Sasha forced herself to pull away, had let the emotions consume her for what in reality had only spanned about ten seconds just to be able to maintain control—they were back, but there were still post-op duties to complete. Now was not the time. She'd needed the momentary comfort and relief, and she suspected he had too, though he remained graceful as ever about it. Much more than she. His eyes swept her quickly, and it was only then that he noticed the immense amount of dried blood soiling her clothes, not immediately apparent because she was wearing all black. Sasha did not miss the flash of concern, nor the mental checklist he was going through and pre-empted his question.

"It's not mine." Didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed slightly, because there was an edge to her tone, and he didn't like it. Filed it away for later, he'd determine how much he needed to pry after he read the official report.

Danny reached them, arms laden with both of their gear. Tom caught eyes with him and exchanged a silent look, one of mutual respect and gratitude ended with a reciprocated head nod. Tom took note of the fact that he was covered in just as much blood, though interestingly, Azima, Brown, and Wolf were not.

Sasha turned and addressed Vulture Team, appropriately composed and standing a respectable distance from him, though she was hyper-aware of his presence at her side. Mentally battling with the fact that all she wanted to do was stare at him. "Debrief in the wardroom, fifteen minutes." The sooner she could wrap this up, the sooner she could forget and go back to the safe little bubble she'd been living in prior to this mission.

"Yes, Ma'am."

She gave Tom a look that communicated they were about to move, and he fell into step behind her wordlessly. "Please tell me you brought me a change of clothes," she muttered, stepping through the knife's edge of the door with the muscle memory and grace of any of the tenured crew. She had well and truly developed her sea legs over the past few years, and the James was now just as much her home as anyone else's.

"And your soap," he confirmed readily, and she let out a noise of appreciation.

"Mike give you his cabin?" The hope that she might even get her own private shower almost too much to bear.

"Consider it your lucky day." Usually, the grime didn't faze her, could hang with it through a debrief until everything was settled, and all of her post-op duties fulfilled, but the blood-caked to her skin from that jungle was burning her in a way it never had before. Was making her nauseous, and she needed to get it off as soon as humanly possible.

He'd barely finished closing the door before she started stripping, peeling the vest and stiff clothes off, discarding them in a heap upon the floor. In different circumstances, he'd consider it a perfectly good invitation, but his entire attention was focused on checking her for injuries. Finding thankfully that aside from a few bug bites and a few days-old bruises, she was fine. Lean, her fat reserves depleted to the point that her hip bones shot out, and the bumps of her spine were made visible—but nothing that a few weeks of square meals wouldn't fix. They'd been living on MRE's since leaving the camp, and it's not like they'd had an abundance of food prior to it either. The rebels didn't take care of those that opposed them, controlled the food, and hoarded it for their militia instead, leaving the rest to starve.

Tom headed to his duffel and pulled out her clothes and toiletries, the sound of the shower filling the room. Wordlessly took the bottles of shampoo and conditioner to her along with her body wash and loofah—she hadn't bothered to close the door. She wanted every second she could in his presence before their work inevitably forced them apart. She took them from him greedily and went to work, watching as the water swirled a sordid mixture of blood, dirt, and suds. The simple smell doing wonders to wash away the mental grime to remind her of who she was. Drawing her back to the present, and away from the out-of-body experience she'd been having for the past month.

Sasha.

She smelled like Sasha again.

After a few moments spent leaning against the wall in the tight space, Tom moved back into the cabin, shrugged off his jacket, and placed it on the desk. When he stepped back in, he grabbed the Shampoo and deposited a generous amount in his palms, stepping closer though careful not to get too wet, and spread it through her hair for her while she scrubbed at her hands. She was trying furiously to dislodge the blood from under her fingernails, but without a stiff brush, it was proving challenging. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, the feel of his long fingers, scrubbing gently at her scalp almost too much to bear.

She had missed him so much.

