Chapter 1: The Sound of Her Screaming
Chapter Text
Cruz didn’t look back when the boat pulled away from Mallorca.
The mission was done. Amrohi was dead. So was Ehsan, presumably. She hadn’t stayed long enough to confirm, but judging by the blood and the way his body hit the floor, he was dead. There hadn’t been time.
So she ran.
She left behind the mansion, the smoke, the shattered glass, and Aaliyah.
The last thing Cruz heard was her screaming.
--
They pulled her into field office two days later. Kaitlyn and Joe didn’t even wait for her to decompress.
"Temporary reassignment," Joe had said, stone-faced. "You're burned for undercover, so the Brass wants you training local forces in Riyadh. Take it or take early discharge."
Cruz blinked. “You think I can do that again? Pick up another operation, pretend none of it mattered?”
Joe’s mouth tightened. “It’s not about pretending. It’s about moving forward.”
Cruz laughed, hollow. “You want me to slip into some other life like I didn’t just—like she didn’t—” She cut herself off. “I don’t think I could look at another asset again. Fuck it. Send me back to the desert then.”
“Asset?” Joe repeated. “You’re calling her that now?”
Kaitlyn was the one who finally stepped in. Not unkindly. “You did your job. You followed orders. And you got out alive.”
Cruz almost told her to go to hell. Almost asked them to send her there.
Instead, she boarded the next flight.
--
Now she was ghosting through Riyadh in desert-camo fatigue pants and a plain black shirt, burned out and empty. She had no idea where the QRF team was now. She’d been tossed into another desert where they could pretend she wasn’t a problem.
She didn’t mind. Not really.
Riyadh was sterile, wide avenues and dead heat. The compound she trained in was clean and overfunded, crawling with Saudi officers who didn’t know whether to flirt or sneer. She sparred too hard. Ate once a day. Didn’t speak unless she had to.
Discipline, she told herself.
But it wasn’t that. Not really.
Aaliyah lived in her mind like the dregs of a song she couldn’t quite place.
Some days she remembered the sound of her voice, lilting and low. Other days, it was the way she pulled Cruz’s hand into her lap under the table like it was nothing. Or the way her smile faltered that night, as Cruz had pulled away from her in the doorway.
And always, always, the scream. The one that followed her down the staircase..
She hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. That wasn’t the job.
But it happened. Somewhere between the secret smiles and the softness of her fingers in Cruz’s hair, it happened.
And Cruz left her anyway.
--
The café was tucked off King Fahd Road, modest, air-conditioned, almost never crowded. Cruz picked it because no one knew her there. She could drink bitter qahwa and stare through mirrored glass at the world moving on without her.
She sipped slowly, watching Riyadh walk by. Women with bags, boys on scooters, old men dragging prayer mats across hot concrete. Everything orderly, everything intact.
Then a flicker at the edge of vision.
A woman in deep navy. Veiled, graceful. Guarded by two men in sunglasses, posture too sharp to be casual.
Cruz leaned forward.
No. No fucking way.
But yes. She would know that walk anywhere. Would know the turn of her chin, the flash of gold at the wrist.
Aaliyah.
--
Cruz was already on her feet when she saw the others.
Three men, wrong place, wrong energy. One too close to the alley. One adjusting something under his jacket. One pacing too slow, too measured.
Something bad was about to happen.
She moved.
The moment the first man lunged, Aaliyah’s guards reached for their weapons. A civilian screamed. A display stand crashed to the pavement.
Cruz didn’t even realise she was moving until she slammed into one of the attackers, dropping him with a forearm to the throat and a knee to the gut. She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Aaliyah’s arm and pulled hard.
“Come on.”
Aaliyah twisted, shrieked. She fought. Didn’t recognize her.
Cruz dragged her against the café wall, pulling her back against her torso and clamping a hand over her mouth.
“Shut up. I’m trying to help you.”
Recognition hit the woman she held like a gunshot.
Cruz felt it the second Aaliyah stopped struggling, breath hitching, her whole body going still.
She didn’t wait.
They were inside the café in seconds. Someone shouted. Cruz yanked her toward the kitchen door as gunfire cracked behind them. Patrons ducked. A waitress screamed. Coffee sprayed across tile.
Cruz kicked the back door open and dragged Aaliyah through. Cold air. Stainless steel. The smell of onions and cleaner.
She locked the door.
For a second, there was silence.
Aaliyah turned to her, stunned.
“You—” Her voice broke. “You should be dead.”
Cruz’s jaw was tight. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break out.
“Yeah,” she said, steady and low. “Surprise.”
The Riyadh sun never touched her here.
Aaliyah lived behind curtains, behind guards, behind Kamal’s careful silence. It wasn’t cruelty that caged her. It was something colder. Kamal wasn’t unkind. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t hit her. But he took what he wanted when he wanted it, and when he was done, he left her folded in silk and silence, waiting for permission to feel anything again.
He wasn't Ehsan.
She hadn't loved Ehsan. But Ehsan had loved her, or at least he had pretended well. He brought her books, not perfumes. He made her laugh. He spoke gently even when angry. When her father arranged the match, she had been afraid, but not unhappy. Ehsan was thoughtful. Predictable.
Kamal was not.
The day her brother Fahd visited, she nearly choked on her nerves. She thought, briefly, that he might take her home. That he would put a hand on her shoulder and say she had suffered enough.
He didn't.
He sat beside Kamal on the courtyard bench, his hand resting theatrically on his knee, his wrist heavy with her father’s jewels. Aaliyah served them tea without a word, her steps precise, her sleeves just long enough to hide the goosebumps. They talked about oil contracts and travel restrictions. Then they shifted to family.
Kamal turned to her.
“The woman responsible has been dealt with. You can rest now,” he said, voice cool with satisfaction.
Fahd nodded. “Justice is done. May Allah accept Baba and Ehsan into peace.”
Aaliyah bowed her head. Her fingers trembled around the teapot, but she spilled nothing.
That night, she cried until her throat burned. And the next night. And the one after.
When she begged Fahd to let her come back with him, he didn’t hesitate.
“You let that woman close to our family,” he said, voice flat. “You can do your job and keep Kamal happy. If you’re lucky, that might be enough to undo some of the disgrace.”
He left without a parting glance.
She dreamed of Zara.
She dreamed of her hands, calloused and warm, never careless. She dreamed of her voice, low and rough, always restrained except when it broke. She dreamed of her crooked smile and the sorrow in her eyes that never left, even when she laughed.
In her dreams, Zara bled in the hallway. In her dreams, Zara kissed her once and disappeared. In her dreams, Aaliyah screamed, and no one came.
She had loved her. She had trusted her. And now Zara was dead. So was Cruz, apparently. The killer they had sent into her heart.
Two weeks passed after the wedding, after her brother’s visit, before she asked.
Kamal was seated at the dining table, reading the international section of the newspaper. He didn’t look up when she entered.
“I want to go into the city,” she said quietly.
He didn’t respond.
“I want to buy something for my mother. I haven’t sent her anything since Baba passed. I miss her. I miss him. It’s been four months Kamal”
Still silence.
“I want to send a gift,” she added, softer.
Asif stepped into the doorway. His expression was unreadable.
“If it pleases you, I can accompany her,” he said. “She would be safe with me.”
Kamal's jaw clenched, but there was fatigue behind his eyes. Aaliyah could see it. She had become another chore.
After a long pause, Kamal stood and approached.
“One hour,” he said. “No more.”
Aaliyah nodded. She didn’t thank him.
Riyadh felt louder than she remembered. She hadn’t walked a public street since Mallorca. The scent of cardamom and car exhaust drifted in thick waves. The heat pressed against her back as she moved.
She kept her eyes forward, posture straight. Asif walked slightly behind her, another guard trailing loosely. She stared into the display of a jewellery store. She didn’t know what her mother would want. Maybe nothing from her.
They passed a café with mirrored windows and clean lines. She glanced through the glass, just a passing look, then turned her eyes back to the street.
Something shifted.
A shadow moved across the footpath. A group of men, walking with too much purpose. One peeled off toward a stall, then stopped. Another crossed to their side of the street.
Asif slowed. His hand dropped to his belt.
Aaliyah didn’t know what was happening, but she felt it. The tension. The focus. The shift in air before a storm.
A hand closed around her arm.
Gunfire cracked behind her.
Someone screamed. A display stand toppled onto the footpath.
And then movement. Fast. Brutal. Decisive. Someone struck the man who had grabbed her. He crumpled without a sound. Aaliyah was yanked off balance.
She thrashed, tried to pull away. Her veil shifted. She opened her mouth to call for Asif, to scream.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
“Shut up,” the voice said, low and urgent. “I’m trying to protect you.”
Aaliyah froze.
The voice was impossible. Familiar. Terrifying.
But it was real.
Her face was inches away. Her arms tight around Aaliyah’s waist. Her breath came hard and fast.
Recognition struck like lightning. Aaliyah’s body went limp with shock.
The world behind them roared, but she didn’t hear it.
Cruz didn’t let go.
They moved through the café in a blur. Glass shattered behind them. Someone yelled. A chair overturned. The smell of coffee and metal filled the air.
The back door opened. Cold air. Fluorescent light. Steel counters.
Cruz locked the door.
Aaliyah turned to face her. Her chest was still heaving. Her mind had not caught up.
“You,” she whispered. “You should be dead.”
Cruz didn’t speak at first. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes were dark and unreadable.
“Yeah,” she said. “Surprise
Chapter 2: Static
Notes:
So this picks up after Mallorca and spirals from there. Cruz is alive, somehow. Aaliyah’s married to Kamal, unfortunately.
This is not a happy reunion fic. It’s a what the hell do we do now one.
There’s blood, bad decisions, and complicated grief.
Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are very welcome. It's been a while since I've written anything. More than I while since I scrubbed every fic I had some this site. I don't think this is an overly popular tag, so let's see how we go.
Chapter Text
Cruz had barely finished the word before Aaliyah slammed both fists into her chest.
The first hit was weak. The second landed harder. Then came a flurry, wild and uncontrolled, fists striking against the front of her shirt like she was trying to shatter something that wouldn’t break.
