an. I really wanted to explore the darker side-effects of the show's universe. The show hinted at, and skirted things - that's not what it was about, after all, but I'm here experimenting and trying some things. With that being said:

Warning: this is a dark emotionally heavy chapter with several mental health triggers: major PTSD, and graphic mentions of decomposition. If this is not something you can read, please skip it.

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Saturday, August 27th, 2016—Mount Pleasant, South Carolina

Through the french doors of her kitchen, framed by the handsome rear porch and southern oaks, Sasha could see Tom and Sam in the distance. They were sitting in camping chairs, fishing poles in hand at the docks' end, and while the sight should have ushered happiness, cold stoicism had insidiously encased her heart since returning.

A lot had changed while she'd been living in the madness of Panama.

A scientist had unlocked the secret to stabilizing a spreadable cure in early June. Their first yield of crops had been harvested; a general sense of progress and prosperity was spread among the country again. Most of the rioting had stopped. Presidente Arias was successfully turning the tide on the last of the rebels, and Canada had come into the fold. Within the next sixty days, they'd have enough fuel to end the rolling blackouts and begin rebuilding a fleet. It was a historic agreement that united the Northern and Southern Americas right down to the tip of Columbia—some fifty-plus-million survivors all working toward a common dream.

They were winning.

She should be happy. Proud. Yet for all their victories, she'd never embodied more disconnect, like she was a corpse walking the earth.

"Ashely?" she quarter-turned to the living space where his daughter watched TV. "Can you go get the cooler from the garage?" When Ashley pressed pause, meaning her request was heard, Sasha began retrieving items. Cutting board. Seasoning. Knives. Robotically washed her hands, refusing to look at them because she didn't want to see the blood.

"Sasha—" the garage door closed. Had it always been so loud? Like a gunshot? Tom should fix that. She should ask him to fix that. "I messed up."

"What's wrong?" Sasha turned away from the sink, drying her hands on the towel, and helped Ashley, who was struggling to lift the cooler onto the generous isl—her throat closed up, intense visceral dread flooding her system.

"I forgot to close it yesterday. I think the steaks have gone bad." Ashley was pulling items out. "Dad's gonna be so pissed, he wouldn't shut up about how lucky we were to find meat. Do you think we can save some of it? The fridge should be cold enough now, right?" After registering Sasha's lack of movement, Ashley stopped unloading. "Sasha? Are you okay?"

She couldn't get rid of it. Her arms, the pieces—they were dried to her.

"Sasha?"

"Fine—I'm—"

Pain seared through her chest. She clutched it. The inhale didn't work. It was hot, blistering sun beating down coating the inside of the rubbery suit with her stinking slimy sweat. The insects crawled over the soupy bodies floating around her. Were those the same insects she'd chosen to eat after a week of no food? Her mouth. It was acidic, sour like that smell. There was vomit in the rebreather.

Panicked, Ashley grabbed Sasha's arm. "What's wrong!?"

Sasha was clawing at her throat; her lips were getting pale, her voice strange when she tried to talk. "I can—can't—bre—"

"You can't breathe!?"

Sasha dropped to her knees. Her foot slipped, and the water was all around her, almost to her neck. She was going to die by sucking a rotten corpse into her lungs.

"I'll get dad!" Frantic Ashley burst through the French doors, sprinting across the grass and to the path that led to the docks.

"DAD!"

That wasn't a yell; it was a bloodcurdling scream. Tom snapped his head in the house's direction, terror like he'd never experienced wracking his system. "Ashley!?" He was out of the chair, fishing pole clattering to the deck, urgently beckoning for Sam to follow. "What happened!?" he bellowed.

He could see her blazing down the hill, and his mouth went cotton dry when she cried, "It's Sasha."

She was at the end of the deck now. It bowed and flexed under the thunder of his footfalls. "What's—"

"I don't know! She can't breathe!" They were feet from colliding, he swooped her up when she crashed into him, taking the momentum, and kept her balanced when he set her down again. "She was fine and then she grabbed her chest and said she couldn't breathe! Daddy, I think she's dying!"

He dropped her arm, accepted that they couldn't keep up with him, and sprinted into the house. The door was almost ripped from its hinge when he tore through. "Sasha!?"