"Rinse," he said softly, guiding her to turn around, so her back faced the shower head as he ran his fingers through her hair, careful not to snag them on tangles. She obliged, letting his touch ground her, letting it push away everything that she'd done. He made quick, efficient work by repeating the same with her conditioner, the nature of it allowing him to work out most of the knots in her hair. The pit in his stomach growing larger with every passing second as he watched her scrubbing franticly over spots that were already clean. The skin there starting to turn red with the irritation. He glanced at his wristwatch; they had eight minutes.

Tom reached out to still her movements, slowly placing his hands over hers and taking the loofah out of them, "It's alright," he breathed, feeling the tremor still under his touch. Directed her to wash the last of the soap from her body before shutting the shower off and wrapping her in a towel. He pulled her out and settled himself against the sink, legs parted so she could stand between them, and drew her head to rest against his chest. Her hair immediately soaked a patch of his shirt. Sasha curled her arms around him and closed her eyes—cheekbone resting upon his clavicle as she listened to his strong heartbeat. Tom held her there for three more minutes until they had to move, gut churning with concern. She hadn't stopped shaking since they'd arrived.

"What's the situation with Arias?" Sasha's eyes scanned the drafted trade agreement, verifying the key details. Mike stood at the head of the table, Tom directly opposite her, Danny sat beside and the rest of the team strewn throughout the room. She'd chosen to sit—wasn't sure she'd be able to stop herself from swaying if she stood. Hadn't slept for three days.

"He's ready to sign the agreement as soon as we give confirmation that Vega is dead," Tom answered.

Her mouth twitched. Images of Vega crawling on the ground, begging for his life as she swung the machete down again assaulting her thoughts. She blinked, languid and disoriented before peering up and meeting his gaze across the table. Tom's eyes narrowed a fraction, and she felt acutely aware of the fact that he'd zeroed in on it. He watched as her throat bopped up and down as she swallowed, avoiding him to look somewhere just past his shoulder instead.

"He's dead. All three base camps have been neutralized—all of his top leadership gone. Shouldn't take much for Arias to take back the canal. I'm sure most of the remaining forces will flip back once they realize their source of food is gone," she confirmed, tone purposefully even and detached.

Tom's arms were folded across his chest, and he studied her, the corners of his mouth turning downward as he gave a short nod. "Alright. I'll inform POTUS now." Uncrossed his arms and made as if to leave but lingered on her for just a fraction more than was professional before exiting the wardroom.

As soon as Tom was gone Sasha visibly relaxed. The feeling that he was staring into her soul was putting her on edge, threatening her hard-won control. No-one could know what they had done. Why they had been delayed for almost a week. Why she and Danny had purposefully split from the rest of the group to take the main camp. A move that had almost cost them their lives and the entire mission. Didn't know how much longer she could withstand his scrutiny without caving and spilling her guts to him—not when she was in this state.

In her peripheral, she caught Mike's eyes and he quickly changed his expression from concern to neutral. Sasha clenched her jaw. Chided herself because she'd almost forgotten how perceptive he could be—hadn't seen him in eight months since the Christmas Party, and of course if Tom suspected something was wrong, Slattery suspected too. They were two peas in their ridiculous omnipresent pod.

Mike cleared his throat slightly before addressing them, feeling the awkward tension permeating from Sasha in waves. "I'm sure you're all tired, and the rest of you are most definitely in need of a shower," he quipped, which earned some amused smiles and chuckles from Azima, Wolf, and Brown."I'll reconvene at 0-eight hundred tomorrow for the official reports."

Sasha nodded at him once sharply in confirmation, and the wardroom cleared out quickly. All but her and Danny. She met his troubled gaze as soon as the door clicked. "Are you still with me?"

Danny nodded his head quickly, "Yeah—no taking it back now." Gruff, as tortured as she felt, and Sasha swallowed. Her mind supplying her with those awful visuals again. The sounds. The fear.

Blinking again, voice unwavering though her soul screamed. "We stick with the plan—we can't tell anyone."

Danny's dark expression met her gaze then, the resolution clear in those green-blue eyes. "We stick with the plan," he confirmed, and though she felt like Sasha was sinking, it gave her a small comfort to know she wasn't completely alone this time.

