an. I think this is the first time I've posted an update within a week in longer than a year, lol.

References: St. Augustine, Chapter 31: 'Call Me Friend But Keep Me Closer', St. Augustine, Chapter 34: 'If I Only Could, I'd Make a Deal With God'

Guest review response: Yes! I'm glad to see you're still here even after all this time! You're sweet I appreciate you saying that. If anything, knowing you're wanting an ending keeps me motivated in a good way! Yes, they're cautious idiots. I think it's a fear of everything being too good to believe. They're coming up with every possible way to question what is going on to make themselves feel that if it goes wrong, they were mentally prepared to be let down. Jesse… yeah she is a spitfire. I liked the conflict between Jesse and Sasha in the show, and thought it would have been interesting to get resolved, so I brought it over into this universe, just with a different root cause, obviously. I hate Jacob too, I was happy when he got shot. And Tex would love for any woman to be sitting in his lap, haha. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

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I Never Lost My Strings

since it ended. since you left me. since i moved on

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May 17th, 2014, Co To Archipelago, Northeastern Coast of Vietnam—2236 hours

Shivering, Sasha tugged a pair of standard issue pants closed and fastened the belt, at this point, used to the scar ending just below her navel. Behind her on the opposite side of the cramped changing station adjacent the decontamination chamber, Jesse also re-dressed while Rios and his corpsmen waited in the hangar bay to assess them.

"Look," Jesse began. "I didn't mean what I said."

Tongue between her lips and teeth, Sasha pulled a long sleeve over her head. "Yes, you did." Then tugged it down and zipped the neckline aggressively.

"Alright, fine. I did."

Sasha sensed Jesse turn but chose to expel more water from the slick weight comprising her hair rather than reciprocate.

"But I at least regret that I said it."

Radioactive dust. Jesse had actually had the balls to stash the helo in an exclusion zone while they were in Vietnam. Blowing out a breath, Sasha buried her face in the towel, willing herself to remain calm.

"Just tell me you weren't still seeing him while you were with Drew."

At that, Sasha whipped around. "I hadn't even spoken to him since 2006! He had no idea that I was still in contact with his parents, and my relationship with his father had nothing to do with him." Gesturing, she semi-scoffed, "Security clearance aside, could you imagine me trying to explain to my parents what it was that I actually did? Everything changed for me when I switched to the D.I.A. Jed was the only one I could confide in without needing to ask questions that would have compromised myself or the agency."

And Tom. If she'd had the balls to go through with that phone call.

Apparently satisfied, Jesse became non-confrontative. "Is that why you guys broke up?"

"No. We fell apart a long time before that, and I'm not in the mood to re-hash it."

Through the pipes lining the bulkhead, a hiss of power came, and seconds later, the rush of water jettisoned from sprockets at 35-PSI. Another chill shook through Sasha's body, and she deliberately avoided glancing through the rectangular observation window to determine who was standing inside. Towel now on the ground, Sasha sat on the small bench lining the bulkhead and dried her feet, tugging on a pair of gray standard-issue socks, and began lacing some boots. She was on the final rung when the shower chamber opened. Wolf emerged clad in nothing but a towel. On a different day, Sasha would find the way Jesse eyeballed his admittedly impressive torso amusing. Just not today. Done with her shoes, Sasha twisted her hair into a bun, desperate to prevent the ends from leaving cold patches around her nape and shoulders, then exited the changing station.

"How far from the reactor?"

"I don't know exactly. Six, maybe seven miles…"

"And how long were you exposed?" Rios inquired in the act of drawing her blood.

"Ten minutes… maybe less."

The corpsman assisting the doctor appeared to reference something in a handbook, before making a notation on her chart. Having been assigned to a nuclear carrier for her third tour, the USS Kitty Hawk, Sasha had partaken in this training evolution countless times. The keyword being training. There were thousands of ways to die. More convoluted and imaginative than even the most twisted of minds could conceptualize, but sitting on a field cot picturing a long-suffering death from radiation poisoning made the sound of a simple bullet, nice. Morbidly, she wondered if Tom had it in him to authorize that—euthanasia.

"Are you experiencing any symptoms? Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, headache, fever?"

"Nausea. And I have a headache."

"When did the nausea start?"

The port in her vein pinched when Rios pushed another vial onto it, and her fist closed. "About an hour after we took off."

"And the headache?"

