an. And so we have reached the end of this story. I will miss writing this one, and I thank you all for the wonderful feedback you've provided, and the time you've taken to read. As for now, I hope to be back soon with either an origin story or Season 5. I am still torn between the two. For now, I am going to work on a small holiday fest fic.

Until next time!

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Monday, September 17th, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

"Understood, Sir," Sasha hung up the phone more aggressively than intended. Ran a ragged hand through her hair before clenching her fist in frustration. "Damn it!" she muttered under her breath. Pushed her tongue between her teeth and her gums while shaking her head with displeasure.

Alisha gave her a sympathetic look, before looking over at her Ensign La Paz.

"La Paz, give us the room," she commanded, waiting until he'd left before opening her line of inquiry. Her tone was hushed as she spoke, "He's really just going to ignore it?" the disbelief evident as she spoke.

Sasha rose her shoulders up, a sarcastic smile on her face. "Official stance is that the US cannot afford another repeat of Asia. Nor can it be seen meddling in foreign affairs in our current climate," she repeated, mimicking a generic voice for the very generic answer she'd just received from their Commander-in-Chief. Alisha huffed out a breath and shook her head.

"Admiral Chandler can't convince him?"

Sasha shot her a look. "He still thinks Tom's looking for some kind of last hurrah before retirement." The concept of it still completely asinine in her mind. "Anita and Don don't help. More concerned with domestic operations, which are important, don't get me wrong, but they're missing the bigger picture here," she ranted.

"I heard they're calling him Tavo," Alisha pressed, "La Paz said one of his cousins in Columbia tunes into the radio program. Said he's a great talker. That the people love him." Her voice laden with uncertainty. She'd been providing Sasha with data for months on the fly, helping her map communications and centers of gravity—Alisha had seen enough to echo the concerns.

Sasha peered up then, her eyes narrowing slightly, "Oh, he can talk alright. Well enough to hide the fact that he assassinated Arias when he wouldn't negotiate a trade deal," came her embittered reply.

"But we can't prove it," Alisha added regretfully. Sasha clenched lips and ducked her head instead. No, she couldn't prove it. She just knew. The timing was too convenient. The notion that right after the summit last month, Arias had suddenly developed an extreme allergy to shellfish and gone into anaphylactic shock? It was utterly ridiculous. And now there was a new President in town, Fernando Asturius. A man who was more concerned with his "image" than anything else.

Sasha shook her head again, uncrossing her arms and pushing herself away from the wall she'd been slouching upon. "He won't even let us partner with the local resistance groups." She inhaled audibly, uncharacteristically defeated as she spoke. "He's not gonna do anything until we've already lost that Canal again."

Mike peered through the crowded bar, full of Navy types—some of which he recognized from his own Command, as well as others from the rest of the fleet. It only took him a few moments to find her, and right on cue, she looked up, waving from her spot at the bar. Mike beamed as he approached, chuckling happily as they embraced.

"Good to see you!" offered enthusiastically.

"Always," Sasha replied easily, pulling back to smile brightly at him. Regretfully, it had been almost a year since she'd last seen him. Any of them, actually. Sasha was a taskmaster when it came to Vulture Team; they were always on the go. Usually deploying for months at a time to whatever hotspot needed them most. Couple that with both command centers and a new fleet, the crew had dispersed—mostly to Florida, and their schedules rarely aligned even to attend formal functions.

"You look great—I assume married life is treating you well?" he said, as they took their seats.

"No complaints, though I'm sure if you asked Tom, he'd say I'm gone too much," Sasaha remarked.

Mike smirked, "Not a fan of the shoe being on the other foot?" glancing over his left shoulder to catch the way her eyes wrinkled with a knowing smirk.

"Not so much. But he hides it well," came her retort before she inquired, "How about you? I have it on good authority that you've got yourself a girlfriend."

Mike flustered slightly before catching himself, lamenting the way her brows shot up and the look of glee that crossed her face. She caught him off-guard. No use trying to lie, not to her anyway—damn spook. "How d'you hear about that?" he grumbled instead. They'd been careful, or so he thought. Apparently not careful enough. Sasha caught the bartender's eye with an incline of her head, pointing to her beer and raising two fingers before turning back to Mike.

"I never reveal my sources," she admonished with a tip of her head.

He shook his and made an "Eh" noise because he should have known better. Gave her a disparaging look as he took the beer that was just delivered into his hands. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar, and took a swig while she continued to bait him with her eyes.

"For what it's worth, I'm happy for you. Both of you," she said sincerely, and his expression softened, becoming wistful because, honestly, he was happy too. Truly. And though he wore his pain differently, there had been many a moment in which he'd pondered if he'd ever feel that again. If the ghosts of his past would ever let him leave the endless purgatory.

Mike bobbed his head up and down in agreement. "We're trying to keep it quiet," he said, and she smiled sweetly.

"Your secrets safe with me—though I have to tell you, Tom's been a believer since the Christmas party," she teased, earning a frown and a bewildered expression from Mike. Unsure exactly when Tom had done anything but salivate over Sasha in that dress the entire night. Further yet, what he and Andrea had done to solicit that kind of attention. As far as he remembered, they'd simply talked late into the night.

"And here I thought he was too preoccupied to notice anyone but you," he replied, raising his brows for effect. Sasha tucked her head, dropping her eyes, playing a little coy at that comment. "How long are you in town anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Not long, just a few days for some meetings, and then I'm headed back to Norfolk." Smile leaving her face and settling with a telltale heaviness instead. She took a drink while Mike studied her expression. He might not be intelligence, but he was still a high-ranking member of the Navy, with the added benefit of the CNO being his best friend. He was in the know.