Tom stood on the bridge looking out onto the calm waters as they sailed back to Mayport. Sasha had busied herself well with post-op duties. Spent hours typing up her official report at the computer in Mike's Cabin. Had barely picked at the food Tom brought to her, and she'd spent the past two hours of his time at the helm holed up on the bridge-wing in the lookout chair staring aimlessly into the night. Red light glowing against her silhouette framed by the blackened night with feet propped up against the railing.

It was late. Almost midnight. Tom had expected her to be asleep by now, report said they'd been going non-stop for the past two days trying to make extraction. Unable to ignore the concern any longer, he stepped out onto the bridge wing and came to stand beside her. Watched as the light breeze played with her wavy hair. Clasped his hands behind his back to occupy them against the surge that wanted to hold her. Couldn't do that right now. Not on the deck while he was acting CO, a suggestion he'd made to give Mike and Garnett some much-needed rest. Sasha glanced at him from peripheral—a move he caught, but she made no further effort to acknowledge him.

"You wanna talk about it?" he tried after a time, knowing she'd shut him down or deflect but needing to try none-the-less.

"I missed this. The open—being able to see the horizon—jungle's claustrophobic," she muttered absently. Her tone was monotonous. Too flat, as if she was strung out on drugs, though he recognized it as a side effect of sleep deprivation.

Tom pursed his lips and tucked his chin to his chest before he spoke again, his request soft. "You should get some sleep." The comment hung in the air, the soft shake of her head the only indication that he'd been heard. "Just tell me what you need, Sasha—please?" he tried again, and she furrowed her brow, the tone of his voice finally having broken through the all-consuming numbness she'd been drowning in for a few precious seconds. Reminding her that she was real. This was real, and she was alive.

"This, Tom. I need to sit here and do nothing—and I need you to let me."

He closed his eyes against the pain that shot through his chest.

Wednesday, August 24th, 2016—St. Louis, Missouri

The peaceful slumber in which he rested was interrupted by violent thrashing. Tom snapped his eyes open, the fogginess in his brain departing rapidly as he took in his surroundings. Beside him, Sasha was twisted in a fetal position, franticly trying to untangle her arms from the sheets in her dream-locked state. He moved quickly and pulled them off her before grasping her arm firmly and shaking.

"Wake up."

Experience told him removing the obstruction, and a firm voice was usually enough to help her snap out of it. This time, however, it didn't. Frowning, Tom knelt next to her, the depression of his weight on the mattress rolling her to him—a mistake—Sasha flew into a panicked state. Raising abruptly and trying to fight him off.

"Hey!"

Tom pulled her to him, her back against his chest which earned a scratch that bit at the skin on his forearm. "Shhh, you're dreaming." An attempt to soothe spoken directly into her ear. Both hands grabbed her wrists and crossed her arms over her torso. Pulling both towards her hips—a simple restraint technique the military taught to safely detain and deescalate someone so they couldn't harm themselves. Sasha tried to twist herself out of it. Hips rising from the bed and legs kicking out. Her foot caught the bedside lamp sending it crashing to the ground along with the items on her nightstand.

"Jesus Sash!" There was fear in his voice. Used his legs to hook hers so she couldn't move as she continued to thrash against him. Movements that were futile because now he'd managed to subdue her, there was no way she could get out. Tom had twice her strength.

"Sasha, wake up," he tried again. Her breathing was labored, fussing audibly while she struggled. Vaguely, Tom heard a door open and footsteps come running down the hall and he cringed.

"Dad!?" Ashely's muffled concerned voice came. Sam stuck his head out of his room, eyes stinging sensitively while they tried to adjust to the light. Ashley gestured for him to stay back.

"It's okay, Ash. It was just a light." Tom called.

Ashley frowned on the other side of the door, could hear what sounded like Sasha crying. "What's going on?"

"Ash," he warned in the tone he used to communicate he was serious, "I can't right now, okay? I need you to go back to your room."

