an. Really sorry this chapter took me so long. I've never done so many rewrites before committing to the overall arc and work has really burned me out on life. I ran through about 4 different versions of what happened in this chapter. Some of the alternate ones may show up in Looking Glass eventually. Mostly they were dropped because they didn't make any real sense in the wider story but included scenes & scenarios I wanted to use somewhere. It's hard to kill your darlings as they say. Anyway, I'm not gone. Just super slow. Thanks for sticking around!

References: St. Agustine, Chapter 39: 'A Wicked Thing, to Let Me Dream of You'

Guest review response: I agree that if Sasha wasn't following a very specific path right now or taking seriously the fact that she's immunocompromised in a world with no reliable care, she would have stayed with Jesse for days searching for survivors and or be taking far more extreme risks. I was deciding which arcs of the show to keep and which ones to drop, and now I've kind of committed to going in mostly my own direction. Hopefully, I can pull it off.

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This Place, Your Face

i've not felt this in a while

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Haiphong, Vietnam—May 16th, 2014

Water sloshed from the oversized bucket in the center of the cramped bathtub. The apartment, abandoned, offered a perfect view of the refueling pier. The problem? Barring local fishermen and pirates, no one carrying cure had docked in three days, and Sasha was growing impatient. Goosebumps erupted across her skin when she rinsed the soap from her body. Haiphong was still without running water, instead they relied on rain collected and divided for general purpose or consumption. It had been more than a week since the last time she'd bathed.

From the main living space, a constant drone of local chatter trickled through the half-closed door. They'd traded their last case of cure for a handheld VHF transceiver. It was amateur grade, manufactured by Yaesu, lacking in dual-band capabilities, and it was most certainly unsecured, but it was a last resort. Navy Red remained offline, and since they'd arrived, the increasing number of questionable masked figures casing the maze of streets served as a constant insidious reminder that outsiders became Takehaya's bloodbags.

As she finished braiding her still-damp hair, Sasha's attention was drawn to the radio chatter.

"What is it?" Pablo glanced over his shoulder but didn't move from his position, reclined in a moth-bitten chair by the windowsill.

"They're talking about what's left of the Vietnamese government upping security around the airfield."

Pablo left the chair to retrieve a tourist map they'd stolen from one of the many abandoned shops. He spread it across a small wooden table and then pressed his finger to the nearest airport before highlighting another. "Okay… but which one?"

"Well Kien An is a military outpost but it never really recovered after the war," Sasha mumbled, surveying the surrounding typography. Neither option was particularly defensible given how poorly Vietnam had fared during the outbreak.

"And Cảng Hàng?" Pablo prompted.

"Commercialized. Harder to secure"—she established eye contact—"but well maintained—"

"And we just had a typhoon," he finished. "It's only eight clicks south of us, but if you're wrong…"

Sasha fired the blank, its sound muffled by a suppressor, but instead of acknowledging defeat, Lieutenant Chandler acted as though he hadn't heard. His back faced her, his rifle still positioned in the small window.

"That's a kill shot—sir."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I've run this course with over a dozen companies of midshipmen, and not a single one has picked this building as a viable option." Finally, he lowered his weapon and turned. "Until now." Then approached. "Why?"

It was a relatively simple question. The issue was that she avoided interacting with Lieutenant Chandler alone—"Just a hunch, sir"—for excellent reasons. Her pulse ticked up. The lack of space in this plywood box designed to imitate a building becoming apparent. He held her gaze, confident in the length of time that he spent observing. Perhaps reading. An undeniable spark transformed his features, though they hadn't exactly moved.

If they were wrong.

Chandler removed his name tag, the ripping sound of Velcro emanating within her.

He held it out and then murmured, "Keep trusting it."

Sasha again studied the map, re-analyzing the informant's words. "She didn't specify where the cure would be dropped." This time, she was definitive. "Just that the US promised to deliver more this week."

After a moment, Pablo nodded. "Then I guess it's time to go steal us a bike."

Cảng Hàng, or Cat Bi, as it was known internationally, was located on the southeastern outskirts of the city. On its north and eastern sides stood densely packed buildings. On its west and southern front, the Lạch Tray River and sprawling farmland, respectively. It had a single terminal that could accommodate boarding four planes, only two major runways, and it was overrun with Vietnamese military. They'd ditched the bike a half-mile back and approached the chain-link perimeter on foot.

"This is definitely the spot," Pablo whispered.

