Chapter Text
Early morning light spilled over the windowsill, painting long slats across the foot of the hospital bed. Cruz sat on the edge, already dressed, loose black sweat pants, faded hoodie, and the soft grey beanie Aaliyah had slipped into her overnight bag. Her discharge papers were signed. Her chart cleared. The nurses had done their checks and IVs had been pulled. She was finally leaving.
Aaliyah moved around the room, efficient and silent. She folded clothes, zipped the duffel, ticked boxes on a clipboard the nurse had left. She hadn’t said much all morning, just quiet murmurs with nurses and doctors.
Cruz's body still ached in slow, distant pulses. Her lungs caught if she breathed too deep. Every movement she made took effort, was deliberate.
She wasn’t quite sure she wanted to go back out into the world, not yet.
The door opened.
Bobby stepped inside without knocking, her posture relaxed, a duffel slung over one shoulder. She wore jeans, a worn t-shirt, and scuffed combat boots.
"You made it out," Bobby said around a warm smile. She tossed Cruz’s cane gently onto the bed beside her. "Thought I’d see for myself before they started clearing out your room."
Cruz managed a faint scoff. "Nice of you to check I’m not sneaking out the window early."
Bobby gave her a look. "Please. You’d trip over the drip stand and bleed all over the linoleum."
Her eyes flicked between Cruz and Aaliyah, who was still bent over the bag, rechecking everything. Her gaze lingered, reading the space between them. Tense.
"I’ll wait outside," she said, nodding once. "Van’s ready."
She left without another word.
Cruz watched her go, then shifted slowly, reaching for the cane.
Aaliyah handed it to her before she could grasp it. Their fingers brushed.
Quiet.
Then Aaliyah picked up the bag and slung it over her shoulder, waiting.
Cruz stood slowly, legs wobbling just enough to make her wince. But she steadied. Took one step. Then another.
Their silence remained steady as they left the room.
--
The apartment near the consulate was clean and quiet. Pale curtains swayed in the breeze from a cracked-open window, and the sun caught the dust in slow, lazy spirals. The space had been set up for Cruz’s recovery: wide, open floors; support bars in the bathroom; low, soft furniture. Comfortable, but sterile.
Aaliyah had been staying at the apartment for the past month, splitting her time between its spare bedroom and the small cot beside Cruz’s hospital bed, depending on the night. The fridge was fully stocked. Cruz’s meds were lined up on the counter with military precision. Her books had migrated into the master bedroom, shelves filling with her neat handwriting and margin notes. The place didn’t feel like home. But part of it felt like Aaliyah.
Now, she hovered.
“Let me grab that,” she said, already reaching for the tote bag Cruz was trying to carry in one hand while leaning on the cane with the other.
“I can carry a fucking bag, Aaliyah,” Cruz snapped, sharper than she meant it.
Aaliyah froze mid-reach.
Cruz let the bag fall to the floor with a dull thud. She closed her eyes for a beat, then ran a hand over her face. “Sorry. I just… I’ve got it.”
Aaliyah nodded once. “Okay.”
She didn’t push. She didn’t offer to help again. She just turned toward the kitchen, fiddled with the fridge, then stepped back like she’d changed her mind.
“I’m going to go for a walk,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be back soon.”
Cruz didn’t look up. Just nodded.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Cruz stood in the middle of the room, alone. The silence pressed in again, it was empty, it was deserved. She knew she’d been steadily driving Aaliyah away. And some part of her, the part curled tight with guilt and frayed nerves, thought maybe that was for the best.
--
The hallway outside the apartment was quiet, the muffled sounds of the street below barely reaching the tiled floor. Aaliyah stepped out, keys in one hand, tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t sure where she was going, just that she needed air.
She turned the corner, and nearly collided with Maya.
Maya reached out automatically, steadying her by the waist. "Oh, Aaliyah," she said, smiling, slightly winded. "Didn’t expect to see you out. Didn’t hurt you, did I?."
Aaliyah’s hand came up immediately, brushing hers off. "I’m fine," she said, stepping back, her expression neutral.
Maya tilted her head, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “Going somewhere?”
Aaliyah didn’t stop as she slid her coat on, smoothing the sleeves with careful hands. “For a walk,” she said coolly, her tone giving nothing away.