Near the cots, bathed in pink by the red lights, both Master Chief Jeter and Andrea Garnett observed. Around her the murmured repetition of Rios' questions echoed.

"Are you experiencing any symptoms?"

"No."

"How long were you exposed?"

"Miss. Cooper?"

"Sorry," Sasha said. "The headache started before we were exposed."

He had a kind face, she thought, while holding his gaze through his rounded spectacles. She was just petrified of what else he might ask. Everything in those bags was also undergoing decontamination and if anything happened to that blanket—

"You can relax," he assured her. "I don't think the dose that you experienced will result in any long-term damage based on your presentation, and the symptoms you're all experiencing, but we still need to be cautious and prevent the internal organs from absorbing any waste. And I'd recommend that you remain cognizant of any additional exposures. Based on the information and our best estimate, the dose was equal to 5 years of the Navy's standard occupational limits."

5 years' worth of radiation in 10 minutes.

"What about Jesse? She took twice as much over the past few weeks."

His reassuring smile slipped. "I won't know until I have the results of her lab work, but the fact that she seems healthy is an encouraging sign."

Closest to Garnett and Jeter, Tom left his cot, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met until he became engaged in a dialogue with his officers. So absorbed in studying his body language, attempting to piece together the severity of the James' situation, Sasha didn't notice that Rios was done until he removed the tourniquet from her arm.

"I'm going to prescribe you some potassium iodide, painkillers, and Zofran for the nausea. How are you doing on penicillin?"

"I ran out."

Rios nodded. "I'll get you some more."

Something was wrong. More wrong than they'd been able to comprehend from Hong Kong. The vein in Tom's neck was distended. His head was bowed. He was taking steadying breaths.

"What about the sertraline?"

"I'm sorry but what is going on? Why does Tom look like that?"

Her question carried enough for Tex to overhear, and after considering Tom's demeanor himself, and in the wake of Rios' silence, he pressed, "Doc?"

Sasha noted that Rios didn't need to observe in order to understand her concern. "Green was on the seahawk."

The dull pressure at the center of Sasha's forehead intensified. A memory of Danny swaying with Kara, stooped, noses brushing while they smiled and gazed at each other, gripping her. She cleared her throat, active in the mantra of coaching herself not to draw the parallel. World shattered. Widowed, and pregnant—

Sasha shot up from the cot, lungs in a vice, ignoring Rios' shock, and traversed the fifteen feet to the hangar bay's hatch. It felt like she was trudging through mud. Every step took ten times longer than it should, and her ability to suppress what was coming grew weaker with every millisecond. Mercifully greeted by a gust of tepid wind and masked by the waves, violent sobs wracked her body. Bent at the waist, she braced both hands against her knees. It would pass. Just as it had upon first meeting Kara. All she needed to do was wait it out.

"You made the right call, Commander." It plagued Captain Chandler, but Andrea needed his verbalization, more than his complex desire to bury his own guilt. "You were down a flight crew, and operating in the wind without your commanding officer, backup, or a safe place to refuel."

Andrea's mouth thinned; the redness of her eyes prominent even under the tinted lights. Sometimes, he'd replayed his visit to her stateroom in Norfolk, battling the confines of rank and order and wondering if he'd done enough in that moment. It was the only way—Tom had decided—to make it through. Humanity. It would serve him better than anger in the long run.

"I appreciate you saying that, sir."

Tom nodded, surveying the group. Wolf was resting, an ice pack on his cheek, and a corpsman applying steri-strips to the wound above his brow. On Shemanski's cot, Jesse also sat, and they were conversing. Tex's blood was being drawn, but he looked restless, and Tom wondered if the root cause also compelled Sasha to leave.

"How's the crew?" Tom murmured to Jeter.

Tom knew, based on the set of Russ' features, that morale was, "Not good, sir."

"Lieutenant Burk is taking it particularly hard. I suspended his duties for 24 hours. He needed some time to re-group."

Acknowledging, Tom made a sound. "They were close." His words, a distracted offering as he battled instinct against facts and probability. The James had just over a quarter tank of fuel. Hai Phong remained their nearest fueling port, assuming Peng was still cockblocking the island depot, but approaching the harbor without the Shackleton's defense was a gamble Tom wasn't yet prepared to take.

"I want a copy of all the transcripts and audio recordings from the attack," he began. "And all the radio chatter since. Have it brought to the wardroom within the hour."