“You should be dead,” Aaliyah hissed, each word pushed through gritted teeth. “You should be dead. You should be dead.”
Cruz didn’t flinch. She didn’t try to stop her at first. She just stood there and took it.
When Aaliyah faltered, Cruz caught her wrists.
Gently. Firmly.
The warmth of her skin was a shock. Cruz hadn’t touched her in months, but it was like muscle memory. Aaliyah trembled under her hands.
“Hey,” Cruz said softly. “Shh. I know. I’m sorry.”
Aaliyah yanked once, but Cruz held her steady.
“We need to be quiet,” Cruz said. Her voice stayed low, even. “We need to listen to what’s happening.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Aaliyah snapped.
“I understand.”
Cruz loosened her grip and let go.
For a moment, the only sound was their breathing. Then came the next wave from outside.
Gunfire. Close.
Too close.
Cruz turned toward the kitchen door and tilted her head. Boots, maybe six or seven pairs, pounding pavement. Shouting. Not Arabic. Not English. Some kind of comms chatter.
She took a step back and crouched behind the stainless steel counter, motioning for Aaliyah to do the same.
Aaliyah hesitated, then followed.
Cruz clocked exits, cover, blind spots. It came back like breathing.
“I know you’re not speaking to me,” Cruz murmured, her eyes still on the door, “but could you tell me why someone might want to snatch you off the street?”
Aaliyah let out a bitter breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“If I were speaking to you — which I am not — I imagine it could be for several reasons. I am, after all, the reason two significant businessmen are dead. And even though I am now married to his brother of all people, my dead fiancé’s family is still quite angry.”
Cruz glanced at her. Aaliyah was sitting stiffly against the fridge unit, chin tilted, trying to sound composed. Her hands, though, were clenched.
“My family is still angry too,” she added. “And my husband is now rather wealthy. Someone might be under the misguided impression he’d pay a singular riyal to have me back.”
Cruz blinked slowly. She looked at her like she was trying to memorize her all over again.
Then she hummed under her breath. Quiet. Thoughtful. Like she used to.
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small radio. “Manuelos to command. Scrambled channel.” She clicked it once, twice, adjusted the gain.
Nothing.
She pulled out her burner and dialed her satellite line. It rang twice before Bobby picked up.
“Manuelos. Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Cruz kept her voice low. “I’ve got a live op here. Possible transnational grab attempt, multiple armed actors. I have one civilian with me who was the apparent target. Situation not stable. I need extraction or eyes. Priority level?”
There was a pause. Then: “Cruz, what the hell are you talking about? Where are you?”
“Riyadh. Café off King Fahd Road, south of the embassy zone. Staff kitchen. Rear locked. Front compromised.”
More silence, then an audible sigh.
“How high-profile is this civilian?”
Cruz looked across at Aaliyah. She hadn’t taken her eyes off her.
Cruz exhaled once through her nose, then said, “Uh. Yeah. Pretty high profile.”
“I’m going to need more, Cruz. If I’m about to put my ass on the line to get you out of a blown café in Riyadh, I need a name.”
Cruz’s jaw clenched. Her voice dropped again. “It’s Aaliyah Amrohi.”
Another pause.
Then Bobby let out a breath, low and sharp. “For fuck’s sake.”
“She alive?”
“She’s breathing.”
“I don’t care if she’s breathing. Is she going to cooperate?”
“She’s scared. But she’s holding.”
“I thought she was dead.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Something hit the kitchen door.
Hard.
A sick, blunt thud. Then another.
Aaliyah flinched. Her hand jerked toward the counter behind her for support.
Then the blood came, dark, fresh, slow. A smear at first, then a steady crawl under the door, as if poured from a jug.
Aaliyah let out a strangled sound and scrambled back. She nearly slipped, but Cruz caught her before she could fall.
Aaliyah pressed into her without thinking, breath hot and ragged against Cruz’s neck, her hands fisting in Cruz’s shirt.
“Hey,” Cruz whispered. One arm went around her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Another body slammed into the door. The hinges groaned but held.
Cruz moved them both a step further back behind the counter, keeping Aaliyah tight to her side.
“Bobby, I need extraction,” she said into the phone. “Now.”
“I’m working on it,” Bobby snapped. “Sending this up the chain. Stay locked down. If they get that door open, you go lethal. No questions.”
Cruz’s eyes darted to the thin blade on her hip, then to the battered emergency fire axe leaning beside the walk-in.
“Understood.”
Bobby’s voice softened. “Hold tight, Marine.”
Cruz tucked the phone away and looked down at Aaliyah, who was still pressed tightly against her, breath catching, fists gripping the front of Cruz’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Then she realised what she was doing.
She shoved Cruz. Hard. It didn’t move her, not even a step, but she looked down as her arms dropped loosely to her sides. Aaliyah stepped back and straightened her spine. She folded her arms across her chest and kept her eyes on the tiled floor.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
Another burst of gunfire rang out beyond the kitchen. Voices shouted over one another. The door shook in its frame again, louder this time.
“I don’t want to die with you,” Aaliyah said. Her voice was quiet. It cracked halfway through. Her mouth pressed tight, her eyes glassy.
“You’re not going to,” Cruz replied.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Aaliyah whispered. “Let alone bleed to death in a kitchen with you.”
Cruz didn’t respond. She just watched her, face unreadable, jaw tight. She didn’t say what she wanted, that she still loved her. That she needed her safe. That this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
Aaliyah shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“What happens if your Bobby pulls through?” she asked. “You hand me over to the Americans? Parachute me into an army stronghold for questioning?”
“I don’t know,” Cruz said. “Bobby seemed to think if you were willing to cooperate, things would go well.”
Aaliyah gave a soft, bitter laugh. “I will never cooperate with you.”
“You don’t have to cooperate with me. Just cooperate with them when they come. So I know you’re safe.”
A fresh line of blood slipped under the door. Thicker than before. It crawled across the tile in slow, widening arcs. Aaliyah took another step back as gunfire cracked again outside the door. Shouts followed. Multiple voices, sharp and fast, barking commands. Cruz moved lower, crouching again near the counter. Her eyes flicked between the door and the rear hallway.
“We don’t have long.”
The next blow cracked the lock plate. Cruz was already moving.
She grabbed Aaliyah by the arm, pulled her back toward the bench, and shoved her down hard into the space beneath the counter.
“Stay here. Do not move. Do not make a sound. Stay,” she said. Direct. No softness.
Aaliyah didn’t argue. Her eyes were wide, frightened. Her breath came short and fast. She braced herself against the floor and tried not to move.
Cruz turned back toward the door just as it gave.
The top hinge snapped with a sharp metallic pop, and the door burst inward, slamming into the wall.
One man entered fast. Not local. Body armor, boots. Rifle raised.
Cruz dropped low and moved. She hit him before he could fully register her shape. The first strike knocked the weapon sideways. The second took him down. He choked on impact, stunned. Cruz drove her knife into his throat once and twisted. He didn’t get back up.
Another figure moved behind him in the frame. Cruz ducked behind the opened door, grabbed the handle, and yanked it closed against the second man as he stepped in. He stumbled. She slammed his head into the edge of the steel door. He went limp.
Silence.
Cruz didn’t lower her guard.
Then it came, the unmistakable rattle of an American accent from just beyond the doorway.
“US forces! Manuelos, confirm!”
She turned sharply. “Inside. Two down in here. I’ve got the civilian.”
“Clear it!”
Boots rushed in, fast and clean. A tall soldier checked both bodies, confirmed they were out cold, then raised a hand to Cruz.
“We’ve got you.”
Cruz moved quickly back to the bench, grabbed Aaliyah by the arm, and pulled her out. Aaliyah stumbled but didn’t resist. Not yet.
Cruz drew her in and shielded her head with one arm, pressing her face into her shoulder as she guided her forward. She kept her other hand firm on Aaliyah’s back, steering her quickly out of the kitchen.
“Don’t look,” she muttered.
Outside, the café was a mess. Tables overturned. Blood on the tile. Glass glittering under smeared boot prints. Bodies slumped in corners and along the entryway, weapons scattered across the floor.
Cruz scanned the room. No sign of Asif.
She pushed Aaliyah forward, keeping one hand pressed gently to the back of her head.
“Keep low.”
Aaliyah tried to twist away, but Cruz pulled her tighter.
“Don’t fight me right now. Just move.”
They were rushed through the café and out into the alley where two armored vehicles waited, engines already running. One soldier cleared the path ahead while another hauled open the rear hatch.
Cruz lifted Aaliyah by the waist and boosted her into the vehicle, then climbed in behind her.
The door slammed shut. The lock slid into place.
--
The engine roared.
Neither of them spoke on the ride.
The compound wasn’t far, ten minutes through backstreets and military checkpoints, all pre-cleared. The gate opened without hesitation. Guards waved them through, rifles slung across their chests.
Inside, the air shifted. Concrete walls, bleached corridors, the low hum of cooling systems. Palm trees lined the inner courtyard like a forgotten mirage.
They were ushered into a small debrief room with two cushioned chairs and a tray already waiting.
Water. Tea. Coffee.
Aaliyah walked in without a word and sat on the far side of the room.
Cruz stood for a moment, just watching her, then sat down opposite.
A long silence stretched between them.
Aaliyah reached for the water. Her hands were still shaking.
“What now?” she asked.
Cruz leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.
“Now we wait.”
A beat passed.
Then she added, voice low, almost to herself, “I imagine I’m about to get a visit from the fucking devil. Should never have sold my soul.”
Chapter 3: Chain of Command
Notes:
Everything hurts and Joe is here to make it worse.
Chapter 4 soon.
Comments, shouting welcome.
Chapter Text
They had been in the room for hours.
Cruz had dozed for a while. Not real sleep. Just enough to reset her breathing, eyes closed but still alert. She hadn’t properly slept since the last time she’d fallen asleep beside the woman sitting across from her.
Aaliyah had alternated between staring into nothing and quietly crying. Just slow, exhausted tears that stopped and started without warning. Cruz hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t moved. She didn’t know what she could offer that wouldn’t make things worse.
Time drifted. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Somewhere down the hallway, a metal door slammed. Then silence again.