He first heard the hyperventilated breathing; it guided him around the island to discover her curled upon the floor in a fetal position. For a wretched second, that sheer panic delayed his synapses until his brain caught up, and he moved fast, kneeling beside her. "It's okay." He drew Sasha's ridged body upright, her weight resting against him. Her hands were locked, fingers stuck in a contorted position. There came another crash signifying the kid's arrival, and seconds later, they appeared before him.

Sam's eyes went wide, and he tucked himself against Ashely. "What's wrong with her hands?" He was on the verge of tears. Tom didn't need to be watching to hear it.

"Dad?" Ashley's voice trembled.

"She's okay. It's alright, everything's gonna be fine." Calmly, he rubbed Sasha's arm, noticing only now the sour stink of spoiled meat wafting through the kitchen. Scanning for the source, his subconscious supplied the connection. 'The bodies in the sun… sometimes I think I can still smell it on me.' The cooler was sitting atop the counter, briefly, his features clenched. One of the kids forgot to close it. She was having a panic attack because it smelled like rotting flesh.

"Ashley, I need you to get rid of that cooler." The instruction was calm, but in her fear, crying while clinging to Sam, she remained frozen. "Ashley—now please." It ripped her from stupor, and she nodded, rushing to follow the instruction, and throwing the items back into it.

"Sam, go outside with your sister and wait in the truck together. The keys are by the front. Remember to keep it locked, listen to the radio, I promise it's going to be fine, but I need you both to wait there for me, okay?" Sniffing and hiccupping, Sam nodded and left. If he couldn't bring Sasha out of this, Tom's next best was to take her to the recently recommissioned base in Charleston.

Moving until his back rested against the island counter, he positioned her between his legs and placed a hand over her heart. Its pace was erratic. "Baby, I need you to listen to me," he murmured by her ear. "You're having a panic attack. You're breathing too fast, and we need to slow that down." Sasha sputtered and gasped. "It's okay. Slow it down, in and out." He continued rubbing her arm, exaggerating his own breathing so she could feel it against her back. After several moments, she began to adjust to his pace. The tile under his ass bit against his bones. The thrumming of her heart began to slow against his skin.

"Hands," she struggled out.

"I know," he soothed, covering both with broad palms and uncurling them for her. "They're all cramped up, but it's okay. It's because you've been breathing too fast for too long, and that's why we need to slow it down." What sounded like a sob broke through the hyperventilated breathing. "Shhh, I'm here. You're okay. We've done this before, remember?" Another sob was followed by uneven, labored gasps. "Just let it pass. I promise you're okay." He relinquished her hands and began smoothing her hair and wiping her face.

Sasha did remember, but it wasn't so intense. She'd never been locked up completely unable to breathe with pain so horrific she believed she'd die.

"Just keep breathing slow." They stayed that way until the constriction in her muscles eased, and her breathing settled. The shadows along the floor, moved enough to tell him it was fifteen, maybe twenty since he'd arrived. Eventually, she could move again, though her body shook, violently, as the chemical buildup of stress dissipated.

Eventually, Tom asked, "Can you walk?"

She cleared her throat. "I think so." The waver in her voice made her cringe.

"Let's go lay down."

That plate in Tom's hip was giving him hell from the run, something he'd have to bring up with his physical therapist. Once steady, Tom held his hands out to Sasha and hoisted her off the floor. Her legs didn't respond in the manner she'd expected, and Sasha grabbed his arm.

"I've got you. It's alright."

Once they reached the bedroom, and after shrugging off her sandals, she all but collapsed onto the bed. He fussed. Drew the bedcovers over her, then tucked them, and fixed her hair, so it wasn't laying wild across her face.

"I need to go check on Ashley and Sam, let them know you're okay—they were pretty scared," he said softly. "You'll be alright?"

Sasha nodded, a silent hiccup rocking her again. Tom bent and pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there and willing himself not to break. "I'll be back soon."

The moment that door was closed, Tom dropped the act. He sagged against it. Eyes clamped shut.

She couldn't keep going like this. They couldn't. It was making her sick; playing passive observer, yielding to the fear of her leaving wasn't an option anymore. It didn't matter. He couldn't be selfish when she so clearly needed help.

Both kids rushed out of the truck when he appeared on the porch.

"What happened? Is she okay now?" Ashley demanded. He drew them both into a hug.

"She's okay. Come on, we'll talk about it inside." His hands lingered at their shoulders, steering them toward the sectionals in the living space, before sitting on the coffee table opposite them. They were dying for answers, and he loathed the fear marring their young, innocent faces.