"Aye, sir," Jeter nodded, then left.

Facing Garnett, Tom straightened his posture. "You need to get some rest—"

"Sir—"

"Commander, you've already been at this," Tom glanced at his watch, "for fourteen hours without a break."

Andrea pinched her eyes closed in concession. Sighing, Tom squeezed her upper arm.

"Stop beating yourself up and get some sleep. That's an order."

Lip between her teeth, Andrea could only nod, and he returned the gesture, watching until she disappeared into the p-way. Reluctant as Tom was to cut short whatever break Sasha needed, no one else on Nathan James possessed her linguistic abilities, and he couldn't move forward without exhausting every piece of data available to him. As he approached the outer door, Tom rolled down his sleeve, an action neglected after providing a blood sample. He wrenched the lever, waiting for a few seconds before pushing the weighty metal open, cognizant of providing Sasha whatever warning he could. The night was dark. Moon and stars hidden by thick clouds, and without the column of rectangular light spilling across the deck, it would be pitch black.

A few feet removed, Sasha stood. Rigid straight. Back turned.

"Sasha."

She responded with a jerky nod but refused to turn.

"I need you to translate."

She sniffed. The composition of her silhouette morphed, a hand swiping at her face. She nodded again. The end of her deep guttural breath, a sob that she attempted to stifle.

Conflict tore through him. Sharp and painful, and his grip around the lever tightened. There were too many critical objectives for him to address. Time, an unattainable luxury. He couldn't stay here. To hold her. Or be there. He peered upward to the black sky, momentarily closing his eyes before mustering the resolve.

"Come find me in the wardroom when you're ready."

Sasha ascended two deck levels to reach the CIC, glad that it was approaching midnight and thus, few sailors were around to impede her haste. Upon entering the wardroom an hour before, it hadn't been Tom, but Alisha Granderson who'd received her. It was an unexpected difficulty; the continued taboo nature of grief. The way it made others uncomfortable. Unsure. Stilted. Alisha's sympathetic aura made clear that despite a pitstop to the officer's head, the splash of ice-cold water hadn't gone as far as Sasha hoped.

"Tom?"

A tall man that she didn't recognize rounded the marker boards, his frown clear and dark skin glowing blue under the artificial lights. His uniform denoted that he was a third-grade Lieutenant, but when she read the nametag, Burk, it clicked. Cameron. She stared at him in shock, a choice that only intensified his confusion.

"You found something?" Tom answered, removing a set of cans and appearing from the far side of the combat center.

"Someone survived the crash." She produced the note. "Whichever boat radioed from that bearing over that channel said that a US sailor was recovered from the water and given a rapid test. It came back immune." Tom frowned, and in anticipation of his next question, she elaborated. "Aside from the cure, which apparently Takehaya's no longer interested in, nothing trades better than an immune. Whoever they have is about to be sold."

"Nishioka," Tom called.

"Yes, sir." The specialist pivoted in his chair, pulling one side of his headset askew.

"Cross-reference every boat we logged in this timeframe matching that bearing. Get me an ID." Tom handed him the piece of paper.

"Aye, sir."

Next, he addressed Burk. "Lift EMCON, I need to speak with St. Louis."

May 17th, 2014, Busch Laboratory, St. Louis, Missouri—1155 hours

Huffing, Rachel ripped off her gloves and wheeled over to the stupid landline that simply refused to stop ringing every five fucking minutes and shoved it into the cradle of her neck.

"What. Can I help you with?"

"That's one way to answer a call."

A jolt raced through her. She fumbled the handset. "Captain." Embarrassed immediately by her utter breathlessness.

"I'm going to read you a list of names, and I need you to pull up your records and tell me if any of them are immune."

"Yes," she answered quickly. "Yes, of course."

"Let me know when you're ready."

"How long is it?" Juggling the cord and trying to reach her laptop was proving a more cumbersome task, but the number of individuals from Tom's crew had been exceedingly small, as in eight identified in addition to Michener, Beatrise, and Sasha Cooper.

"Five."

"You can proceed. There were so few that I could name them from memory."

A brief pause ensued before he began. "Lincoln, Riley, Harris, Da Cuhna, and Green."

"Daniel," she confirmed.

"Did they all participate?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. I need you to transfer me back to the White House."