Sasha was only half tuned in, shimmying the heavy ruck from her back to procure her detached rifle scope. Their position at the northwestern fence allowed them to see both runways and the abandoned terminal while remaining hidden in overgrown rushes. Cursing the condensation that fogged over the glass, Sasha wiped the scope on the hem of her Henley, then repositioned it at her eye. "They're staging the area for something."

"Cure?"

She nodded. "Looks like."

"What's the chance the US is friendly with the Vietnamese government right now?"

Something caught her attention while scanning; a man in a baseball cap who wasn't in uniform. She squinted and shifted, frustrated when his back remained turned. "You wanna walk in and test it out?"

Beside her, Pablo snorted. "Bout as much as I wanna be sittin' out here in Takehaya's feeding ground."

Sasha side-eyed him, then resumed her observation. That man appeared to be giving directions, and it wasn't until he rested with one foot jutted out and a hand loose on his belt that a sharp recognition zipped up her spine. "Hold that thought," she whispered breathlessly.

"What?" Pablo's demeanor had morphed. "What is it?"

"I think…" Sasha peered harder, if possible, telepathically willing the man to confirm her semi-insane notion. "I think that's Tex."

Several seconds of stunned silence followed before Pablo tried to snatch the scope from her hand. "Give me that."

"Ten O'clock, by the forklifts. The only one not in a uniform." She handed it over.

While he squinted, Pablo's teeth worried his lower lip. "Turn around," he muttered. Moments later he inhaled. "Oh, you beautiful son of a bitch."

"It's him?"

Pablo lowered the scope. "It's Tex."

Humidity. The sole present bane of Tex's existence. That and the part where he was sick of eating MREs and becoming obsessed with the thought of a big juicy American burger, a visual interrupted by a commotion at the north gate. Attention drawn, Tex jogged in its direction, caught between wondering if this was some of that pirate activity Secretary of Foreign Affairs Rivera had warned their security teams about or more desperate people seeking cure. As he drew closer, it became apparent that it was neither of those things.

"Hey, hey!" He picked up the pace when the volume of Cooper's dialogue with one of the soldiers increased, and another tried to accost Pablo. "They're friendlies!"

Pablo ripped his arm from the soldier's grasp, a man that was half a foot shorter than him. "Thank you."

"Tell me my eye's ain't shittin' me." Tex beamed and extended a hand, pulling Shemanski into a half hug while Cooper grinned. "I thought you guys were in Hong Kong?"

The Vietnamese soldiers exchanged bewildered glances, and Tex gestured. "I said their dang friendlies, let 'em through." Reluctantly, both soldiers moved back into patrol formation.

"And we thought you were in St. Louis," Cooper replied in the same matter-of-fact manner to which Tex had become accustomed.

"Commodore. Take it he summoned you too?"

By the time his question was finished, however, Tex realized he was way off. The sharp way in which Cooper concentrated those unforgettable eyes on him told most of the story—"Tom's here?"—and the breathless nature of her voice disclosed the rest.

"No ma'am," he began, "but if that's who you're lookin' for, then it's your lucky day."

She seemed to freeze in the action of adjusting the pack on her back.

"He's due to land at 1400."

Shock rippled across her features, her lips parting in stunted silence before she landed on her next incredulous question. "Why the hell is Tom still going on ground missions when he is the most recognizable face on the planet!?"

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and Tex jerked his head in the staging area's direction. "I'll give you guys the 411."

Despite having over two hours to prepare to come face to face with Thomas Chandler again, the second he emerged from that Seahawk butterflies erupted in Sasha's gut. He was dressed in civilian clothes, carrying a duffel that she assumed contained his dress whites and requisite personal effects for the 3-days-long summit, and when he scanned the airfield, landing inevitably upon the C130—where they were standing—he stilled.

Their eyes locked, and the world seemed to become rich with sound and color again.

Time flowed in paradoxical nature; both too slow and too fast, as Tom remained distracted enough not to engage with the landing party and excused himself to saunter across the tarmac.

Part of her still wished that he didn't captivate her this way. The larger acknowledged that she needed to feel alive.

"You're late," he drawled in that achingly smooth baritone once the distance was closed.

"And you clearly still haven't figured out how to stay on your damn ship. Captain."

The intensity of his gaze smoldered. How deeply he was trying not to smirk rendering it near impossible to suppress hers, and though unable to see, because she was absorbed, Pablo's eyes almost rolled into the back of his skull.

"Commodore," Tex acknowledged.