"It's too bad. New fleet is almost ready to go—doesn't make sense to build something not to use it," he offered. The usual suspects had been pretty vocal about their disagreement with the Commander-in-Chief's reluctance to take action in Columbia. Respectfully, of course. He just hoped it wasn't about to bite them in the ass.

"I can't wrap my head around it, Mike. How he can sit in a room full of the same people that brought the cure and ended the famine and tell us we're the ones missing the picture. It's like he refuses to see how vulnerable we still are." Her head shook as she said it, her words exasperated and quiet so no one could overhear.

Mike nodded regretfully in agreement. "Look at 9/11—how many years did we know about that son of a bitch? We still did nothing. Even with the goddamn terrorists training in our own backyard." His face scrunched up in disgust. That had been the catalyst to his decision to join the Navy, leaving behind his days as a detective.

Sasha tipped her head gently in agreement, eyes tired as she took another sip, mulling over his words in her mind. She shook her head as if mentally scolding herself, "Listen to me, you didn't come here to talk about work." She re-directed, "We should try to get together soon. I know we're planning to visit Ashley for Christmas, trying to make it a point to be around more. Maybe you and Andrea could come?"

He drew his lips down as he considered it, "Yeah," he nodded after a moment of thinking. "I was planning on being there for the ceremony, anyway. Fleet shouldn't fall apart if we spend a couple extra days in Missouri. Heard CNO was pretty pissed when I skipped out last year," said in jest.

Sasha snickered somewhat. "I might have heard something about that," came her sly reply. Vulture team had been in Venezuela at the time, and she'd spent no less than thirty minutes hearing all about Admiral Slattery's unexpected absence. "What was it again? Stomach flu?" she teased, and he winked at her, grinning widely.

His reply was dry, "Think I'm allergic to speeches." and her expression was knowing, albeit laced with mischief.

"No doubt."

Saturday, October 20th, 2018—Norfolk, Virginia

"Tom? Have you seen my—" pausing when he entered the bedroom holding a freshly laundered pile of long-sleeved shirts, the ones she preferred to wear on missions. They kept her arms protected but were still light and maneuverable enough not to hinder her in a bind.

Tom set them down on the bed wordlessly. Slowly, she straightened. Wetting her lips somewhat apprehensively. His temperament was downcast and reserved. They didn't talk about it often. The desire to spend their dwindling time together, avoiding the pitfalls of her relentless schedule on their marriage superseding those conversations. Mostly, he just missed her. The constant fear of her being hurt or killed looming oppressively over his thoughts. Like an endless headache. A headache that had steadily grown more painful with every passing year. Ever mindful that at some point, her luck was bound to run out, though voicing it was taboo.

Sasha approached him, leaving her duffel open and the last few items she'd been packing forgotten on the bed. Those impossibly blue eyes of his tracing her movements until she was in his space, head craning so she could look up at him. Something twisted in his heart then, an echo from the past. Always did when she dropped all those walls and let herself just be Sasha. Somehow, it made her look younger. Innocent, in fact. Delicate fingers reached up to touch his cheekbone, the pads still so deceptively soft and elegant despite the fact they worked so hard. They were cool against his skin, feather-light as she traced them across his cheek. Like a ghost.

The room was silent, save for their anxious, and considered breathing. Having conversations with their eyes that could never be spoken on the nights before she deployed. But there was something different this time. An underlying current of confliction in his stance. And for the first time since this started, she thought he might do it. Might ask her to stay, to make this the last mission. Like she'd told him he could. Or perhaps it was just a bad case of déjà vu—after all, she was headed back to Panama.

But what could she do? What could she say? It had always been this way for them. Constantly torn apart by extenuating circumstances or outside forces—just as powerful as the oceans of want that lay between them. No one had ever been like him. Never come close to inspiring the type of all-consuming love she was capable of. A type of love she'd never felt for anyone else, that if she were frank, still frightened her to the core. And he'd never really recovered the part of his soul she'd stolen from him when she left. To the effect that sometimes, he'd wished he'd met Darien first in the past. So he could have loved her more completely, with all the pieces of himself—not just the parts he had left.

'We. It was always we.'

She pushed herself up, standing on tiptoes, fingers moving across his cheek to rest at the nape of his neck. His hands on her hips, drawing her closer. Until their bodies pressed tightly together, and the tip of her nose rubbed against his. Their breath mingled in the fraction of space between their lips, her left hand resting upon the muscle of his shoulder. Strong and sturdy. Like him. An inexorable object of a man whose will could move mountains if he so desired.

Her forehead came to rest against his, and she felt warm fingers tangle themselves at her scalp, the wide pad of his thumb hot where it laid at her temple. The something in his gaze gave way to a tenderheartedness that made it hard for her to breathe. He was looking at her like he'd never see her again. Her throat constricted. The surge of feeling inexpressible, as if he'd reached inside of her chest and physically clenched at her heart. She squeezed her eyes closed, a crease forming in the center of her brows, and let him guide her head to rest against his neck. His other arm drew upward to encircle her tightly. Her warm breath tickling his skin as he swallowed against the knot of everything he couldn't say that was stuck there. Time passed inexplicably like centuries within moments, and seconds that should have been years. Neither particularly sure of how long they stayed there. Tom's nose buried in her hair as he cradled her with care, committed instead to the refuge of their bedroom. Under the blanket of night—her packing long since forgotten in favor of stealing every second and minute left until she was gone.

It was the following night, as Tom sat twirling her ring in his fingers—the tactile nature of the metal, like some sort of talisman that made him feel connected to her, that he made his decision.

His eyes traveled to the table, studying a photograph of them.

This was the last one.

The last mission.