Maya’s brows lifted. “You left Cruz alone?”
Aaliyah turned then, just enough to meet her gaze. Her jaw tightened. “She’s an adult,” she said, the words clipped but controlled.
Maya studied her, something unreadable flickering behind her smile. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
Aaliyah offered a clipped smile. "I don’t need to like you, Doctor Delgado. As long as you’re good at your job, I will cope."
Maya raised a brow. "Noted."
The moment held. Then Maya nodded and moved past her.
The door clicked open and Cruz looked up from the couch, still in her hoodie and sweatpants, her cane resting beside her. Maya stepped in, all breezy energy and smiles.
"Hey there sweet cheeks," Maya said, holding up a folder. "Brought your updated routine. A little meaner, a little more fun."
Cruz chuckled tiredly. "You’re trying to kill me."
"Not yet. But I’m getting closer."
She dropped her bag and moved toward the couch. "Let’s go through it together. Got a few new stretches, and some band work to get your mobility up."
They spent nearly forty minutes on the floor of the living room, Maya coaching Cruz through slow, deliberate stretches, helping her adjust her posture, counting her breaths aloud, cracking jokes to make her laugh through the discomfort. Cruz groaned and winced but followed every instruction.
Sweat clung to the back of her neck by the time they wrapped. Maya handed her a towel, grinning.
"That’s my girl. You didn’t even swear at me this time."
Cruz took the towel with a weak laugh. "Only because I couldn’t breathe."
Maya sat beside her again, closer this time, their shoulders brushing.
"You okay?"
Cruz hesitated. Then, quietly,
"I don’t know who I am when I’m not bleeding for something. That’s the part no one prepares you for. Not the wounds. Not the pain."
A pause. "Just... the stillness."
Cruz glanced down at her hands. "I feel like I’m supposed to be more than this."
Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.
"And I don’t know how to be anything else anymore. How to be me again."
A breath. "I keep thinking she’s going to see it too, that this version of me is slow, weak, stitched together with tape. And that isn’t what she signed up for."
Cruz let out a bitter laugh, soft and short.
"She didn’t even sign up. We just... fell into it. And now I can’t stop asking myself how I’m supposed to be enough."
Maya didn’t speak. She just reached out, pulling Cruz into a hug. It wasn’t tight, but it was steady and grounding.
Cruz let herself lean into it, just for a moment.
That’s when the door opened.
Aaliyah stepped inside. She froze in the entryway.
Cruz and Maya both looked up.
The hug broke, slow and awkward. Cruz pulled back.
"Hey," she said, but her voice was thin.
Aaliyah didn’t answer. Her gaze flicked to Maya, then back to Cruz. Her face gave nothing away, but her eyes did. Hurt. Quiet, sharp hurt.
Maya stood. "I should go."
Cruz opened her mouth, but Aaliyah had already turned away.
"I’ll be in my room," she said.
And she walked down the hall without looking back.
--
The door clicked shut behind Maya. Cruz sat motionless, jaw clenched, hands resting heavy on her thighs. A moment passed. Then silence settled again, thicker this time, the kind that pressed against the ribs.
In the bedroom, Aaliyah perched on the edge of the bed, still and tense, staring blankly out the window. She’d barely moved since she walked away from the living room. The silence stretched. Then the soft, uneven sound of Cruz’s cane tapped down the hallway.
A moment later, Cruz appeared in the doorway. The tension in the air felt tight enough to snap.
"It wasn’t what you think," Cruz said finally. Her voice was low, almost flat. "I was upset. It was just a hug."
Aaliyah stood, not looking at her. "You talk to her," she said. "You won’t talk to me, Cruz."
Cruz bristled. "Because she doesn’t look at me like I’m glass. She doesn’t treat me like I might shatter."
Aaliyah turned sharply. "I’m trying to help you."
Cruz’s voice snapped, sharp and loud. “You’re trying to control me. You’ve lined up my pills, my schedule, my water intake, my damn steps per day.” She gestured wildly, frustration spilling out. “You’ve built this entire orbit around me like I’m incapable of moving without falling apart.”
Cruz knew she was being unfair, but the words came anyway, sharp and fast, like a reflex she hadn’t unlearned.