"She had a panic attack. It happens sometimes, and it looks very scary, but it's not life-threatening. She just needed some help to calm down—"

"It was the smell, wasn't it?" Ashley interjected.

Sighing, Tom's chin lowered toward his chest.

Ashley's mouth quirked downward; her eyes ripe with a fresh flood of tears. "It was my fault. I left it open—"

"No." Tom shook his head. "It's not your fault, it's no one's fault. You didn't know, Sasha didn't know—sometimes things happen that are outside our control."

"So you're not mad at me?" The question was uttered almost before he'd finished speaking. Something twisted in his gut. She really thought he was going to punish her for a simple but unfortunate mistake? Was he really that scary to his own damn kids? "Of course I'm not angry with you. It was an accident… you didn't do it on purpose. Accidents happen."

Tears were still pouring down her cheeks, skin red and blotchy. He reached out and dried them. "And Sasha? Is she mad?"

"No—not at all—"

"Well, can I go see her?" she sounded unconvinced.

Hesitating, Tom toed the line on what was appropriate to disclose. "Not right now, sweetheart. She's resting."

"But I thought you said she was okay?" Sam piped up.

Shifting his gaze to his son, Tom tried to hide that he was thrown by the unacceptance of his answer. "She is, but she's tired, and a little sad right now, buddy. It's not a good time."

Dejected, Sam looked toward his sister, silently requesting input. Looking between them both, Ashely chewed her lip then put her arm around Sam. "It's okay—we can make her something that will cheer her up."

God, she was so much like Darien. Saw his late wife's influence every day. "That's a great idea, she'd love that." Something in his tone betrayed the calm stoicism he strived to portray. Guilt that his daughter had been forced to shoulder so much responsibility so young. Sighing, Tom stood and ruffled Sam's hair, then cupped Ashley's cheek before pinching it gently. He smiled at them both. "Why don't you guys work on some ideas or watch a movie? I need to go talk to Sasha. You can knock on the door if you need me. I'll come down and make you some dinner soon, alright?"

They both nodded.

In the time he'd been absent, Sasha had not moved. Vacant and apathetic, she stared at nothing in the dim room. They'd yet to open the heavy curtains, and orange late sun seeped through the cracks, casting deep shadows across the floor and bed. It highlighted tiny dancing particles of dust. Approaching, Tom kicked off his shoes, then lay beside her, propped on one elbow.

"Are they okay?" It was timid. So unlike her usual tone.

Tenderly, he stroked his thumb at her temple, fingers threading through the dark silk of her hair. "They're fine, but they're worried about you… and so am I—"

"I'm sorry they had to—"

"No." The admonishment was gentle. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Sasha."

With features drawn so apathetically, Tom likened her to a shell, she sighed, "It was the smell." Wrinkles formed around her nose, and his thumb moved lower to her cheek, rubbing there in back-and-forth motions.

"I remember. You said it was something in China?"

Her eyes were gone, closed, though she did at least nod. Deep in his gut, the free-fall started, churning energy as though toeing crumbling mantle at the edge of a mountain, daring it to swallow him whole. "I know you don't want to talk about it," he began, with every expectation that she'd turn away, or simply ignore him, "but you can't keep ignoring this anymore. I am scared for you, Sasha. I love you, and you need help." He paused. Her jaw was tightened. Eyes still closed. "It doesn't have to be me. I will find you the best damn psychologist left on the planet, but you have to face this."

Tendons in her throat strained when she swallowed. Her cheeks hollowed where she bit their interiors. For several torturous moments, Sasha did nothing while the desperate knot in his chest grew, proverbially pulling him to his knees. He'd do it, Tom realized. Whatever he had to. Beg. Cry. Commit her against her will.

Slowly, those blank eyes opened. "It was the village."

Every function stilled, from breath to finger, scared that if he did anything, she'd stop.

"I think it was September? Maybe the end of July?" Rolling from her side to her back, she peered at the ceiling instead. His hand fell away from her cheek. "I'd already been there for two months. We had a system. Kept to ourselves. Someone must have missed a body… they all got sick. Every single one of them… more than thirty people." Something shuttered in her chest. "We tried to stop it spreading, but once the food ran out and they starved—people got desperate. They all got infected trying to steal it from each other. Tried to take mine." The shaking started again. "They were rabid at the end. The crying… it was—I didn't have enough bullets to put them out of their misery, so I listened to it. For weeks. It took them weeks to die, and I pretended that I was so they wouldn't come in."