Cruz had just opened one eye when the door to the debrief room swung open without a knock.
Joe walked in like she’d been waiting outside for the exact moment to interrupt.
She carried a folder, and that look Cruz knew too well. Controlled. Measured. Already tired of pretending to be polite.
“We’re going to speak with you separately,” Joe said, her voice clipped.
Cruz didn’t move. “Over my dead body.”
Joe didn’t blink. “That can be arranged, with more ease than you think.”
Cruz sat forward slightly, her voice low. “I’d love to see you fucking try.”
Aaliyah flinched at the sharpness of it. Her voice followed, soft and confused. “Can someone please tell me what is going on?”
Joe’s tone shifted. Smoother, but still cold. “My name is Joe. I’m a colleague of Cruz’s.”
Aaliyah looked at Cruz briefly, but her face gave nothing away.
Joe turned back to Cruz. “I’ll ask again. Step out.”
Cruz didn’t move. “I won’t tell you again, Joe. I’m staying with her.”
Joe let out a sigh under her breath. “Fucking door kickers. Fine.”
She turned to Aaliyah and opened the folder in her hands.
“I’m going to ask you some questions. About your husband. Your brothers. About anything you’ve seen or heard that might explain why someone tried to take you off the street in broad daylight.”
Aaliyah adjusted her posture. She folded her hands in her lap.
“I don’t see my brothers much anymore,” she said quietly.
“And your husband?”
“He doesn’t really talk to me.”
Joe clicked her pen. “Still. You’ll know more than you think.”
She scanned the next page.
“What’s his position with the Al Rashdi Group?”
“Officially, he acts as a business liaison between Al Rashdi and Amrohi,” Aaliyah replied. Her voice stayed level, but tired. “He’s not very business-minded though.”
Joe looked up. “So what does he do, in reality?”
Aaliyah hesitated. “What his father did. That, and the women.”
Joe’s tone didn’t shift. “So arms trading, and people trading. What a catch. What meetings has he attended in the last month?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not included. He’s rarely in the same place as me.”
“Have you overheard any names?”
“I don’t speak unless I’m spoken to.”
Joe kept writing. “And when you are spoken to?”
“I say as little as possible.”
Across the room, Cruz still hadn’t moved. She stood in the corner like part of the wall, arms crossed, watching every word.
Joe flipped to another page.
“Let’s talk about Mallorca.”
Aaliyah’s mouth tightened. Her jaw shifted slightly, but she didn’t speak at first.
“Why must we talk about Mallorca?”
Joe’s pen paused. “There were a lot of high-profile people in Mallorca. We’ve been trying to identify the individuals in attendance. There were two in particular we need names for.”
At this, Cruz leaned forward just slightly.
“I didn’t have any control over the guest list,” Aaliyah said. “I was told who would be there, but I didn’t invite them.”
“They were two Americans.”
Aaliyah shook her head. “I only knew of one American in attendance at Mallorca.”
Her eyes flicked toward Cruz.
Joe didn’t look up. “We know two Americans with government access have been passing classified information to your husband’s family business. We need names and we need details. What was shared, and with who.”
“I don’t know.”
“They attended your second wedding.”
That landed like a slap. Cruz’s posture changed, straighter, if that was even possible. Tension radiated from her.
Aaliyah glanced away, voice thin. “What happens to me if I help you?”
Joe closed the folder halfway. “You help us, we help you.”
“I’d like to think about it.”
“No. This is a one-time offer.”
Cruz straightened from the wall. “Fuck off, Joe.”
Joe didn’t flinch. “You want to keep your teeth, I suggest you shut up.”
Cruz stepped forward once. “At least I don’t need other people to do my dirty work. If I wanted your teeth, I’d take them out myself.”
“Enough,” Aaliyah snapped, louder than either of them expected. “Both of you. Stop it.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Joe didn’t look at Cruz. Cruz didn’t look away.
Aaliyah pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Someone just tell me what you want from me.”
Joe didn’t look at her notes this time. Her gaze locked onto Aaliyah, sharp and expectant.
“Names, Mrs Al Rashdi. Can I call you Mrs Al Rashdi?”
Aaliyah shook her head slowly. “I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t know their names.”
Joe’s expression didn’t change. “Try harder.”
“I’ve overheard them on the phone,” Aaliyah said. “They speak with my husband. English, mostly. I might know what they look like. But I don’t know. Women don’t get to be involved in those conversations here.”
Cruz shifted her stance slightly, eyes narrowing at Joe, but said nothing.
“Describe them,” Joe pressed. “Age. Accent. Details. Anything.”
Aaliyah hesitated. Then: “One had a Southern accent. Soft, like a politician. The other barely spoke at all. Older. Wore a suit. They didn’t stay long. They came after the wedding ceremony ended.”
Joe made a note. “You said one was on the phone often?”
Aaliyah nodded. “They would call in the evenings. Kamal always stepped out to take the calls. Once or twice I heard my name mentioned. I don’t know what they said.”
The questioning dragged on. Details. Names. Places. Joe asked the same things different ways, her tone never rising, her face never giving anything away. Aaliyah answered what she could. Admitted what she couldn’t. She stayed quiet when she didn’t know what to say.
The hours crept by.
At one point, Cruz stepped forward from the corner, voice quiet but firm. “That’s enough. She needs a break.”
Aaliyah turned her head, her tone sharper than before. “You don’t know me. And you don’t know what I need.”
Cruz didn’t reply. Her eyes dropped to the floor.
Joe made another note. “We’re done for now.”
She snapped the folder closed, stood, and walked out without waiting for permission.
The door clicked shut.
Aaliyah leaned back in the chair. Her eyes were ringed red. Her fingers had locked tightly together in her lap.
Cruz remained still and silent, watching her.
--
Aaliyah had eventually fallen asleep sitting upright, her arms folded tightly across her stomach, chin tucked into her shoulder. It wasn’t rest so much as collapse, exhaustion dragging her down while her body stayed wound, tight and coiled.
Cruz hadn’t moved from her post in the corner. She watched the lines of Aaliyah’s face soften, just a little, in sleep. She’d seen her like this once before, in the hotel, after they’d made love, when everything still felt like it could be real. She hadn’t dared touch her then, either.
When the door creaked and a low-voiced soldier handed her a few protein bars and a bottle of water, Cruz only nodded. The door shut again, and the quiet returned.
She crossed the room slowly, crouched down by Aaliyah’s chair, and laid a hand gently on her forearm.
“Aaliyah.”
Aaliyah stirred, eyes fluttering open. Her first breath caught alarm before recognition.
“It’s just me,” Cruz said softly. “Here. Eat something.”
She held out the granola bar. Aaliyah stared at it for a second, then took it, peeling back the wrapper without a word. She didn’t thank her.
Cruz sat back on her heels. “They’re moving us. Probably out of country.”
Aaliyah looked up, eyes narrowed. “Why are you coming?”
“Because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “I’m not yours to protect.”
“I know.” Cruz’s voice was steady. “Doesn’t change anything. Where you go, I go.”
Aaliyah looked away.
A long pause.
“What do you think they’re going to do?” Aaliyah asked finally.
Cruz exhaled. “I think they’ll try to get information from Kamal in exchange for you. Move with the idea you were kidnapped. See if he bites.”
“It won’t work. He doesn’t love me. I was a dowry with legs. And now I’m an embarrassment he can’t be bothered to hide.” She hesitated. “Please don’t make me go back there.”
Cruz didn’t respond.
Aaliyah glanced at her again. “You think they’ll let me go?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll be there when they decide.”
Aaliyah gave a hollow laugh. “Yes, we shall see. I don’t remember you being there when I needed you before.”
Cruz didn’t look away.
She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her jaw tightened, then loosened.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
The words fell between them, too late and too small.
Before Aaliyah could answer, the door opened again.
Joe stepped in, clipped and unimpressed. “Get your shit together, Manuelos. We’re wheels up in twenty.”
Cruz rose to her feet and nodded her head towards Aaliyah. “Will Mrs Al Rashdi be coming too?”
Aaliyah flinched. At the sound of Kamal’s name occupying her own, something darkened in her eyes.
Joe gave her a sharp look and rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”
Cruz’s tone didn’t shift. “She’ll need to come with me to my bunk.”
Joe rolled her eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Cruz didn’t flinch. “Noted. But I’d rather leave behind everything I’ve ever owned than let her out of my sight.”
Joe turned on her heel. “Ten minutes.”
The door shut.
Cruz looked at Aaliyah. “Come on. Let’s go get my gear.”
Aaliyah didn’t answer. But after a second, she stood.
--
Cruz’s bunk was barely more than a cot, footlocker, and gear shelf tucked into a concrete-walled room. The overhead light buzzed. Aaliyah stood just inside the door, watching as Cruz moved through the practiced motions of preparing to leave.
She moved quickly, quietly. Tossed her folded fatigues into a duffel. Checked for weapons. Repacked med kits and documents. But it was the red scarf that stopped Aaliyah cold.
It lay folded neatly on the edge of the bunk, one she remembered wearing in New York. Soft silk with a navy pattern. Out of place amid all the gear and military fabric.
Cruz grabbed it like she meant to do it casually. She didn’t meet Aaliyah’s eyes.
She shoved the scarf into the rucksack with the rest and zipped it closed.
They didn’t speak on the way to the transport.
The tarmac was already alive with motion. Floodlights swept across the concrete, illuminating the transport plane idling at the far end.
Cruz walked ahead, silent. Aaliyah followed, the thrum of engines vibrating through her chest.
They boarded without ceremony.
Chapter 4: Not My Name
Notes:
CW - Panic attack.
Chapter 5 is on the way. It's a longer one. Comments are very appreciated. It's been a while, and I'm late to this ship, but I'd love to hear what you think.
Chapter Text
Joe barely said a word during the transfer.
At the airstrip, she handed off paperwork, gave the crew chief a clipped nod, and directed them both toward the waiting SUV.
The drive was long and winding. Aaliyah didn’t ask where they were. She stared out the window, silent, while Cruz kept her posture relaxed but alert. The city gave way to desert, then to coastal scrub, and finally to a secure complex ringed with palm trees and high fencing. Inside, the air was cool and dry.