Aaliyah didn’t flinch. Her voice was quiet, controlled. “I didn’t want you to feel alone.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Cruz shot back, jaw clenched, breathing hard.
The room fell into stillness.
Aaliyah’s arms crossed tightly, her posture rigid. When she spoke, her voice was too calm. “So you’d rather let her be your anchor?”
Cruz recoiled slightly, her tone defensive. “She’s not my anchor, Aaliyah. But she listens. And she doesn’t flinch every time I grimace. She doesn’t hover. She doesn’t…”
“Love you?” Aaliyah cut in, sharp and quiet.
That landed like a body blow. Cruz froze.
Aaliyah’s voice cracked. “Because I do. I’m scared all the time. You think it’s easy, watching you disappear into pain, into silence? You think I want to walk on eggshells just to be near you?”
Cruz shook her head, but her voice was frayed. “I didn’t say that.”
She swallowed hard, hands balling at her sides. “But I’m not your project. I’m not some broken thing you can fix. I know I’m not whole right now. But you make it feel like I’ve become something to manage, not someone you want.” Her throat worked. “I hate being this version of me.”
Aaliyah stepped forward, but Cruz pulled back. “That’s not fair,” Aaliyah said, her voice unsteady.
“Neither is waking up with two holes plugged in me and you standing over me like I might stop breathing if you blink,” Cruz shot back, blinking fast. “I don’t need a nurse, Aaliyah. I need…I need you.”
After a moment, Aaliyah whispered, “Cruz, I didn’t know what else to do.”
Her voice wavered. “Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you dying. Every time you coughed, I thought it was your last breath. I counted your heartbeats while you slept. Do you understand that? I counted them. For days, I counted.”
Cruz’s eyes flicked up, something fragile cracking behind them.
“You think I’m hovering,” Aaliyah said, stepping closer, voice fraying. “But this is surviving. That’s what it looks like for me. Because I already thought I lost you once. And then you fucking died, Cruz. You died.”
Her chest heaved, barely holding it in.
“I lost you again. And I, I don’t know how I’m supposed to cope with that. You died. What am I supposed to do after that? Tell me. I’ll do it.”
She broke off. Exhaled sharply. Tried again.
"I don’t know how to love you, how to do this, when I am so, so afraid that you’ll disappear. I told you, I’m scared of you. I’m scared to feel like this. I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone, or really dead. And I won’t know how to survive it. I’m so scared.”
Cruz blinked hard. Her hands opened, then closed again at her sides. She looked down, jaw tight.
"I don’t want to be something you’re scared of,” she said quietly. “But I need space to figure it out. To figure me out.”
Aaliyah’s breath hitched. Her voice cracked on the question. “What kind of space?”
Cruz looked at her, eyes heavy. “Not distance. Just room to breathe.”
Aaliyah flinched like the words physically landed. Her voice cracked as it rose, no longer measured.
“Room to breathe?” she echoed, disbelief bleeding into anger. “Cruz, I know you. I know that you’re pushing me away.”
She stepped closer, eyes shining with fury and hurt.
“So what, now I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you peel away from me? Act like it doesn’t fucking gut me to be sidelined and waiting while you figure out whether I still fit into whatever version of yourself you’re trying to find?”
Her voice broke on the next line.
“And you know exactly what this is doing to me. Don’t act like you don’t see it. Don’t act like you don’t feel how it hurts me every time I reach for you, and you pull back.”
She drew in a deep breath as her hands trembled. “You want space? Fine.”
Cruz stepped forward, slow. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just... I don’t know how to be okay when I feel like I’m disappointing you every second I’m not healing fast enough. I don’t know how to hold all of this.”
Aaliyah shook her head, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. “I begged you not to go. Do you remember that? You were already hurt, and I told you it was too soon. I told you to stay.”
Her voice rose, tight with fury. “You keep treating your life like it means nothing. You’ve been guarding me for months, watching every door, flinching at every noise. You wouldn’t let me out of your sight.”
A beat. Her voice cracked. “And now you get to decide you’re done? That we’re done? You want space, because your body won’t bounce back on your schedule?”
Cruz’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“You don’t get to do that. We don’t get to do that. And you don’t get to decide to die.” Aaliyah’s voice broke as she punctuated every word. “You already died, Cruz. You fucking died. And I had to listen to it, over the radio. I listened to them bring you back in that helicopter from halfway across the world. And now you want space? Like we can just take some kind of fucking break?”
