway, or so Sasha assumed, she spoke. "I think I started my period, and it kind of got on my sheets. I didn't want Dad to come out here if I changed them." She was staring at the floor and had mumbled the words.

Sasha relaxed significantly, a slightly audible sigh of relief escaping her lips. "Oh. Okay. Well we can take care of that."

Ashely nodded, looking thoroughly mortified.

Before heading to the linen closet, Sasha offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and upon returning saw that Ashley had already stripped the bed covers and protective undersheet. "Why don't you go take a quick shower while I do this, and I'll go get you some stuff from my bathroom?"

"Okay," Ashley mumbled, avoiding eye contact still.

Sasha sighed. Their relationship was not bad by any stretch of the imagination, there was no animosity and Ashley had been very gracious and mature in accepting her into their lives. But she was reserved. Private and more guarded with her trust than her brother. Very much like Tom in that way. Loyal to a fault; Sasha was very careful not to overstep her bounds.

"Ashley?" Sasha called after a moment of indecision, needing, and wanting to offer some guidance. Ashley stopped just before reaching the jack and jill bathroom. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about. It's normal, okay? Sometimes still happens to me too."

It seemed to help; Ashley at least made eye contact this time. "Thanks."

Sasha's nerves settled. "Anytime—you know that."

The minute Sasha returned to their master suite Tom left the bed. There'd been various ideas about what was wrong with this daughter, but before he could get a word out, Sasha enlightened him.

"She started her period." To the point with no need for embellishment.

He made an 'oh' expression, visibly relaxing, before a heaviness set in. Doubts that told him he wasn't a good enough parent... if Sasha wasn't there, who would she have gone to? Kara, maybe? "She could have told me that."

"Because every teenaged girl wants to talk to her dad about periods? Tom—just trust me—it's not about you, she knows you're there for her, but some things are easier—"

Shit.

First came the sorrow which morphed his gaze. Then his chin lowered, cheeks hollowed. Same reaction she witnessed anytime life cruelly reminded Tom of the things his kids were missing without Darien to help guide them. Tom stared at the carpet. Sasha approached and cradled his jaw, placing a kiss on his forehead. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wasn't thinking." She kissed him again before letting go and wordlessly retrieving some items from their bathroom.

"I'll be back in a bit. You should try and go back to sleep." Despite knowing he'd spend the night punishing himself for Darien, she still felt compelled to try reasoning.

Tom pushed his feet through the carpet to distract himself, pulling them back and forth and focusing on the friction. "Thank you, for helping her—I know you're tired."

"You don't have to keep thanking me, Tom. Your kids aren't a burden. I'm here with you, remember? We're a team. Teams take care of each other."

Her comment effectively soothed his reservations, and when Tom lifted his head, his gaze held barely contained adoration—he wondered if Sasha realized yet that she was good at this. Patient, fair, understanding… and if he were honest, he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the rug to be pulled out on their 'happily ever after'.

Given everything, it was easy to do this with her.

Too easy.

"I love you," he said simply.

Her nose wrinkled like it did whenever she found him sweet. "I love you too, Tom. Go back to sleep."