Tom's gaze passed over Tex, his nod of greeting warm, and then he addressed Pablo. "Shemanski."

"Capn," Pablo replied.

And then his focus was back. All that challenge and maddening charisma directed toward her, and once again Sasha was left willing her pulse to slow.

"Somehow I don't think this is an accident," he said.

Sasha canted her head. "Well you weren't answering my calls, so—I had to get creative."

He lost the fight on maintaining decorous stoicism, a handsome lopsided grin becoming his dominant expression, but there was something so intimately sincere in his gaze that Sasha felt herself growing unduly emotional.

"I think there's space in the back of the plane if you guys wanna…" Tex interrupted, and she broke the connection, lowering her chin and focusing on a piece of runway that was crumbling. This was neither the time nor the place. It was never the time or the place. And the fewer unnecessary minutes Tom spent exposed in a sniper's paradise, the better.

Sasha sobered though the heat radiating from her cheeks and the feeling of Tom's gaze—checking her over to confirm that she was physically well, she assumed—remained unignorable. "We have a lot to talk about before you sit down with Peng."

Most of the contagious cure had been unloaded from the C130-Hercules before Tom arrived. What remained was destined for Hong Kong, but Tex wasn't the only familiar face; Valkyrie was also attending the summit on President Michener's order, and to Sasha's additional surprise, the Navy SEAL from Norfolk, Lieutenant Damon, was on board to relieve Green. He'd disembarked and would return with the Seahawk to the Nathan James, and while Valkyrie's presence was not unwelcomed to Sasha, in truth, she hadn't consciously replayed the explosion until the former renegade hacker emerged a few minutes after the C130 touched down.

Tom could barely keep his ass in the seat long enough for their pilots to take off. He'd spent the past two weeks battling intrusive thoughts around engineering some kind of scenario to free him from Peng's summit, only to conclude that he didn't know how to find Sasha. And now? They had only fifty minutes of airtime, and God knew what Sasha's plans involved after imparting in him whatever information she'd deemed critical enough to materialize from the void.

It drove him insane.

The second the C130 leveled out, Tom was up and expecting Sasha to follow. She did. He chose the opposite end of the hull, an area separated from the others by pallets of cure. Less chance of Tex injecting commentary that would eat up more precious seconds of limited time. And at this point, he no longer cared about the optics of attempting to keep hidden what was an open secret amongst the wider crew. That he loved her.

"You're okay?" Only after it left his mouth did Tom recall that he'd agreed not to ask her that, but her small perceptive smile eased his trepidation. It appeared she'd accommodate his chronic compulsion to know—for now, at least.

"I'm okay. I'm sorry I couldn't call you sooner. There isn't a single secure line that Peng can't intercept within Chinese airspace, we had to get out before I could really consider it. I wasn't willing to risk him getting the location of your ship—"

"I know," he interjected, an unspoken internal conflict resolved upon confirming that his chosen narrative hadn't been insanity but an accurate conclusion to explain Sasha's silence. It mattered because he'd clung to it. "That's why Val's here. We figured out the hard way that Peng's listening in on our comms when the fleet kept getting cut off at every turn."

Her forehead creased. "That's why you're refueling in Haiphong?"

Tom nodded. "Peng's fleet owns the Taiwanese Strait, and Shackleton ID'd a North Korean submarine making sweeps in the Philippine Seas on their way to our base in Guam."

"He's working with North Korea?" Sasha uttered, somewhat breathless.

Tom's blink was languid. "That's our standing theory and part of what I'm trying to figure out. Rumor has it there's a mutation in Japan, but none of us can get near the East China Sea without radar lighting up."

"I've heard the chatter," Sasha confirmed.

"Dr. Scott says it's not possible, but Peng seems intent on stopping us from getting blood samples. What's your take on it?"

Sasha's lip quirked down, and she adjusted her stance, the movement making him over-aware of his desire to wrap her in his arms. Instead, he folded them. "Well, it's not exactly like China and Japan have a positive relationship." In general, Tom was informed, but he guessed the idealism within him wasn't done searching for reasons beyond the same tired dogmas that kept repeating over multiple generations. "Peng's a nationalist. He was educated in the States but—he's always been loyal to his country. If there is a mutation, then there's an argument to be made against allowing it to spread when we're barely turning the tide as it is, but… If Japan were to fall to the virus, I'm willing to stand behind my belief that Peng would consider that a blessing to the world."

"You say that like you know him," Tom quietly prompted.