She hovered for several more seconds, torn with concern and confusion. Wanting to defy him, to push the door open and see for herself but knew she'd be in big trouble if she did. Huffing out a breath, Ashely stepped away from their bedroom door, shaking her head at Sam and heading into his room instead. "I don't know what's going on," she expressed when Sam looked at her waiting for answers.

Tom heard a door shut and exhaled with relief, refocusing his attention on Sasha, speaking directly into her ear again. "Come on Sash—wake up."

Finally, she stiffened, movements stilling which let him know she was alert. He loosened his hold but didn't let go, waiting as she came back to herself. Sasha's chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, completely confused while she took in her position and surroundings. Claustrophobic panic surged, his hold on her suffocating rather than a comfort. Wasn't aware of the distressed sound that came out when she pushed against him. Tom let her go quickly and she ripped herself out of bed, almost tripping because one of her feet was still caught in the sheets.

He surged forward to catch her but she caught herself. Put her hands up and shook her head at him. Tried to say 'don't touch me' but ended up mouthing the word, "No," breathlessly instead. Tom stared at her, eyes wide and fearful, mouth agape, his own breathing labored from panic as he sat frozen, trying to process what the fuck had just happened. Sasha put a hand on her knee and tried to catch her breath, the other clutching at her chest. Her face was contorted in pain and after several tense seconds, she stumbled to the bathroom. The door closed behind her with a slam, Tom's eyes tracking her movements the entire time.

He couldn't move. Blinked several times trying to comprehend as he looked around the room at their sheets strewn all over the place. The lamp ripped clean out of the wall, violently enough to pull the nightstand forward with it. A glass of water spilled on the carpet. Phone torn from its charger.

In complete despair, Tom squeezed his eyes closed. This had to stop. That was the worst he'd ever seen it. Whatever it was, wasn't getting better—only worse. At a loss, he picked up his phone and sent a text.

Did something happen in Panama that I need to know about? Man to man.

Hadn't expected a reply until morning, but when his phone vibrated less than a minute later, the surprise had him snatching it quickly to read the response.

Lot of bad shit to unpack… not really sure how to do it myself. Can't help you. Sorry Sir.

Tom swallowed, clenched his jaw. Mind running wild with scenarios that could explain the dreams. The regular nightmares he could handle had them too himself sometimes. Just bad memories that came up, but it was the night terrors that loomed insidiously and un-addressed. Was it something specific, or rather a culmination of stressors finally getting the best of her? It had to do with Asia, he knew that. Something about the village and the bodies. But she'd told him that already on the James, so if that was it, why didn't she talk about it. Maybe it was guilt over James manifesting itself, she'd never mentioned it again, and he was convinced, had he not intervened that night, she would have ignored it completely in favor of this self-destructive path.

You know where I am if you need to talk.

Officially stonewalled. Whatever had happened, Danny wasn't going to breathe a word of it. Not to him, at least. Tom put the phone down intending to clean up the sheets and their room, but he left first to check in on Ashely and Sam. His heart breaking just that little bit more over their concern when he'd explained what Ashley had heard. Hurting over the fact that Sasha was still so hellbent on running that she couldn't see what was really going on here.

After changing their sheets, Tom went to her. The room billowed with steam when the temperature changed, all the glass surfaces fogging up with condensation as he entered. His heart fell to the pit of his stomach. Sasha was huddled in the corner of the shower fully clothed still. Her eyes were closed, knees drawn up to her chest, hands clutched together resting near her throat as if she were trying to hold herself together. The exposed skin of her arms was covered in goosebumps and angry red marks. Like she'd scratched it raw to the point of bleeding and she was shivering violently.

It felt his insides had been dumped on ice.

Approaching slowly, he stopped on the other side of the glass—unsure if she even knew he was there. He opened the door gently and tested the water, turning it up to use the last of the hot water, making sure it wouldn't burn her, heart aching miserably. He wanted so badly to climb in and hold her but knew by now that it didn't help. It just exacerbated the lingering effects of her dreams. Made her feel trapped and claustrophobic. Tom closed the door again softly and sank down, his back resting against the glass.