They were shown to a two-bedroom house, bare but comfortable. Whitewashed walls, minimal furniture, a kitchenette, a shared living room. Cameras in the corners, visible and humming. Surveillance without pretense.
Joe didn’t come inside. She handed the guard a file, looked back at Cruz, and said, “Play nice. No unsanctioned calls. No exits. No heroics. Not yet. I'll be back in 24 hours."
Cruz gave her a flat look. Joe shut the door behind her.
The moment they were alone, Aaliyah turned a slow circle in the middle of the living room.
Aaliyah rolled her eyes. Her voice was quiet, dry. "How exactly?"
Her gaze lingered on the camera in the corner, then the bolted windows. She moved to the kitchenette, opened a cupboard, took stock. Instant coffee, protein bars, two mugs.
Cruz shrugged faintly. "Trust me. It could be."
She turned down the hall and paused at the doorways. Without discussion, she took the smaller room, the one with the weapons safe, and nodded toward the larger one for Aaliyah.
"That one’s yours."
She didn’t wait for thanks.
Cruz unpacked quickly. Boots off. Fatigue jacket folded. The duffel was half-zipped when she paused, fingers brushing the soft edge of the scarf.
It was still there. Tucked into the side pocket. She pulled it out, held it for a second. Brought it to her face, breathed in quietly.
Aaliyah had chosen that moment to look from across the hall. She saw it. Her breath caught, but she said nothing.
Cruz tucked the scarf away again and sealed the bag.
Across the hallway, Aaliyah stood in the doorway of the larger room. She had come with nothing. No bag. No belongings. Just what she was wearing. The veil had been taken off hours earlier, left folded in a corner of the interrogation room at the compound.
Somewhere outside, waves broke faintly against the shore.
Later, Aaliyah appeared in the doorway of Cruz’s room. Her voice was quiet. “I don’t have anything with me.”
Cruz looked up from the bed, where she was cleaning her sidearm, slightly confused.
“I don’t have clothes,” Aaliyah clarified. “I don’t have anything to sleep in.”
“There are clothes in the drawers,” Cruz said.
Aaliyah shook her head. “None that I can sleep in.”
Cruz reached over and grabbed the folded USMC shirt from the chair. She stood and held it out to her.
Their fingers brushed as Aaliyah took it.
She didn’t say thank you.
That night, after the house had gone still, Aaliyah curled into the far edge of her bed. The shirt smelled like Zara, like long days in the villa in Chesapeake, like salt and warmth and stolen glances. The sleeves were too long. The cotton soft with wear.
She didn’t cry that night, but she did dream.
--
The next morning, they sat at opposite ends of the small kitchen table, mugs of lukewarm coffee between them. Neither had spoken much.
Cruz broke the silence first.
“They’re floating the idea that you were taken by non-state actors.”
Aaliyah looked up slowly, her face unreadable.
“If Kamal cares, or if he feels exposed, he’ll make contact. Maybe offer money. Or information.”
Aaliyah let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You think he cares enough to save me?”
Cruz didn’t flinch. “They don’t need him to care. They just need him to act.”
Later, Cruz sat alone in her room.
She hadn’t meant to take the scarf out again. But there it was, soft, familiar and laid across her pillow.
She sat beside it, elbows on her knees, staring at the wall. The burner phone was within reach. She didn’t touch it.
She thought about calling Bobby, maybe. She didn’t.
She just sat there, quiet, breathing slow.
Outside, the waves kept breaking.
After a while, Cruz stood up and dropped to the floor. Her body moved on instinct: push-ups, sit-ups, a relentless rhythm. Sweat beading at her temples, breath sharp. Her muscles burned. She didn’t stop.
Across the hall, Aaliyah napped.
In her dream, the heat of the ocean air wrapped around her. She felt hands on her hips, laughter pressed close to her neck, lips brushing her skin. Zara’s voice, warm and low:
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
But the warmth cracked.
Her father’s voice came next. Ehsan, bloodied but grinning. Zara screaming. Hands dragging her back. Kamal hurting Zara. Zara screaming her name. The air was thick, choking. Her limbs were heavy and slow.
She thrashed, her scream muffled in the pillow.
Cruz was already sprinting. She slammed open the bedroom door, found Aaliyah twisted in the sheets, sobbing and gasping for air.
“Aaliyah,” she said, kneeling beside the bed. “Hey, hey, wake up. It’s just a dream.”
Aaliyah bolted upright and swung, her arms striking out in blind panic.
Cruz caught her wrists. “It’s me. You’re okay.”
But Aaliyah was gone. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, breath tearing from her throat in shallow, panicked bursts. Her whole body trembled.
“Hey,” Cruz said, firmer now. “You’re safe. You’re here. Look at me.”
Aaliyah shook her head, crying harder. She started clawing at her own chest, trying to draw air. She couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe.
Cruz moved fast, pulling them both to the floor. Aaliyah collapsed in her lap, curled in like a child.
“It’s okay,” Cruz murmured, pressing Aaliyah’s hand flat against her chest. “Here. Feel this. I’m right here.”
She held her own hand over it, steady and strong.
“In. Out. Match me. Just breathe. Come on, baby. In. Out.”
Aaliyah sobbed, wild and broken. Her chest shuddered, refusing to let air in. Her fingers twitched.
“You’re safe. I’ve got you. Please, baby. Just breathe.”
Cruz kissed her forehead. Her voice cracked.
“I’m sorry,” Cruz whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, you’re okay. You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’m sorry. Just breathe, please.”
Aaliyah’s breathing started to slow, catching between the last of her sobs. Her fingers clenched in Cruz’s shirt, her face still buried in Cruz’s neck.
The fight drained out of her.
Her muscles slackened. Her breath shuddered.
Then she went quiet, the quiet of sheer exhaustion. Still trembling faintly, but the edge of panic had dulled.
She was asleep before she even realized it, curled against Cruz like a lifeline.
Cruz stayed there, holding her in the low light, heart thudding beneath Aaliyah’s palm, her other clenching Cruz’s shirt.
--
Joe arrived about an hour later. She stepped inside without knocking, tablet in hand.
She stopped in the doorway at the sight of them—Aaliyah curled up against Cruz’s chest, fast asleep, Cruz watching the room with tired, protective eyes.
Joe lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
Cruz looked up at her. “Give me a minute. She doesn’t need to wake up with you watching her like a zoo exhibit.”
To her surprise, Joe nodded once and stepped out.
Cruz waited until the door clicked shut. Then she shifted slightly, brushing Aaliyah’s cheek with her knuckles.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Wake up. It’s okay.”
Aaliyah stirred slowly. Her hand came up, instinctively, palm brushing Cruz’s collarbone—then froze. Her eyes opened. Hardened. She pulled away and stood without a word, walking toward the bathroom.
By the time she came out ten minutes later, Joe was back, tablet already on the table.
They sat in the small kitchenette. Joe placed the device between them and hit play.
An intercepted call. Kamal’s voice—clipped, tense. He was speaking in coded language, but the intent was clear. He was asking about someone. About “the girl.”
Joe glanced at Aaliyah. “Still think he doesn’t care?”
Aaliyah stared at the screen. “I think he cares about being exposed.”
Joe didn’t argue.
“We need more,” she said. “If you want this to end on your terms, you’ll help us end it now.”
Cruz looked at Aaliyah.
Aaliyah met her gaze. “I’ll give you what I know. But when this is over—”
Joe cut in. “When it’s over, we’ll give you whatever you want. Within reason. You want a new identity? It’s yours. You want an apartment on the Upper East Side? Well, fucking go for it. Name it.”
Aaliyah didn’t respond.
But something in her eyes flickered.
She looked down at her hands, then back up at Joe.
“I say yes. What’s next?”
Joe leaned back slightly, tapping the tablet. “We’ll evac you stateside so we can start extracting information and working on building our evidence base. We’ll spend days going over photos, videos, phone calls. Anything to try and pinpoint the names of the two Americans. And anyone else we can take down.”
Aaliyah hesitated. She swallowed, eyes flicking to Cruz.
Her fists clenched, then opened again.
“And— and Cruz?”
Cruz’s mouth parted slightly. She froze.
Aaliyah had never said her name before.
Joe scoffed. “And Cruz what?”
Joe looked between them, then folded her arms.
“She either stays on your detail or disappears into the desert where she can be someone else’s fucking problem. Your call, Mrs Al Rashdi.”
Cruz shot Joe a look sharp enough to draw blood.
“Fuck you, Joe.”
Aaliyah straightened. Her voice was steady.
“Okay, yes. I’m going to cooperate. I’ll give you everything I remember.”
She paused, then added firmly:
“I want Cruz to come. And I want you to stop calling me Mrs Al Rashdi. It is not my name.”
Chapter 5: Stateside
Summary:
I'm reluctant to beg, but please comment. Chapter 6 soon.
Chapter Text
The flight was long. Quiet. No commercial terminals, no public eyes. Just a blacked-out window and the hum of engines that didn’t stop.
They landed just before dawn.
Aaliyah had expected… she didn’t know what she’d expected. Certainly not this.
The safehouse at Langley was sterile. Clinical. A compound disguised as an office park, all clean lines and concrete, identical doors and black-glass windows that didn’t open. The inside felt no less impersonal: white walls, muted lighting, furniture that looked unused. Like a hotel room stripped of any charm. Not cold, just empty.
They didn’t let her see Cruz.
Aaliyah was given her own room: bed, desk, a closet with five sets of sweats folded inside. Her meals were left in the small kitchenette by unseen hands. If she wanted something, she could write it on a notepad and leave it on the counter. The list would vanish. A brown paper bag would appear the next morning with everything she'd requested, folded and labelled.
Each day, someone came to collect her. Always the same route: down the hall, through a set of double doors, into a secured intelligence room lined with soundproofing foam and fluorescent lights.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t speak much at all.
Bobby was different.
Older. Stylish even in slacks and a fitted tank top. Cropped blonde hair. A dry smile. And unlike the others, she made an effort. She sat beside Aaliyah on the drive to the briefing room, handed her coffee like it was a peace offering, and cracked jokes that sometimes even landed.