"Never met." She glanced in the direction of Shemanski and Tex, whose conversation had carried, before returning. "He was the Minister of State Security. If I'd ever been caught engaging in espionage, he's the one who would have hosted my execution. I know everything that the US was able to learn about him and everything that my contact was willing to share until he went dark."

Something in the way that Tom stared highlighted a belief she'd long since held; that Tom still maintained an intentional level of cognitive disconnect between the risks he objectively knew her profession had entailed and what he was truly willing to conceptualize in terms of the consequences.

"And now?" he quietly murmured.

"I may have been… helping to facilitate a group of people distribute the cure."

"By stealing it?" His chin lowered, and his brows rose.

"In the interest of plausible deniability, I'm not going to answer that."

Tom chuckled. "So you're a pirate now," he drawled, leaning his back against the metal crates.

"I prefer the term courier," came her nonchalant response, except it had passed her lips sounding far more salacious than intended.

His head canted, heat in his gaze. "I thought you resigned your commission because you didn't want to be involved anymore." It wasn't accusatory, but it also wasn't a question.

"Partially," she demurred. "But you should be glad that I did. Peng tried to wipe us out five weeks ago, and my contact is most likely dead, so It's not a stretch to assume he has my face and knows what I've been doing."

That admission killed any and all enjoyment that Tom had been getting from the conversation. And she could practically hear his rabbit hole. "Which wouldn't exactly be favorable for the US if I were anything more than a civilian with a humanitarian cause," she added.

Tom's cheeks hollowed while he digested. "Plausible deniability?" he parroted, the line of his jaw harsh, before sighing the words, 'Jesus Sasha.'

"You wouldn't have been able to sit around and ignore it either, Tom." Her arms crossed.

His silence spoke volumes.

"Believe me, I didn't want to be involved, and I dragged my feet almost every step of the way, but—" she second-guessed her next words before remembering that at her most vulnerable, Tom was the safety she'd sought. "I still have to be able to face my own reflection." She swallowed; the frustration melting from his expression. "And I can't say I've figured that out."

Sasha allowed herself to look at him then. Deeply. He'd lost some weight, but they all had, his features more chiseled than perhaps they'd ever been. One didn't go months during an apocalypse without changing, and he was wearing a fresh regulation cut, but it was the ache in his eyes that made her lament their circumstance; a fire that hadn't burned so bright since she'd allowed him to kiss her goodbye. Her gaze fell to his lips and felt heavy when she forced it back. "Whatever we almost walked into was damaging enough for Peng to level half of Guangzhou. He called it a chemical malfunction, but I know a dozen tomahawks when I see them. He bombed the shipping docks and then set off the fuel lines." The memory flashed, except it morphed and her lungs were filled with caustic smoke, and Wolf was yelling. "We lost a lot of good people."

Something dark began to seethe from him.

"And I owe it to Jesse to find out why," she whispered, lost in thought for several seconds until she straightened and unfolded her arms. "I'm going to need a change of clothes." With any luck, Valkyrie should have something less conspicuous than the jeans and Henley she was currently wearing, but Tom's brow creased, meaning he wasn't following.

"Peng's English is impeccable. Your Mandarin and Cantonese are not—and he speaks both—so unless you have a translator that you can actually trust, I'm going with you."

Tom pushed away from the crate. "You just told me that he could recognize you."

She grinned. "And you have plausible deniability. I was at the docks in Haiphong receiving the cure along with the other vetted local partners and your team recruited a civilian national who'd been stranded in Asia during the outbreak. I'm sure whoever's the acting Secretary of Foreign Affairs would be more than willing to run a background check for Peng if he requested it."

A background check that beyond Michener, Dennis, and Green, no one in the White House would know was falsified.

For a moment, Sasha watched Tom try to create fallacy in her logic, and then it dawned that for the first time since Doak stadium, she recognized herself. Felt that she was standing exactly where she was supposed to be. Sasha couldn't recall the last time she'd experienced the phenomenon. Years. A decade. More.

'Keep trusting it.'

She stepped closer, her hand extending to cup his cheek. "I'm trusting my gut." Sasha felt Tom's recognition of the memory, their eye contact so intense that she almost forgot the three other people in the C130. The skin of her palm tingled as she withdrew, but she was stopped by Tom's light grip around her wrist.

"And after the summit?" he breathed.

Anticipation churned through her system, but so too, a different kind of guilt. She couldn't promise Tom anything. "I don't know," she murmured, shifting her wrist until her fingers ghosted over his, "I haven't made it that far yet."