"Sash we–"

"Tom. I can't do this," she cut him off. Voice sounding meek even to her own ears.

He clenched his eyes shut again. Scrubbed frustrated hands over his face—like the movement could somehow cast out the pain in his chest. "Baby, I can't help you if you won't talk," he implored.

"I just—It was just a dream. It's nothing, just leave it alone." Repeated more harshly than she'd really intended.

"Sash you're breaking my heart with this!" a proclamation that had ripped out unintended, his voice strained—hadn't meant to get so emotional, but he couldn't take anymore. All he wanted to do was help her. Tom heard the shaky breath, the one that let him know she was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"I am begging you please—I can't do this right now. Please just stop," her voice cracked, broken, and stilted by rapid concurrent breaths as she fought for air.

Tom winced, dragging his hands down to cover his mouth hopelessly as his elbows rested on his knees. Listened for a few more torturous seconds, caught between pushing her past her breaking point just to get it out of her, or letting it go unsaid, again. For the life of him, he caved. He couldn't do it. He didn't have it in him right now to be that cruel.

"Okay—you're okay—breathe," he instructed brokenly. Every sound was like a drill to his teeth. Like he was walking on glass and each spasm of her chest a fresh shard tearing through his flesh. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Didn't know if he could sit there and listen and not be able to reach her. To say he felt helpless was an understatement of immense proportions. Knew the next thing she'd ask was for him to leave so she could put her mask on in private, build up those walls and then act like none of this happened. But he couldn't do that anymore either. Not when it was this bad.

"Just go back to sleep. I'll be fine," she uttered quickly between breaths, and it caused a physical depression of his chest, the air exhaling loudly through his nose as he clamped his lips into a harsh line. Eyes still shut firm as his worried hands tried to occupy themselves by scrubbing through his hair again. The same hands that she wouldn't let touch her.

"No." He heard the sound of distress break as it left her lips—another wrench to his gut.

"Tom—"

"I'm not leaving. I won't force you to talk to me—but I can't leave you like this. You are so far from fine Sash," he implored with conviction. Trailing off because he didn't need to voice the cliché to get his message across. He pulled a hand over his mouth again, shaking his head from side to side in desperation. He felt like a child. Like a lost, scared child—Jed Chandler had taught him many things in life, but possibly the most important was that there are two kinds of pain.

Pain you can control, even withstand. The kind of pain that enemies inflict as torture, or the kind you bring upon yourself through actions. Expected, though miserable, nonetheless. Like guilt over a decision, a what-if. And the other kind. The kind that brings a man to his knees. That was the pain Jed Chandler cautioned his son to understand and look out for. The pain that if leveraged in the right conditions, could mean the difference between life and death. Between winning or losing a war.

It had taken him seventeen years and the end of the world since that conversation to fully comprehend—but now he did. There were very few instances that brought Tom Chandler to his knees, sent his resolve toppling like a deck of stacked cards. In some ways, not even Darien's death had stopped him, wretched and costly as it was. He'd still pressed on. Had gambled with her life and lost... but when his kids had been taken, when he'd heard his daughters' frantic cries on the other end of that line—he'd crumbled. Like putty in Shaw's hands. She'd managed to break him—exploited the right pain.

This Tom realized, sitting here powerless as Sasha fell apart in front of his very eyes—as she shut him out and refused any kind of help—was a new and insidious type of torture he hadn't yet endured. A kind that had snuck up on him over months rather than coming in one cataclysmic event. And he wasn't so sure that it wouldn't send him crumbling if it carried on.

Sasha drew in another shaky breath, trying to quell the panic in her body, couldn't understand why he wouldn't just do as she asked. Wanted him gone so he didn't have to be hurt. She couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't deal with how trapped she was. With what she'd done. Why she'd chosen to mess everything up. All she knew was at this precise moment—she was incapable—and she'd never been incapable in her life.