For several moments she paused, a deep crease worrying her forehead.

"It finally went quiet—about a month after the first. I didn't have anything left. Just rainwater and whatever came by—but the monsoons—they—they washed some of the bodies," her words became strangled by gag reflex, "out of the huts."

"Hey." He cupped her cheek again, stroking in earnest, shifting closer, but she shook her head. The account, which had first been slow, began rushing from her lips like she couldn't stop. "I had a gas mask and a suit I'd used to get out of the city. I knew I had to move, or I'd starve, but they were everywhere. The whole field. It was—"

"It's alright, you're right here, Sasha. Slow down."

Her breathing was panicked again. "I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I didn't want it anymore." She was blinking rapidly. "I just—I—I didn't. I wanted it to be over. I went inside and got my gun, and I don't know why, I don't know. I just—I checked the radio, and heard about the ship, so I made myself do it. I put the suit on, and I went out there."

Heat prickled in Tom's eyes; he knew what water did to corpses. Putrid. Bloated beyond recognition. The idea alone was harrowing.

"I couldn't take it off," she whispered. "There was one right at the steps and—it—it was all over me, and I couldn't take it off, until I made it to the city because there were so many bodies, and I needed the suit, but it was—I can't—get the smell off me."

The scrubbing. That's why she kept trying to scrub her skin raw. Tom drew her against his chest. What could he say? How could he respond when there was nothing that could change the past? Couldn't take it away for her, though he would if he had the power. Deep in his chest, it ached, radiating across his sternum. She knew every crevice of his despair, every failure, all the guilt—eased his suffering with a simple kiss—and he'd barely scratched the surface with her.

She was running, still.

"You don't have to do this alone anymore, Sasha."

Warnings fired across her synapses. She didn't need his help or anyone else's. All she needed was time to put more tape on the cracks, and it would hold. Tom didn't understand that he never had. The deepest truths belonged to her, and that was her identity, her life's purpose. Be iron-willed enough to get through anything alone because relying on herself rendered her invincible.

Wrenching herself from his grasp, she chose strength. It would work itself out like everything else if she just stayed the course. She'd made it this far without putting all her ugly on the table for him to scrutinize.

"Well now you know." It was cold. Devoid. She was standing on the opposite side of the bed, and he slowly mirrored her position. "It's just a bad memory, Tom. We all have them." God, that wounded expression he wore made her want to scream.

"It's more than a memory, Sasha."

A sound between fatigue and dismissal passed through her lips, her arms folded. "Can you just stop? Please? I told you what you wanted to know."

He was stoic, but the redness in his eyes betrayed the projection. "No," he breathed.

"Jesus Christ, Tom. I'm not doing this with you right now!"

"Shutting it out and pretending you're fine doesn't mean you are, Sasha." His gaze pinned her, voice so calm it set her alight—she wanted to fight, not his insufferable patience and incessant need to be in her head.

"You know, maybe you were right. Maybe this doesn't work for us because you can't handle me the way I am—"

"I know something happened in Panama, Sash. I can see it eating you alive."

"This isn't about Panama! What do you want me to do, Tom!? It happened—I can't change it. I'm not special. Everyone had to do something they didn't like—the world keeps moving, I don't need to sit around—"

"Feel it instead of pushing it away. Admit that you're not okay? That you're in so much pain you don't know what to do? Stop running from everyone who cares?" he responded quietly—the questions rhetorical though illustrating the point effectively enough.

Sasha scoffed. "What, you're a fucking phycologist now?"

More desperate still when Tom failed to respond with his own scathing remark. She'd never seen this look before, equally terrifying as it was loving, and it made her blood itch. He was rounding the bed. Her body was trepidation and fire, his unparalleled conviction. Towering and looming, and it struck that for the first time in her life, she was scared of him.

"You think I can't see you—that I haven't figured you out yet, but you're wrong." It was so soft and so quiet, Sasha held her breath to ensure she'd heard correctly. "You haven't felt safe since you were twelve—"

"Stop it."Her voice was like a whip, and Tom's features only grew gentler in response.