Aaliyah didn’t know what to make of her. But she didn’t mind her company.
"Let me guess," Bobby said on Day Two, unlocking the door to the briefing room. "More glamour shots of war criminals today."
Aaliyah didn’t answer. She stepped inside.
The walls were plastered with photos. Still images. Candid shots. Faces ringed in red. Paper trails. Surveillance logs. Every inch of it screamed of purpose. Of evidence. Of her memories dissected and displayed.
Joe sat at the head of the table. Two nameless agents flanked her. They nodded at Aaliyah as she took her seat. Bobby stayed by the door.
The work was methodical.
Names. Faces. Voices.
She pointed to photographs. She translated snippets of Arabic written in rushed scrawl. She described the location of doors. Of staircases. Of rooms that didn’t show up on building plans.
By the end of the week, the lines between memory and presence began to blur.
She paused over one photo. A man in the background, slight, hair slicked back, holding a glass.
Not her father. But something about the posture. The glint of a ring. The curve of the shoulders.
Aaliyah froze.
She stood abruptly. “I need a break.”
Joe looked up, startled. “You okay?”
“I said I need a break.” Her voice was tight. Controlled.
She stepped out before anyone could respond.
Cruz was waiting down the hall.
She had been loitering by the stairwell, unsure if she would be allowed in. When she saw Aaliyah emerge, rigid, pale, eyes bright with fury and pain, she straightened.
“Aaliyah.”
Aaliyah stopped. Her shoulders squared.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I came to check on you.”
“I don’t need checking on. I need air.”
Cruz stepped closer, but slowly. “I know. I just wanted to see you.”
Aaliyah’s voice dropped, sharp. “You’re part of why I’m here.”
Cruz flinched. “I didn’t want this.”
“But you let it happen.”
Silence stretched between them, taut and fraying.
Finally, Aaliyah said, “You always decide what I need. Even now. Like showing up will fix it.”
“I’m not here to fix anything.” Cruz’s voice was quiet. “I’m here because I miss you. Because I care.”
Aaliyah turned her back and walked away.
She wanted to slam the door.
Cruz didn’t follow.
--
Later that night, Cruz sat on the QRT back deck, beer sweating in her hand. The air was thick with Virginia summer, humid, heavy, and still.
Joe appeared beside her like a ghost.
“This isn’t some tragic romance,” she said. “Don’t forget why you’re here.”
Cruz didn’t look up. “Fuck you.”
Joe leaned on the railing, unbothered. “She’s not sleeping. She’s not eating.”
Cruz didn’t respond.
“Talk to Bobby,” Joe said. “She says Aaliyah keeps asking about you.”
Cruz stood. “Alright, I’m going.”
Joe shrugged. “Don’t cost me an asset, Manuelos.”
Cruz turned at the door, jaw set. “She’s not an asset?”
Cruz left without a word.
--
Bobby waited by the SUV.
She opened the passenger door. “I’ll drive.”
They pulled out onto the road. The trees blurred past. The silence was heavy, but not unfriendly.
“You okay?” Bobby asked.
Cruz let out a breath. “Just great, thanks.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
Bobby glanced sideways. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Cruz stared ahead. “It’ll always be nothing.”
Bobby shook her head. “That’s sad, Marine.”
Cruz’s voice was low, bitter. “No. Sad is loving someone and then blowing their whole world to pieces.”
Bobby didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then Cruz added, “Pull in here.”
Bobby glanced over. Cruz nodded toward a small grocery store. Bobby steered into the lot without comment.
Inside, Cruz picked up a few things: garlic, pasta, a bag of spinach. A six-pack of beer.
Cruz’s eyes flicked to the corners, unconsciously checking sightlines, exits. She hated that it still came easy.
Bobby raised a brow at the basket but didn’t question it.
They checked out and got back in the SUV.
Neither of them spoke on the way to Aaliyah.
--
Aaliyah answered the door.
She looked surprised, but not shocked. “You came here.”
Cruz nodded. “You didn’t say not to.”
They stood in the entryway for a beat too long.
Finally, Aaliyah stepped aside. “I didn’t say to come either.”
Cruz lifted a grocery bag slightly. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Aaliyah didn’t answer.
Cruz cooked anyway. Pasta, garlic, spinach. The simple rhythm of preparation. The scent softened the room.
They ate in silence. Then sat across from each other, the air between them brittle.
Aaliyah set her fork down. “You think if you just keep showing up in places, I’ll fall back into your arms.”
Cruz’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“Then what is this? Guilt?”
“You could call it that, if it helps.”
Aaliyah’s voice cracked like ice. “Well, what would you call it?”
Cruz hesitated. “I don’t know. Love?”
Aaliyah laughed - sharp, bitter. “You do not love me.”
Cruz stood. “Don’t tell me what I feel.”
Aaliyah stood too, stepping into her space. “You think you get to say that and it means something? You lied to me. You used me. You walked into my life and set it on fire.”
“I didn’t have a choice!”
“There is always a choice!”
They were yelling now. Neither holding back. Years of pain and silence poured out at once.
“You don’t get to show up here with pasta and pretend you care!” Aaliyah’s voice was shaking. “You destroyed everything. My home. My family. My future.”
“I destroyed myself, too!” Cruz shouted. “You think I wanted any of this? You think I sleep at night?”
“Good! I hope you suffer. I hate you.”
“You hate me? Fine! Hate me! But don’t you dare say I didn’t love you!”
“Love?” Aaliyah’s hands shook. “You keep using that word like it means anything. Like it fixes the blood on your hands. Like it gives you the right to stand here and ask for something from me!”
“I’m not asking for anything!”
“You’re asking for me!”
Their chests heaved with every word, faces flushed, eyes bright with tears.
Bobby appeared in the doorway, tension written across her face. “What the hell is going on?”
“Get out,” Cruz snapped.
“I can’t do that,” Bobby said calmly. “Not if I think the asset is under threat.”
Cruz reeled back, like she’d been slapped. “You think I’d hurt her?” Her voice cracked. She pounded her fist against her chest. “You think I could ever hurt her?”
Aaliyah was crying now. Silent, shaking sobs.
“I don’t know, Cruz,” Bobby said, voice low. “I think you both need to calm down. I think you’re both not thinking clearly.”
Cruz stepped back like the ground had opened beneath her. She turned and left, slamming the door behind her.
The debrief room was colder than usual. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, giving the paper-lined walls a sterile glow. Cruz hadn’t expected to be summoned this morning, but Bobby had simply said, “Joe wants you.”
When Cruz walked in, Aaliyah was already seated at the far edge of her chair, spine stiff, like physical proximity might suggest emotional one. Her shoulders were taut. She didn’t look at Cruz. They hadn’t spoken since the fight.
Joe stood at the head of the table, a tablet in her hand, the screen black.
"We’re re-running identification on a secondary contact from Riyadh and Chesapeake," Joe said. "I want your takes separately."
She tapped the tablet. A photo appeared on the main screen, slightly grainy, but the face was clear: slicked-back hair, a trim beard, cocktail glass in hand, caught mid-smirk.
Cruz stiffened.
Aaliyah inhaled sharply, but her expression didn’t shift.
"Sami al-Rashid," Joe said. "Diplomatic passport, immunity status murky. Formerly connected to al-Kahled developments. We pulled this from hotel surveillance in Richmond two weeks ago."
Silence.
"Cruz?"
Cruz swallowed. “That’s him.”
"Aaliyah?"
A beat too long. Then: "Yes."
Joe raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Aaliyah’s tone was sharper now. “You keep asking like I wouldn’t recognise someone I’ve seen dozens, if not hundreds, of times. I don’t need help with pattern recognition, Joe. That’s Sami.”
Cruz’s jaw clenched. She stayed silent.
"We need to run back your intersect in Chesapeake," Joe continued. "Dinner at the diplomat's house. Who else was there?"
"Kamal. Ehsan. Nashwa. Malika. Nala. Sami. Cruz,” Aaliyah said.
"Anything stand out about him?"
Aaliyah didn’t answer.
Cruz did. “He was entitled. Touchy. Thought he was protected by money and friends in the right rooms.”
Joe looked at her. "You hit him."
Cruz's voice was flat. “He tried something. I responded. He was pulled out before it escalated."
Aaliyah turned toward her, expression unreadable. “You and Ehsan let me think he was just a creep.”
Cruz met her gaze. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not the only handsy creep I’ve had to deal with.”
Aaliyah’s voice was low, but cutting. “It would’ve mattered to me.”
They stared at each other; the tension palpable.
Joe cleared her throat. “That was six months before Riyadh. Any follow-up contact?”
Aaliyah: "He tried getting close to Ehsan for months. Said it was business, said it was family ties. Ehsan didn’t buy it."
Cruz: "And when Ehsan was gone?"
Aaliyah nodded, grim. "He started showing up with Kamal. They were best friends. All the time. Dinners. Meetings. Trips. Like nothing had happened."
Joe swiped to the next slide, Sami exiting a blacked-out SUV outside a waterfront mansion, manicured lawn glowing under golden floodlights.
“He’s here now, back in the Hamptons. We’re planning a move. Forty-eight hours. Bobby leads.”
She looked at Cruz. "You're on the team."
Then to Aaliyah: “We’ll want you in one more intel session tomorrow.”
Aaliyah nodded once, slowly.
As Cruz followed Bobby out of the room, she looked back just once.
Aaliyah didn’t return it.
--
The next morning, Aaliyah was already seated when Cruz entered the debrief room again. She didn’t look at her, she didn’t even shift in her seat, but the tension between them was visceral.
Joe paced in slowly this time, a tablet in one hand, gaze scanning the room.
"Right. Let’s make this fast," she said. "We’ve got updates from the Hamptons cell. The team is nearly in place. Sami’s movements have been predictable so far, but that window won’t last. When we're done here, Cruz and Bobby will be wheels up and straight there."
She looked up from the tablet. "Aaliyah, we’ll need to run through your prior contact one more time. Randy’s on babysitting detail here."
Aaliyah scoffed softly. "Great."