Flustered, she blinked. "Oh." Then stared at the buttons.

"You don't know how to transfer a call?"

It was perhaps the most personable thing that he'd said, a hint of amusement laced within his tone, and quite regrettably, she blushed. "No. I'm afraid that the extent of my skill with a telephone extends only to frequently ignoring or hanging it up."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," he drawled.

Rachel bit her lip and began fiddling with a pen. "Is everything… okay, over there?"

Despite being unable to see him, a distinctly cold energy seemed to descend. "I can't discuss the mission, Rachel. It's classified."

"Right," she muttered, sucking in air through her teeth. "Well. It sounds like you are quite busy, and so am I, so. I'm going to assume that one of your specialists can reconnect you to the White House?"

"They can."

"Good. Alright. Take care then," she supplied. Moments later the line went dead.

May 18th, 2014—0028 hours

At least three hours of transmissions remained, and the rush of discovering relevant intel had now dumped Sasha on the backside of its cliff. From head to toe she ached. Like a singular bruise, but every moment mattered. Every voice. The next recording, potentially the one to give them a destination. Something more concrete than somewhere in the south China sea. Though the wardroom lights were dimmed in accordance with nightly darken ship procedures, her temples throbbed, and she'd taken to listening with her eyes closed with her head braced between her palms.

Self-correcting upon hearing the door, Sasha pressed pause and removed the headset. Like her, Tom appeared drained. "You spoke with St. Louis?"

He closed the door. "Do you want the good or the bad news?"

Instead of dread, Sasha felt… nothing. And that was perhaps more indicative of her emotional exhaustion than any statement she could make. "How bad?"

"Bad."

Part of her almost chose ignorance, but in the end, the anxiety of now knowing there was something, proved almost worse. "Tell me."

His palm rested over the back of his chair. The one embroidered, 'CO.' "Val's gone. In-flight emergency 45 minutes after take-off. All the recovery crew could find was debris."

Sasha stared at him. Unable to process what he'd said. Silence stretched.

"Green's alive. He's the one the pirates found."

Catapulted to a different extreme of shock, the sound she made was not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff, and her features were twisted with disbelief. "How do you know that?"

Releasing his grip on the chair, Tom rolled his neck and approached the coffee machine behind her. She was too tired to pivot, so merely listened as he explained.

"When Rachel created the snap test, she asked to test the final prototype on volunteers from the crew. I approved it on the condition that she kept the results sealed and participants classified. Everyone in the flight crew took it, along with Green. He's the only one on that list who's immune."

"When was this?" she murmured.

"When we were in St. Louis." The pot began to gurgle.

"I didn't know that she was testing the crew."

"She already had your blood. No need for you to take a test that you already know is going to come back positive." True. But why was her gut telling her there was more context lurking behind his consciously measured tone? "I didn't want anyone to feel pressured into it. That's a lot of what-ifs to ask people to process."

Sasha considered it. The snap test, in application, had become such a standard part of the contagious cure distribution, that in truth she'd never pondered the perspective of those who'd already been vaccinated. "Did you take it?"

The gurgling was steadily getting louder. "Yes."

"Are you?" she asked softly.

"No."

Why was she almost disappointed? Maybe because the idea of sharing something so unique seemed appealing. With Tom. Specifically. Instead, she shared that commonality with the man who'd killed her family. well, and now Green. She at least liked Green. She needed to get some sleep. Wasn't thinking straight. These thoughts were ridiculous.

A steaming cup of coffee appeared beside her dominant hand. Suspicious that the gesture was more than a subtle hint about needing a pick-me-up, Sasha hesitated.

"Thank you," she said, though her tone sounded more like a question.

Without comment, Tom sat at the table's head, his repose only confirming her inclination. "We need to talk."

Warming her hands, she hummed. "I thought we were already talking?"

She watched him breathe, his palm resting flat on the surface. "I need to know where your head's at." Then he searched her features. "And I need you to be honest with me."

Such a request, one would assume, would be made with assertion, but Tom knew her better than that. Instead, he'd gone for the jugular: employed a tone so soft it felt like a caress. Sasha watched the bubbles swirl, noting that the James had creamer.

"We get Green. Figure out what Peng is doing, Jesse gets her answers, and we find The Hayward. Everything else is noise."

Remaining carefully neutral, Tom sat with her statement. "And the injury?"