"You feel like you weren't good enough, and that's why your father never stopped drinking. You needed him, and he left you." Never had he witnessed such intense, raw sorrow—so childlike—pass across Sasha's features. Like he'd betrayed her in an unforgivable way. The hollow pit it opened was profound, and resolve almost deserted him. Almost. But his fear of what would happen if he didn't get through to her proved greater.

"I don't know how, but you're convinced being alone is the only way to protect yourself. I don't know that you've ever trusted someone in your life, Sash. Not the way you should." She was staring studiously at the floor. The rug, the vanity, the dust swirling in the cracks of sunlight—all of it was better than looking at Tom.

In one slow motion, he framed her jaw, ignoring the attempt to jerk away from his touch and forced eye contact. "You had to kill the man you were sleeping with and you act like that never happened. I watched you starve yourself for months. Anything that hurts you? You ignore it until it's so bad you can't hide it anymore, and then you still refuse to acknowledge it—"

"Shut up." Fraught with aggression, Sasha tried to pull his wrists down, but he stayed steadfast.

"The man you loved enough to marry died—he's dead, Sasha. You never talk about—."

"Oh, like you talk about Darien?" Some kind of noise stuck at the back of her throat. "Why are you doing this? What is wrong with you!?"

Tom could no longer keep the sheen from his eyes; never felt crueler than in this moment. "Because I don't know how else to get through to you—" his voice became strangled "—and I know it's my fault." He swallowed. "You lay right next to me and think I can't hear you drowning, but I can hear it, Sasha! I live it, but you refuse to tell me because I left you when you needed me." The moisture brimming in her lashes fell, casting heavy tracks down her skin. They were warm when they hit his thumbs. "And I think I might have been the only person who's gotten close—and instead, I abandoned you—"

"What the hell do you want from me!?" The constricted yell had ripped from Sasha's soul. Angry. Anguished. Louder than it should have been, probably enough to carry downstairs.

"That, Sasha!" The hands on her face squeezed. "I want you to tell me you're in pain. I want you to stop pretending! Stop acting like you don't need help when you do!"

"Let go of me."

"No."

Blinding rage encapsulated, twisting fast, she struck down his elbow in a way that would dislocate it had Tom not taught her that move. He went lax just in time, her next assault an attempted blow to his solar plexus, which he blocked. In a more coherent frame of mind, she'd remember he knew that trick, too. Using the momentum to wrestle her arm behind her back, he pinned the other at her side.

"Keep trying to hit me if you want—if that's what you need, but I'm not letting you go. If you're angry, then be angry. If you're lost, be lost. Cry if you need to, scream if it helps—I don't care, but you don't need to run from me anymore, and I will not let you keep burying this. I love you. I have always loved you—I'm here for you, and I am sorry—"

Sasha shattered. Raw, gut-wrenching sounds uncontrolled as she finally let go.

It was horrible.

The kind of anguish Tom had only heard in war. Painful as it was, it felt like relief, and while he loathed every second and what he'd done to get it, this was pain he could withstand. That type he could heal. She went limp in his arms, sagging to the ground. "It's okay—you're okay. I've got you."

With a solemn expression, Ashley peered at Sam. This wouldn't be happening if she'd just listened about the cooler. He put the card they were making down and crawled around the coffee table to cling to her. Though muted by distance, the sounds were unmistakable. That was how they'd cried when mom and grandpa died. "I don't think she's okay. Did someone die?" he mumbled against her side.

"I don't know, Sammy." She wrapped her arms around him, trying to quell her fear. "But don't worry. Dad will fix it."

Every piece of Sasha's body hurt—the force so heavy she thought she'd vomit—her face was buried in the stupid expensive rug, body curled over her knees attempting to relieve the pain, and only vaguely aware that the guttural howling sobs were coming from her. It felt like something was clawing its way out. Around her, Tom was blanketed on the ground just like she, his hand firm around her bicep, the other rubbing against her back, his breath hot in her ear when he spoke.

"I'm so sorry—I'm sorry that I helped do this to you. More than you will ever know. I'm sorry I was a coward, but I promise you, Sasha, I will never leave you again. You can trust me."

It was everything she'd needed to hear. Everything she didn't have capacity to ask for. The conflicting paradox that was her entire life, big and secret, buried deep and labeled as weakness. A yearning, silent hope that she'd find someone who could see her, and she wouldn't have to be alone anymore.