Joe paused. "There’s more. Sami’s father was a diplomat, old guard, connected in all the wrong ways. And Sami’s taken up where Aaliyah’s father left off. He’s circling the oil business hard, threading himself into legacy deals. Kamal and Ehsan were clearly involved. And some of the names we’ve flagged from Aaliyah’s father’s ledger are starting to show up again."
Cruz took a seat beside Aaliyah, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"He’s a creature of habit," Cruz said before anyone else could speak. "He’ll go back to the same people. Same venues."
Aaliyah’s voice was low but sharp. "Glad to know you’re an expert."
Cruz’s jaw tightened. "I’m just trying to keep us all alive."
"How noble of you," Aaliyah replied. Her eyes flicked to Cruz, finally meeting hers. "Maybe you can save me again. That went so well the first time."
Joe didn’t look up from the tablet. "Manuelos."
Cruz didn’t take the warning.
"You think I wanted this? Any of this?"
Aaliyah gave a bitter laugh. "I think you wanted to be the hero. The saviour. And when the time came, you ran the play like a good little soldier."
"Enough," Joe said, voice firm but quiet.
Aaliyah leaned forward now. "Don’t pretend you didn’t know what would happen. Don’t act like you weren’t ready to burn it all down the second it got hard."
Cruz stood, chair scraping. "I stayed. You think that was easy? I stayed."
Joe raised her voice. "Sit down. Both of you."
They froze. Cruz slowly lowered herself back into her chair. Aaliyah’s hands had curled into fists on the table.
Joe gave it a beat, then stepped closer, voice cold. "You have five minutes. Get it together."
Bobby, leaning against the wall, didn’t move. "We can’t afford hesitation in the field. And we sure as hell can’t carry a personal standoff into a live op."
Joe’s attention turned to Cruz. "If you can’t keep a level head, you’re out."
Cruz blinked. Just once. But it landed.
Her voice, when it came, was quieter. "And then what?"
Joe didn’t answer.
Cruz turned her gaze to Aaliyah, whose expression was unreadable.
Cruz added, "If I’m out, I don’t see her again, do I?"
Joe exhaled. "Focus on the job, Manuelos."
She turned and left the room, the door clicking closed behind her. Bobby followed without a word.
Silence settled.
Cruz moved slowly around the table and sank into the seat opposite Aaliyah. The overhead light flickered, casting pale shadows over the walls.
Cruz broke the silence. "I can’t afford to be off this mission. Maybe we should just… stick together. Keep it clean."
Aaliyah didn’t look at her. "I don’t care what you do. I’m not going to play nice just so you can keep pretending we’re fine."
"It’s not about the job," Cruz said. "It’s never been about the job."
Aaliyah finally turned her head, her eyes glassy. "Then what the hell is it about, Cruz? What is all this for?"
Cruz hesitated. "You know what it’s for. You know why I’m here."
"No," Aaliyah said, voice catching. "I knew who Zara was. I don’t know who you are."
Cruz’s shoulders sagged.
Aaliyah stood abruptly, then faltered. Her voice dropped. "You showed up. You ruined everything. And now I’m here. Trapped again. I traded one prison for another. My husband thinks I’m dead. My friends think I betrayed them. My father is gone."
Cruz got up. Came around the table. She dropped to her knees in front of Aaliyah. Her knees hit tile. Hard. She didn’t care.
Her voice cracked. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you. I should’ve done everything differently."
Aaliyah pulled her hands away when Cruz reached for them.
"I don’t want your apologies."
Cruz’s voice was hoarse. "Then what do you want?"
Aaliyah looked down at her. Her words were quiet, hollow.
"You killed everyone who loved me. You killed my Baba. You killed Ehsan. He wasn’t perfect, but he loved me. You killed Zara too. She’s gone.
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t cry. Not now.
You took away everything from me."
Cruz’s voice trembled. "I’m still Zara."
Aaliyah flinched, pulling back like the name itself burned.
"Don’t," she whispered.
Cruz reached forward again. "I didn’t mean—"
Aaliyah recoiled further. "Just stop."
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I’ll be civil," she said. "Just stop expecting me to be able to look at you without these feelings. Without hating you for what you’ve done to me."
Cruz inhaled shakily. "Okay."
She pushed herself to her feet, slowly. "I don’t think Joe needs me for the rest of the briefing. I should get my gear together."
Aaliyah was quiet, gaze still lowered.
As Cruz reached the door, Aaliyah finally spoke. "Okay, Cruz. Be safe out there."
She wanted to slam the door.
Cruz turned her head slightly, nodded once, and opened it.
Outside, Joe and Bobby were deep in a quiet conversation. Cruz stepped out, closed the door behind her, and said, "We’re good. We’ll be good now."
Cruz’s eyes flicked to the corners, unconsciously checking sightlines, exits. She hated that it still came easy.
--
Later, Aaliyah sat back in her chair. The walls felt too close, the silence pressing.
Joe returned a moment later, stepping around the table.
"One more thing," she said. "That house in the Hamptons. You recognise it?"
Aaliyah looked up. "It’s the same one. The dinner. That’s where it was."
Joe’s eyebrows lifted. "You’re sure?"
"I remember the hallway. The chandelier. And the patio off the dining room. Ehsan loved that house. Said it was too American for his father’s taste, but he kept using it."
Joe nodded. "That helps."
"Kamal took Sami there more than once. I thought it was strange. After Ehsan, after he died, Sami was always around. I didn’t come back to America, but Kamal did."
Joe tapped her tablet. "We’ll take another run through the floorplan before they land."
She paused, eyes still on Aaliyah.
"You alright to keep going?"
Aaliyah’s mouth tightened. "Yes."
Joe took a seat and pulled up the floorplans on the screen. "Then let’s talk entrances, exits, and sightlines."
Aaliyah leaned in, eyes sharp despite the heaviness in her chest.
The Hamptons, months earlier.
The dinner had been stiff with ceremony, polished cutlery, white linen napkins, servers gliding in and out like ghosts. Ehsan had played host with forced ease, and the table was stacked with silver dishes of grilled meats and sliced fruit. Everything had felt carefully arranged, but the tension was always there, under the surface.
Sami had leaned too close. Asked questions that weren’t quite polite. His smile was a little too knowing. He laughed at things that weren’t funny.
Aaliyah hadn’t paid him much attention. Not really.
She had been too focused on Zara.
Zara had worn black, sharp-shouldered and quiet, hair pulled back, expression guarded but eyes always watching. They hadn’t kissed. Not yet. But the air between them had been tight with tension since their impromptu spa session.
Aaliyah found excuses to touch her. To brush against her arm when reaching for the water jug. To offer her slices of melon from her own plate. To lean too close when asking a question she already knew the answer to.
Zara had let her. Watched her. The corner of her mouth had twitched every time, like she was fighting a smile.
Ehsan had noticed. Aaliyah had caught his gaze across the table once, unreadable but alert. Not particularly angry, just quietly observant.
And Sami. Sami had kept talking. About business. About real estate. About his connections in Riyadh. He spoke to Kamal and Ehsan, but his eyes drifted, landing on Aaliyah more than once.
When the dinner ended, Kamal, Sami, and Ehsan had disappeared into one of the offices off the main hall.
Aaliyah had wandered instead with Zara. They were both a little fuzzy with wine, laughing too much, brushing shoulders in the darkened hallway.
Aaliyah had pushed her, gently, into the wall beside the stairwell. Zara had gone willingly, the contact sending a thrill through Aaliyah’s spine. She felt powerful, wanted, queenly. Cruz had let her body be moved, had rested her head back against the wall and looked down at Aaliyah with something intense and unreadable.
Aaliyah had leaned in, lips parting, eyes on Cruz’s mouth.
But at the last second, she kissed her cheek. Just barely, where cheek met mouth.
She had stepped back quickly, breathless.
It wasn’t until months later that she understood. The house. The layout. The rooms. The people.
It had all been a set-up.
Sami hadn’t just been lingering, like others who had sidled up to Ehsan for wealth. He had been positioning. Testing. Watching what Ehsan watched. Ingratiating himself with Kamal.
The warning signs had been there. Aaliyah just hadn’t seen them.
She’d been too focused on the taste of fruit on Zara’s lips. And the way her heart beat too fast every time Zara looked back at her like she already knew.
Joe’s voice cut through the memory.
"What were they talking about in the office?"
Aaliyah blinked. Her breath caught. "I don’t know. I wasn’t in there."
Joe raised an eyebrow. "Then where were you?"
A pause. Then: "With Zara."
Joe’s voice was flat. "Cruz."
"Yes."
Joe didn’t say anything else. Just tapped her tablet again.
Aaliyah leaned back in her chair, heart pounding. Outside the windowless room, and somewhere hours away, she knew Cruz would be gearing up, pulling on her vest, checking her rounds, becoming the weapon they trained her to be.
Aaliyah wasn’t sure what scared her more: that Cruz might not come back, or that she would.
Chapter 6: The Weight of Wanting
Chapter Text
Cruz sat in the back of the SUV, window down, cold air threading through her sweat-damp shirt. Bobby rode up front, eyes on the road, fingers drumming against the wheel.
“His daddy was a diplomat,” Bobby said flatly. “That shield’s gone now. We still don’t kill him. But a bruise or two won’t start a war.”
Cruz didn’t answer. Her jaw flexed. She looked down at her hands, already gloved, fingers tightening once before relaxing.
“He’s in the house with three other men,” Bobby went on. “Two guards on the outside, armed but not military. No civilians.”
Cruz reached for the last strap on her vest, cinching it tighter. She winced slightly—muscles still tight from the last training gauntlet.
“You ready?” Bobby asked, glancing at her through the mirror.
“I don’t get to not be,” Cruz replied.
They said nothing else as the SUV turned down the private drive, headlights blacked out, tires crunching on gravel like a slow countdown to something brutal.
The team moved.
Slowly, the five of them breached the perimeter under cover of trees. Bobby signalled. Tucker and Randy peeled off to flank the front, while Cruz and Two Cups crept toward the rear patio doors, rifles up.
Her eyes scanned the hallway out of habit. Entry points, blind spots, angles of cover. It came back like breathing.