Her lip twitched.

"I saw you falter, Sasha. If I hadn't been able to cover you—"

"You don't need to explain it to me, I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not," he answered just as bluntly. "You're too smart for your own good, and you're more stubborn than anyone I've ever met." A beat of silence passed. "Commissioned or not, while you're on my ship? You're my responsibility. So I'm asking—where is your limit? Because you and I both know that you can pass a PRT, but that doesn't mean you're a hundred percent, and I'd been willing to bet you could ace it at fifty," he postured.

Taciturn while deliberating how much to disclose, she continued staring at the drink. "It's inconsistent. Random. Feels like a cramp, or like something's pulling internally, and it only lasts for a few seconds, but it's enough to get my attention."

Enough, at the wrong moment, to be her end.

"Then you know that I can't have you on the ground teams," he replied. "Possibly not even for recon."

While Sasha hated this conversation, whichever way she framed it, trying to insist that Tom was wrong would make her a liability, and she wasn't selfish as to delude them both into risking other people's lives. Even when they'd been smuggling cure, Sasha elected logistics over the door kicking, mindful of the unpredictable nature of her condition. Downcast, she nodded. At least Tom was in a unique position to appreciate how she felt, and if anything, it only deepened her understanding of what he'd been through after Bosnia.

In the act of counting the empty lines on her notepad, she heard Tom sigh. "Have you told Rios?" And then the friction of his digi's when he shifted.

"No." She trailed her thumb along the mug's edge.

"Could you?"

Sasha stopped avoiding eye contact, wondering when he'd perfected the art of approach. Either way, when framed as a gentle suggestion, she found it difficult to deny Tom's request. "I'll speak with him."

Though his response was non-verbal, in the seconds thereafter, Sasha cogitated the noticeable shift in his demeanor since returning to the James. Given that such a concept was not novel, she deemed it a dense thought. It was more that she hadn't recognized how far they'd slipped into this state of semi-relationship until now. There was no platonic, even if what they communicated remained benign, and that had always been the case. Then and now.

Already she was picturing the idea of curling up beside him. Of burying her face in the hollow of his neck and relishing the scent of his skin. He'd probably allow it—once—before forcing himself to enact distance. Driven by the need for an objective clarity of mind. How, when she'd cautioned herself against doing so less than 24 hours ago, was she back to this? When had she started to dream of the future? When you gave up your engagement ring, her mind supplied. Over-aware of how long she'd remained captive in Tom's gaze, Sasha took up the mug, blowing softly the liquid's surface before sipping. The sharp sting of heat was welcomed against her palette, the taste of creamer almost enough to reduce her to tears again.

"What happened?" he murmured. "Earlier."

Again, she drank and then chewed her lip, searching for phrasing that would keep her detached. "Rios told us about Green. I wasn't expecting to hear something that would make me think. About everything."

This time, he shed the outer layer of command, the man before her, the same one she'd turned to in St. Louis.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't stay."

Her lip curved into a gentle smile. "It's fine, Tom. I don't need you to hold my hand."

"No," he agreed. "But I wanted to."

Even as her cheeks burned hot, a shiver ran through her. "You have a soft spot for him. Green," she deflected.

"He's my best operator." Though quiet, his head canted and he semi-squinted, mouth opening only for him to hesitate before speaking. "You're scared of Takehaya." She had no response. "I don't think I've ever seen you scared of someone before."

Sasha didn't know why her sinuses flooded with pressure over such a soft remark, but they did. Brow lifting, she countered, "He took one of your ships, Tom." And then willed stoicism into her voice. "And you haven't seen what they do to people who are immune." A beat of stillness lingered. "Some things are worse than death."

Calm and steady, he held her gaze. "I'd put a bullet in your head myself, Sasha, if it came to that." She found herself trapped. "You have my word."

"Could you?" she countered, echoing his question in a rasp.

"You'd find one in mine right after it, but yes. I could."

Though she neither moved, nor reacted, it felt like her soul sighed, and in this upside-down world, for once, Sasha elected not to question the macabre nature of it.

"Very Shakespearean," she quipped.

A breath of laughter erupted from his chest, and he pushed himself out of the chair, returning it with almost mechanical precision to its home, but his next action decimated what little power she'd regained. Cupping her cheek, he leaned down and kissed her forehead, murmuring, "Get some sleep, Juliet," against the skin.