Cruz’s eyes welled. Her jaw clenched.
Aaliyah’s voice dropped, lower, but no softer. “All I’ve done for weeks is sit by your bed and beg the universe to give you back. To hear your voice. See your eyes. Watch you walk. Breathe.”
A breath. “I’ve carried the weight of losing you before. I can’t do it again. You’re all I fucking have left.”
Her voice broke then, but she kept going, almost like she was afraid to stop.
"I moved through you leaving me in Mallorca. I moved through you killing my father, killing my fiancé. I stayed. I waited. But if you leave me like this, if you walk away now, if you ask me to stand still while you pull back, I won’t survive it. I mean it, Cruz. I’ll be done."
Silence cracked through the room like a gunshot.
Cruz’s throat worked, but no sound came. Her shoulders hunched, as though Aaliyah’s words had physically struck her. Her hand twitched slightly, like she might reach for Aaliyah, but she stopped herself. Fist closing. Swallowing it down.
“I’m not trying to leave,” she said finally, voice raw. “You think I don’t want this? That I don’t want you?”
A shaky breath escaped her, almost a sob. “I’m trying to figure out how to stay without feeling like I’m drowning. I’m trying to hold all of it, what I did, what I lost, what you lost because of me, and still be something you can love.”
She took a slow, faltering step closer. “But I hear it all when I close my eyes. I feel every fucking second of what I did and didn't do. And I can’t... I can’t fake my way through it. Not with you. Not again.”
She looked up finally, her eyes shining. “You asked me to come back to you. And I did. But I’m still trying to find me in what’s left.”
Aaliyah didn’t move. Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. She looked like she was holding herself together with pure will.
So Cruz finished, softly: “But I hear you. I hear what you’re saying.”
Another beat passed. Then Aaliyah nodded, once, slow and measured.
“I’m giving you tonight,” she said, her voice low. Controlled. “You have tonight to really think about this, Cruz. Not just the pain. Not just the guilt. Us.”
She turned away.
“Because if you’re not coming back, I need to stop waiting.”
--
Cruz didn’t mean to end up on the bathroom floor. One moment, she was trying to brush her teeth and breathe through the residual ache in her side. The next, her thigh gave out, the strain too much. She lowered herself down slowly, back against the cool tile, breath shallow.
She didn’t call for Aaliyah, her door was still closed. Cruz could hear the faint hum of a fan, the quiet thud of footsteps across carpet. The fight was still fresh in the air, crackling like static. She didn’t want to interrupt the silence Aaliyah had claimed for herself. Didn’t want to barge through that boundary after asking for space.
So she picked up her phone and called Bobby.
Bobby didn’t ask questions when she arrived. She let herself in with the spare key Aaliyah had given her. She walked down the hallway, and found Cruz in the ensuite bathroom, one knee pulled halfway up and the other extended stiffly in front of her, the cane resting out of reach beside the sink.
Bobby stepped into the room, took one look at Cruz on the floor, and let out a slow exhale.
“You good?” she asked, voice even but cautious.
Cruz blinked up at her. Her eyes were red, her jaw set tight, like it was the only thing holding her together.
“I can’t fucking get up,” she said, raw and humiliated.
Bobby raised a brow, walking in further. “You call me just for that, or are we spiralling here?”
Cruz made a low, wrecked sound, part laugh, part sob, all exhaustion.
"I didn’t know who else to call," she said, voice thin. "I didn’t want to call her. I didn’t want her to see me like this. I think I broke it.”
Bobby crouched in front of her, easing down slowly, careful not to crowd her.
“Your leg?” she asked gently. “’Cause I feel like you’d be shouting a bit more.”
Cruz didn’t answer right away. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her hoodie, knuckles white. Then, almost inaudible: “I think I broke us.”
A few minutes passed, marked only by breath and the hum of the bathroom light.
Bobby didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t reach out, didn’t offer advice. She just sat there, cross-legged on the tile, her back against the vanity.
"Cruz, pain isn’t failure," she said finally. "It’s just pain. It’s not the end of something, it’s just part of it."