Inside, the house was dimly lit, the hum of a generator somewhere below. Cruz heard voices, low, confident, careless. Sami was in the sitting room. Laughing.
Two Cups took position at the glass. Cruz crouched low, angled her body, checked the latch. Unlocked.
Three seconds. Two.
Bobby’s voice crackled soft in her earpiece: "Go."
Cruz pushed in first.
Everything exploded at once.
A shout. The sound of furniture crashing. Two Cups was on the first guard in an instant. Bobby came in from the hallway. Cruz surged forward—
—but it wasn’t three men. It was seven. And they were ready.
The second wave hit fast. Three of them swarmed Cruz. She ducked the first blow, caught a fist to her cheek, then another to her ribs. She went down hard, shoulder slamming into a marble edge. Someone kicked her in the gut. Another boot found her spine.
She gasped, rolling, teeth gritted, tasting blood. She caught one man’s arm, twisted, brought him down, but the others didn’t pause.
She was dragged up by the collar, thrown against the wall. Her head cracked against the plaster. A punch split her brow. An elbow to her jaw snapped her vision white.
She dropped to her knees.
Bobby’s voice roared from somewhere, orders, gunfire, movement. Cruz heard Tucker’s voice shouting for cover. Randy cursed loudly. Then—
Sami’s voice, smug and amused: “Zara. I knew you couldn’t stay away. Our sweet Saudi princess no longer doing it for you?”
The name hit harder than the fists. But she didn’t flinch. Cruz spat blood at his feet.
Two Cups tackled one of the remaining guards. Bobby reached Sami, gun to his temple, voice steady. “You so much as twitch, you’ll be walking out of here with your teeth in your hands.”
Sami smirked. “So dramatic.”
Cruz stumbled to her feet, face streaked in blood, breathing ragged. Then she lunged.
Sami flinched back, eyes widening. Cruz got within inches before Bobby caught her by the vest and yanked her back hard.
“Don’t,” Bobby snapped. “He’s not worth it.”
Cruz held Sami’s gaze, chest heaving. But she didn’t move again.
The guards were restrained. The house was cleared.
“Package secure,” Tucker confirmed.
Cruz leaned against the wall, sweat and blood mixing at her temple. Her fists clenched and unclenched slowly.
Outside, the night was still dark, the air cool and stinging against Cruz’s battered skin.
It was done.
--
Back in Virginia, Aaliyah sat in the debrief room, bottle of water twisting in her hands, jittery, eyes on the clock. She hadn’t left since the team deployed, refusing to go home, refusing to rest. She waited.
The door opened. Bobby stepped inside, face bruised, sleeve torn.
“He’s in custody,” he said simply. “No civilian injuries. We got him.”
Aaliyah nodded once. “And Cruz?”
Bobby hesitated. “She’s fine. Took a few hits. She’ll live.”
“I want to see her,” Aaliyah said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Bobby replied. “She’s… she’s a mess.”
Aaliyah stood. “Bobby, I want to see her, please.”
Bobby didn’t move.
The door opened again. Joe entered, tablet under her arm.
“She gave us this lead,” Joe said with a sigh. “Give her what she wants.”
Bobby nodded once. "She’s upstairs in the gym showers. I’ll take you."
--
Cruz stood next to the shower, shirt half off, struggling with the sleeve. Her shoulder screamed in protest. Blood had dried down her side, crusted over scrapes that burned now in the steam.
A knock sounded.
She didn’t answer.
Then: "It’s me." Aaliyah.
Cruz closed her eyes. "Door’s open."
Aaliyah stepped inside slowly. She paused at the threshold of the bathroom, her eyes catching on Cruz’s silhouette behind the curtain. Steam clouded the mirror. The room smelled like copper.
"Turn around," Cruz muttered.
Aaliyah didn’t. She moved closer, voice low. "I want to help."
Cruz tried again with the sleeve and hissed.
"Let me, please. Let me help."
Aaliyah reached forward, careful. Her fingers brushed Cruz’s skin. She eased the shirt off her injured arm. Cruz flinched but didn’t pull away.
The bruises were already blooming purple across Cruz’s ribs. Long scrapes crossed her back. Her lip was swollen, and a cut above her eyebrow still bled slightly.
Aaliyah swallowed. "You’re hurt."
Cruz’s voice was hoarse. "I’m fine."
"No, you’re not."
Cruz made a vague gesture toward her pants and compression top, clearly in pain. Aaliyah stepped forward and helped unfasten the vest still hanging from Cruz’s shoulders, easing it off gently.
"Let me get this," Aaliyah murmured, fingers brushing Cruz’s side as she began to undo the fastenings. Cruz didn’t protest. She stood still, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.
Once the vest and shirt were gone, Aaliyah crouched, hands light as she helped peel off Cruz’s blood-crusted pants and set them aside. She didn’t stare. She didn’t hesitate.
A beat passed.
"Come on," Aaliyah said, voice soft but firm, and gently nudged Cruz back toward the water.
Cruz stepped into the shower and hissed as the warm water hit her injuries.
They didn’t speak for a moment.
Aaliyah reached for the soap and a cloth. She dipped it under the water, turned Cruz gently, and began to wash away the blood.
Cruz stood still. Breathing slow. The tension in her shoulders didn’t ease, but she didn’t stop her.
Aaliyah’s voice was quiet. "Why didn’t you call for backup?"
"We didn’t want to waste the time."
"You could have died."
Cruz wouldn’t look at her. "But I didn’t."
"You look like you nearly died."
"I didn’t," Cruz repeated, voice low.
Aaliyah rinsed a smear of blood from Cruz’s shoulder. As she did, she noticed Cruz’s shoulders start to shake. A quiet sob slipped out—barely audible under the water.
Aaliyah froze for half a second, then set the cloth aside and pulled Cruz gently into her arms.
Cruz let her. Her head dropped, face tucking into the crook of Aaliyah’s neck as she tried to stifle the tears. Aaliyah held her, running soothing hands up and down her back.
"It’s okay," Aaliyah whispered. "I’ve got you. I’ve got you."
They stood like that for a while, water cascading over them.
Then Aaliyah leaned in and pressed a kiss to Cruz’s temple.
Cruz’s eyes fell closed. Her head lowered again, resting against the cold tile.
Aaliyah wrung out the cloth and hung it on a hook. "You’re an idiot."
Cruz gave a weak laugh, then winced.
Aaliyah pulled her gently out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her.
"Sit," Aaliyah said. "I’ll get a first aid kit."
Cruz sat on the closed toilet lid, towel wrapped around her. Aaliyah returned, now clothed again in clean sweats and a fitted tee, and moved with practiced calm, tending to the cuts, wiping the blood from her face, dabbing antiseptic.
Cruz winced once, then again, teeth clenched.
"I thought you were choosing not to care," Cruz said, voice rough.
Aaliyah didn’t look up but smirked faintly. "I don’t care."
Cruz closed her eyes.
Aaliyah’s voice dropped, softer now. "Don’t do that again."
"I can’t promise that."
Aaliyah paused. Her hand stilled over a bandage. "I don’t want to be waiting and worrying that you won’t come back."
Cruz opened her eyes, met her gaze. "I never asked you to."
"Hmmm," Aaliyah murmured under her breath before a beat of silence passed between them.
Then, quietly, Aaliyah asked, "Is there anything else I can do?"
Cruz looked at her for a long second. Her voice, when it came, was low. "You could kiss it better."
Aaliyah hesitated, just a breath, then stepped forward. She reached up, one hand settling in Cruz’s damp hair, the other gentle at her jaw. She leaned in and kissed the cut above Cruz’s brow, soft and lingering.
Cruz’s eyes fluttered closed.
After a moment, Cruz’s arms came up, slowly, and she wrapped them around Aaliyah’s waist.
--
The next morning, Cruz sat at the end of a long table in the operations room, stiff in a hoodie and sweats, knuckles bruised and a butterfly bandage above one brow. The lights were too bright. The room too cold.
Across from her, Joe clicked through a file on her tablet. Kaitlyn stood at the head of the room, arms crossed, tension tight across her shoulders.
"There were seven men in that house," Kaitlyn said. "The file said three."
"The file was wrong," Bobby replied from Cruz’s side. "We adapted."
Joe didn’t look up. "Adapted by sending one operator straight into an ambush."
"No civilians were harmed," Bobby said. "And the target’s in custody."
"Because she didn’t wait for backup," Kaitlyn snapped, nodding toward Cruz. "That wasn’t protocol."
"She got the job done," Bobby growled.
"At what cost?" Joe finally looked up. Her gaze landed on Cruz. "You’re lucky you’re not in a morgue."
Aaliyah stood near the wall, arms folded tightly across her chest. She hadn’t said a word since the start of the debrief. But at that, she stepped forward.
"The intel was compromised. That’s not on her. If anything, she covered our asses."
Joe tilted her head. "She didn’t report the change in numbers."
"She didn’t have time," Aaliyah snapped. A beat of silence stretched.
Kaitlyn finally exhaled. "This can’t happen again. We got lucky. Next time we won’t."
"Then clean your files," Bobby muttered.
Joe’s gaze slid back to Cruz. "You’re benched. Forty-eight hours. Medical. Psych eval. Then we’ll talk."
Cruz didn’t react. She just nodded once, jaw tight.
"Dismissed," Joe said.
The team emptied from the room slowly.
But Aaliyah, Cruz, Bobby, Joe and Kaitlyn remained.
Cruz looked up at her. "You heading back to your accommodation? That Soviet brutalist palace they gave you?"
Aaliyah huffed out a laugh. "Since my dearly beloved has presumably assumed I’m dead after not paying the ransom, I’ve got an apartment now. Secure complex. One prison guard at a time."
Cruz leaned back in her chair, gaze steady. "Maybe you’d like some company."
Aaliyah raised an eyebrow. "Maybe."
"Maybe I’ll come over, then."
"Maybe I’ll let you in."
Bobby’s voice cut through the moment as she walked past, heading for the exit. "Maybe we can get a fuckin’ wriggle on and stop eye-fucking in front of the brass."
Cruz didn’t look away. Neither did Aaliyah.
"See you later," Cruz said.
"Yeah," Aaliyah replied. "You will."
