Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You wake in silence.

The cot beneath you is thin, its metal frame pressing into your shoulder blades.

For a long moment, you don’t move. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling that feels both familiar and alien.
Eventually, breath leaves you in a sigh.

Because the world went on, and so would you.
Your legs swing down, feet finding the cold concrete floor, and you slip on the rabbit slippers.

Across the space, Finch’s keystrokes chatter in steady rhythm—the language of a man trying not to think. Through the comms, Reese’s voice crackles faintly—rough and low, reminding you he’s still out there. Still working an irrelevant number despite stitches pulling tight under his coat.

You know Finch can hear the strain in him, but his fingers never stop. Only when you rise does the typing falter for a heartbeat.

A pause, then the clatter resumes.

The bathroom mirror greets you with its sterile light. You splash water on your face, the shock of cold pulling you into motion.
A routine helps.
Motion helps.
Temperature helps.

Helps remind you that you’re still here. That you still have a fragile purpose. 
Helps remind you that she didn’t throw herself into the fire just so you could let it consume you too.

You grip the sink until your knuckles pale.

A reflection stares back—hollow-eyed, mouth set tight, a face you barely recognize.
She judges you. Blames you.

No, not blaming, stating a fact.

Whispers in your own voice—
She came because of you. And she died because of you. Maybe even earlier… she stayed because of you.

She never said it directly, but you heard it anyway.
Because of you.

The glass doesn’t break under your stare.
And you’re the one who looks away first.

One step back, it was long enough to remember.

She appeared behind you that night. Quiet as always. She had a habit of sneaking up on people—Finch, mostly.
You both ended up walking side by side down the street, city lights fractured in puddles at your feet.

“I’m sure not having the Machine in your ear anymore sucks and all, but it is pretty great… finally being able to sneak up on you.”

You were amused, fond, lips twitching upward as you replied, “I live to amuse.”
Then, trying to keep it casual—you asked, “Where’s Tomas?”

“Halfway to Barcelona.”
You smirked at that answer.

“He gave me a pretty hard sell trying to get me to go with him…” Her words dimmed your smirk, “And for a hot second, I almost did.”
Your brows knit. Confused. “But…?”

She stopped walking, so you stopped too.

Her eyes met yours when she said, “I guess there are things I care about here.”
She said that.
Her words totally caught you off guard.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “And is that why you came to see me?”
“No.”

Your brow arched, waiting for more.
She continued, “I need you to translate Finch’s instructions on how to destroy the virus. Dude never met a five-syllable word he didn’t like.”

You just take the paper from her hand. “Full decontamination.”

And then you were walking again, shoulder to shoulder.

You glanced at her, letting your words linger in the air, “This could take all night.”

She just smirked, and gave you one of those ambiguous glances that said more than she’d ever allow herself to admit.

When you return, your hand finds the latch of one of the steel lockers. The hinges squeal, sharp in the quiet. Inside, folded clothes sit stacked with military neatness.
It’s just black or gray.
So her.

You pull out a hoodie—fraying at the cuff, sleeves a little short—and tug it over your head. Before you close it, your eyes catch on a Beretta Nano resting among the other pistols.

A pause.
Just long enough for the air to thin around you. Your hand hovers, then closes around the gun.

Then you strip off the rabbit slippers and shove your feet into your boots.

The weight of ritual settles in—taser clipped, pistols holstered at your waist.
And that gun… you slide it into a new holster against your back.
Leather jacket last.

Before you leave, before you start another day hunting Samaritan’s men, you pass Harold—let your lips twitch upward into something that pretends to be a smile.
“See you later, Harold.”

He swivels in his chair slowly, glasses catching the dim light. Lines around his mouth tighten. Expression unreadable, but you taste the worry under it anyway. The kind that lingers, the kind that knows that words can’t help you now.
“…Be safe, Ms. Groves.”

Your footsteps tap steady toward the door. Hinges groan when you push it open.
The sound echoes in the hollow of the lair, louder than either of you.

You don’t look back when you answer, because… you don’t mean it.
“Always.”

One step out, then a quiet glance back at everything left behind.

“No, we do not have time to catch up.”
She appeared behind you, sudden and alive, and for a second the whole world stuttered.

Surprise hit first—then relief, then something dangerously close to joy.

Even in the middle of a slaughterhouse, even with the odds stacked against you, she came.
Of course she came.

Crawling through ducts, clawing her way through walls if she had to—finding her way to the team when everything was burning down.
That’s who she was. That’s who she’ll always be.

The Machine whispered in your ear—her arrival raised survival chances to 23.33%.

It’s not much, but not nothing.
A sliver of hope.

You felt it—hope.

That’s why you couldn’t help yourself. Why, as you moved and fired together—two bodies, one rhythm—you found yourself confessing to her, in your own clever and teasing way.
Her shooting is quick, trained with military precision.

She said you were hot. Said you were good with guns.
Said the two of you together would be like a four-alarm fire in an oil refinery.

Her words. Branded into you.

Adventure, chaos, danger—things most people would run from.
To you, it sounded like home.
Like the place where you truly belonged.

The plan was simple—the elevator. All of you safe, mission accomplished, market secured.

Back to the lair.
Back to maybe no-more-someday, finally telling her everything you’d hidden behind a mask of flirtation.
Or maybe… hearing her admit the same.

But the damn elevator refused to work.

You saw it before anyone else—the stupid intention in her words. The decision forming. You grabbed her arm, tried to stop her—

And she kissed you.

She kissed you.
It finally happened.

But before your mind could catch up, she shoved you back—hard—into someone’s arms. The gate slammed down with a brutal clang as she kicked the interlock shut.

You were held down by someone while she sprinted back into the hail of bullets. Hand slammed the override.