Cruz pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. "I don’t know what I’m doing. I said I needed space, but I think what I meant was, I’m afraid I can’t be who she needs anymore."
"Then stop trying to be some perfect version of yourself," Bobby said. "She didn’t fall in love with perfect. She fell for you. Bruised, stupid and full of reckless fire. Don’t pretend she can’t love the version that’s learning how to breathe again."
Cruz looked at her, exhausted. "Look at me. I can’t even stand."
"Sure you can." Bobby shifted, reaching for the cane and holding it out. "We’re gonna get you off this floor, and then I’m making you eat something. You look and sound like shit."
Cruz didn’t move at first. Her fingers hovered near the cane, then curled away again. She stared at the floor like it might rise to meet her.
“I feel like if I stand up, I’ll fall.”
"Then fall," Bobby said simply. "I’ll catch you."
That, more than anything, seemed to do it. Cruz took the cane. Bobby stood, bracing her lightly under the elbow.
"Come on, marine. Let’s see if that spine is still there."
--
After helping Cruz to the couch, propping her up with a blanket and a glass of water, Bobby gave her a brief nod and walked down the hall.
Bobby stopped at the closed door. Lifted her hand, and waited a second before knocking once.
Silence.
"It’s just me," Bobby said.
Another pause.
Then the door creaked open a few inches. Aaliyah stood there, arms crossed tight across her chest, eyes rimmed red but steady. Her jaw was set.
"Is she okay?" she asked.
"Not really. But she’s upright and breathing."
Aaliyah didn’t say anything, but her arms dropped just a fraction. Like the fight in her had shifted.
Bobby didn’t step in. She leaned against the frame, gaze moving across the room without landing.
"She was on the bathroom floor," Bobby said flatly. "Thigh gave out. Couldn’t get up. She didn’t want to call for you. Didn’t want to make things worse. So she called me."
Aaliyah flinched and let out a pained noise of acknowledgement.
“I sat with her,” Bobby went on. “She’s not okay, but she’s trying. Said she thinks she broke it.”
Aaliyah’s mouth tightened. Her eyes snapped up, panic flashing through her chest. “Her leg? Did something happen?”
Bobby shook her head. “No. You. Your relationship”
Aaliyah’s breath caught. Her arms folded tighter across her chest, like they could hold in the ache.
Bobby’s voice gentled, but didn’t lose its edge. “You waited for her to wake up. Now you’re gonna have to wait for her to come back to herself.”
“I’m so tired of waiting,” Aaliyah whispered.
“Yeah. I know.” Bobby’s eyes didn’t waver. “But loving her means waiting through the hard parts too. She’s not done fighting, and you know that. You’ve just got to decide if you can stay long enough to see her win.”
Aaliyah looked down, then away.
Bobby didn’t press. Just added, quieter now, “She called me. Not you. That’s not punishment. That’s just where her head’s at. Doesn’t mean she loves you less.”
They stood in silence for a few more seconds. Then Bobby pushed off the frame.
"Alright," she said. "I’m making breakfast for dinner. Omelettes. Come on, you can both brood on opposite sides of the table."
Aaliyah let out a dry breath, almost a laugh, and followed.
In the kitchen, Bobby cracked eggs into a pan with practiced ease, slicing vegetables and talking steadily, her voice a grounding rhythm that filled the quiet space. Cruz sat at the table, quiet, shoulders hunched. Aaliyah took the seat across from her, arms folded but eyes soft. Their gazes met for a second, then dropped.
By the time the omelettes hit the plates, Bobby was mid-story about an op gone sideways in Eastern Europe. Something about a goat, two knives, and an embassy kitchen.
Cruz laughed, startled, loud. It turned into a cough, rough and cutting. She winced, hand flying to her ribs.
Aaliyah moved instantly, reaching across the table. She didn’t speak. Just took Cruz’s hand gently and placed the water glass in it, fingers steady, grounding. Then, slowly, she began to pull away.
Cruz caught her breath. Let it out slow.
Then, she reached across the table and found Aaliyah’s hand. Their fingers laced together without a word.
Bobby didn’t comment. She kept talking, voice smooth and steady.
Their fingers stayed linked.
"Next time," she said, "you two are making me pancakes. I want a full apology brunch."
Cruz gave her a crooked smile.
"Deal."