The elevator began to descend.

She never looked back. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from her.

Gunfire poured in.
She was hit—once, twice, again and again.

The world fractured into chaos—gunfire, screaming, the piercing ring splitting your skull.
As she crumpled, the noise collapsed with her—
Leaving only the silence that swallowed everything when her body struck the ground.

She tried to rise, blood soaking through, but that blonde bitch was already there.
Gun leveled and cold.

You saw it—the last look, that fierce defiance even as her body betrayed her.

And then—

The shot cracked.
Her head snapping back. Dark crimson blooming across the floor, across the world.

Pedestrians brush past, glancing at you oddly as you freeze mid-step, chest constricting, her memory pressing like a hand against your ribs.

She came because you asked.
She stayed because she cared.
She died because she wanted you to live.

So, she kissed you.

That kiss was everything and nothing.

It was a confession.
And it was a goodbye.

The story was left untold, and you were left with only her absence.
Everything that might have been never had the chance to start.

Chapter Text

The room stank of cordite and iron.

Three men knelt on the concrete, their dark suits smeared with dust and blood. One of them wasn’t breathing anymore—his head tilted at an impossible angle, blood pooling beneath his cheek.

You didn’t regret that one.

Didn’t even feel bad, this time.

The other two shook, sweat beading at their temples. Your pistol tracked from one to the other like a metronome.

A rhythm. A reminder of how easily flesh breaks.

How easy to take a life.

You tilted your head. Smiled without warmth.

“Your turn. Speak, sweetheart.”

The one on the left swallowed, eyes wide as a cornered rat. “I—I just joined Decima last month. I don’t know what happened before.”

Your smile sharpened. “Hmmm… Not even rumors? Anything?”

A frantic shake of his head.

Pathetic. Useless.

You squeezed the trigger before his mouth could form another excuse. The sound cracked in the narrow space, echoing off bare walls.

He folded, boneless, to the floor.

You let the silence linger. Long enough for the last man to break.

Before you could even raise the gun, words tumbled out of him, ragged with fear. “I—I wasn’t at the Stock Exchange. But I heard… my colleagues talking.”

Your eyes narrowed, the shadows in you thickening.

“Continue.”

He hesitated, gaze darting toward the door as though freedom lived in the crack of light beneath it. “They said…well,” His breath stuttered. “It’s— you better n—”

You cut him off, voice slicing clean. “Speak plainly.”

He licked his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing, hands trembling where they pressed against the concrete. “They complained that… after what happened at the stock exchange, they had to deal with the aftermath. The… the woman.”

Your throat tightened. The gun stayed steady.

He swallowed again, the next words barely audible. “They said… why bother with cremation? Just throw the body... throw it into the sea.”

A heartbeat.

Too long, too loud.

Then—his words tripped over themselves, desperate to fill the silence you left. “B-but we didn’t throw it into the sea. I mean—they didn’t. They still… cremated the body. That's all I know, I swear.”

The muzzle dipped a fraction, then steadied again.

You lowered yourself until you were eye-level with him, searching his face for the truth—or something close enough to hurt.

“…Where do they keep the ashes?”

He shook his head so hard it looked painful. “No, no place. Not that I know of. I think, they—they just dispose of them.”

The world stopped breathing for a moment.

“Can i... am i free, to go?” he asked, voice a threadbare plea.

You gave him a sweet smile that wasn’t sweet at all.

“Run. Before I change my mind.”

Relief crashed over his face as he stumbled to his feet, muttering thanks. He lurched toward the door, clumsy with desperation.

You watched him reach for freedom.

Three, four—

A shot rang out. He fell forward, sprawled in the doorway, skull blooming red against the gray floor.

The smoke curled from the barrel as you whispered into the silence,

“Sorry, I changed my mind. If she couldn’t survive, then… why should you?”

You stood in the room for a while, listening to the ringing echo fade, before finally turning for the door.

One step through, your heartbeat matching the echo of boots you wished were hers beside you.

“Finch can’t expect Reese to pick up all the numbers. He’s still got a day job.”

You glanced around, scanning shadows and corners—smiled despite the situation. “I’m sure Harry will find a solution.”

“Well, I already have.” She shrugged, her tone light and casual, as if the answer was obvious. “The Machine needs to give me a new identity.”

You rolled your eyes slightly and let out a soft sigh. “Sorry, Sam, it doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?” She frowned, confusion tipping into annoyance. “I mean… it works like that for you. You go through identities like they’re Dixie cups.” She pointed toward herself. “But I’m one, and done?”

You met her gaze and smiled, soft but firm. “I don’t make the rules. She does.” You reached for a sliver of comfort between the tension and the danger. “Look, I get that you’re frustrated, angry, and probably a little bit scared.”

Her smirk was instant, infuriatingly amused at the words. “Oh, please. I’m not scared.”

Defiant, a twist of her lips.

And that did it.

Your expression darkened immediately, and you stopped walking. “Well… maybe you should be,” you let the quiet weight of the moment settle.

Turning slightly, you fixed her with a gaze meant to knock some sense into her.

“Because you almost died back there. And Samaritan’s operatives are just getting smarter and faster. So while you may not be scared… about what could happen to you the next time, other people are.”

Her eyes flicked to yours but didn’t retort.

“People who care for you.”

You let the words hang—no softness now, no room for denial.

She stayed quiet. Looked like a kid scolded by her parents—knowing she was wrong, but refusing to admit it.

“Try to remember that.” You checked the perimeter quickly, then let your voice return to the rhythm of moving forward. “We need to keep moving.”

In the end, you couldn’t keep her moving.

Couldn’t keep her safe.

You told her she should be scared, and you didn’t tell her that you were the one terrified.

But not anymore.

Because the worst has already happened.