--
That afternoon, Cruz stepped out of the clinic with a dull ache behind her eyes and a list of injuries that felt longer than it was. The medic hadn’t cleared her for active duty yet - concussion, bruised kidney, two sprains - and had told her, in no uncertain terms, to rest. And avoid alcohol.
She stopped at a corner store anyway.
By the time she reached Aaliyah’s apartment complex, the sky had gone slate grey. Cruz stood at the front gate, hoodie pulled up, bruises darkening along her cheek and jaw. She carried a six-pack of beer under one arm and a carefully wrapped bottle of French red tucked protectively under the other, a 2015 French Grenache that she’d seen Aaliyah enjoy in New York. Expensive. Thoughtful. She wasn’t sure what kind of message it sent, but she’d brought it anyway.
She looked like hell. She knew that. But she still rang the buzzer.
Aaliyah’s security cleared her through without a word. The front gate clicked open.
Cruz stepped through, boots crunching over the gravel path, and was met by a stationed guard just outside the main entrance. He squinted at her, hand hovering near his sidearm.
"Name?"
"Cruz Manuelos."
He checked his tablet. "Reason for visit?"
"Personal."
He studied her another second. "Clearance?"
Cruz handed over her badge. He scanned it. Something on the screen flashed green.
He looked up, surprised. "You’re on her approved list."
Cruz raised an eyebrow. "Am I? Didn’t think she had one."
"Approved list comes from the brass," the guard replied. "She’s got some options."
Cruz offered a tight smile and stepped past him, toward the elevator.
She pressed the button. The elevator dinged open.
She stepped inside, leaned back against the wall, and exhaled slowly.
--
Cruz stood outside the apartment door, shifting the weight of the bag in her hand. She still looked like hell, hoodie rumpled, a fresh butterfly bandage above her brow, the rest of her bruises half-hidden by fabric. One arm moved stiffly from the sprain, and the wine bottle thumped gently against her thigh in the paper bag.
She raised a hand and knocked.
There was a pause. Then footsteps. A moment later, the door opened.
Aaliyah stood there in soft cotton joggers and a charcoal tank. Her hair was damp, pulled back loosely, and her eyes flicked over Cruz with a flicker of something caught between relief and worry.
“You look awful,” she said softly.
Cruz smirked faintly. “Feel about the same.”
A beat passed. Aaliyah stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
Cruz entered slowly, taking in the space, sterile walls again, soft lighting, minimalist furniture, and the faint scent of something herbal hanging in the air. It looked temporary, but lived in. There was a single glass on the counter.
“Brought something,” Cruz said, holding up the bag.
Aaliyah peeked inside, arching a brow. “Is that… French?”
Cruz nodded. “2015 Grenache. Thought you might approve.”
Aaliyah’s mouth twitched. “That’s a cheap apology, habibti—” She caught herself mid-word, lips pressing together.
Cruz frowned faintly. “Not that cheap.”
“Ninety,” Cruz corrected. “Beer’s for me. Wine’s if you want it, beer if you don't.”
Aaliyah turned to grab a corkscrew. “Glasses are above the sink.”
Cruz moved to grab them, her shoulder protesting with every motion. Aaliyah noticed.
“Sit,” she said, not looking over. “I’ve got it.”
Cruz obeyed, lowering herself onto a stool with a quiet grunt.
They drank in silence for a moment. Cruz nursed her beer while Aaliyah let the red breathe.
Finally, Aaliyah asked, “Do you know what went wrong with the intel?”
Cruz sighed, set the bottle down. “Not yet. We’re going over it tomorrow.”
Aaliyah nodded, quiet. Her fingers curled around the stem of the glass.
“I shouldn’t have been surprised,” Cruz murmured.
Aaliyah turned toward her more fully, voice softer now. “How are you actually feeling?”
Cruz gave a dry huff. “Like I got jumped. Concussion. Sprained shoulder. Couple ribs. Pretty sure a kidney’s gonna be black for a week.”
Aaliyah moved closer, wine glass in hand. “You shouldn’t be drinking with all that.”
Cruz smirked faintly, raising her bottle. “Doctor said ‘limit alcohol.’ Didn’t say none.”
Aaliyah gave her a look but didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned her hip against the counter, watching Cruz quietly.
“You should be in bed.”
“I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
That stilled Aaliyah.
She didn’t speak for a moment, then nodded once, slowly. “Okay.”
--
Later, they found themselves on the living room floor with a deck of cards between them and a bowl of almonds acting as poker chips. Cruz sat cross-legged, leaning heavily to one side to avoid aggravating her ribs, while Aaliyah was already three almonds up and grinning like a shark.
“Another hand?” Aaliyah asked sweetly, eyes sharp.
Cruz narrowed her eyes. “You’re hustling me.”
“I’d never,” Aaliyah said, mock-affronted, sweeping her latest winnings into a small pile. “My kingdom for an almond!”
Cruz groaned. “You’re drunk.”
“Only a little. You should’ve known better than to challenge me. I was raised on hakam.”
“That’s not even poker.”
“It’s spiritually adjacent.”
Cruz shook her head, grinning. “Alright. That’s it. I’m switching it up. Uno.”
Aaliyah pouted, reaching for another almond. “How am I supposed to take you for everything with Uno?”
“You already have,” Cruz muttered. “Trust me.”
Aaliyah looked at her for a moment, and her teasing smile softened. Then she nodded. “Uno it is.”
—
They never finished the game. The cards sat forgotten on the table as the night drew on. Cruz's eyelids drooped heavily and her bruised body ached in full force.
“Come on,” Aaliyah said eventually, standing and offering a hand. “You need to lie down.”
Cruz didn’t argue. She let herself be guided toward the bedroom, moving stiffly. Then paused at the threshold.
She blinked at the single bed. “What, the CIA won’t splurge for a second bedroom?”
Aaliyah smirked. “For who? It’s just me.”
“I can take the couch,” Cruz offered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aaliyah said, already walking to the other side. “We’ve shared a bed before.”
Aaliyah tossed her a look over her shoulder. “Try not to sprawl. If you stick to your side, we should be fine… I think. Do you?”
Cruz didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “Sure, I think so.”
Aaliyah left briefly and returned with water, pain meds, and a blanket, then climbed in on the other side.
They lay in silence for a while, backs turned. Then, slowly, as sleep took hold, Cruz shifted in her sleep. Aaliyah, half-conscious, shifted too. Cruz's arm slipped around Aaliyah’s waist, pulling her close, her hand sliding beneath Aaliyah’s shirt to rest gently on the warm skin of her stomach. Her body curled around Aaliyah’s like a shield.
--
In the morning, Aaliyah blinked awake, warmth wrapped tight around her. Cruz’s body was pressed flush to hers, one arm holding her firmly, protectively, hand still curled under her shirt. Cruz’s breath was steady against her neck.
There was a beat of silence. Then Aaliyah stilled.
“…Shit,” she muttered.
Cruz grinned sleepily. “Morning.”
“This didn’t happen,” Aaliyah said quickly, pulling her arm back like she’d touched a live wire.
Cruz turned carefully. “Tell that to your elbow in my sore kidney.”
“I didn’t mean to—” Aaliyah began, then groaned, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. “You snore.”
“Do not.”
“You do. Like a truck.”
Cruz chuckled. “Well, I was punched several times in the face.”
Aaliyah turned, still half tangled in the sheets, and reached out. Her fingers brushed over Cruz’s cheek, gentle, then traced the bridge of her nose. “Hmm. That might explain it.”
Cruz leaned into the touch just slightly before Aaliyah pulled back.
“I’m making coffee,” Aaliyah said, standing. “You want some?”
“Please. If I move, I might scream.”
“Drama queen,” Aaliyah muttered, disappearing into the kitchen.
Cruz smiled faintly, sinking deeper into the pillow, and let the morning light wash over her face.
--
When Cruz woke up again, hours later, she truly felt like she’d been hit by a truck. She rolled over and groaned into the pillow, everything stiff and aching in new ways.
The light in the room was brighter now. Aaliyah was already inside, perched on the edge of the bed with a steaming mug in one hand and her phone in the other. She looked up.
“Good. You're awake.” Her voice was softer than usual. “It’s almost ten. We’ve got to head back in.”
Cruz let out another groan and buried her face deeper. “Tell them I died.”
Aaliyah reached out, resting a hand on Cruz’s back. “You’ll feel better after some food and caffeine.”
“Unlikely.”
“Come on,” Aaliyah said gently, brushing her fingers along Cruz’s shoulder, careful around the bruises. “We’ll take it slow. I already talked to Bobby—she’s bringing the car around.”
Cruz peeked up at her. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
Cruz reached back, catching Aaliyah’s hand and guiding it along her spine. “Please, please, please keep going.”
Aaliyah huffed softly. “Come on, tough girl.”
The words settled between them, quiet and sure. Cruz sat up with a wince, and Aaliyah passed her the coffee without a word.
Cruz made her way stiffly over to the bag she’d brought the night before and crouched down beside it. She pulled out a clean shirt and some cargo pants and sat there staring at them. Her shoulder gave a vicious twinge when she tried to lift her arm.
Aaliyah crouched beside her a moment later. “Hey.”
“I can do it,” Cruz muttered.
“I know. Let me anyway.”
She took the clothes from Cruz’s lap, set them aside for a second, and helped Cruz wash her face at the sink. Cruz grumbled the whole time.
“I’m not helpless.”
“You’re concussed, bruised, and currently wincing every time you breathe. Indulge me.”
Aaliyah was gentle. Every motion careful. She towel-dried Cruz’s face, then reached for the hem of her shirt.
“Arms up,” she murmured.
Cruz obeyed, mostly. Aaliyah peeled off the sleep shirt, mindful of Cruz’s injuries. Her hands brushed Cruz’s ribs, slow and deliberate, her touch lingering. Then she tugged the crop down over her head, her fingers grazing lightly along Cruz’s back as she adjusted it.
Then came the pants, slower, more delicate. Aaliyah crouched again, helping Cruz step in one leg at a time, steadying her with both hands. Her fingertips pressed into the backs of Cruz’s knees.
Then she stood.
Cruz braced herself with a hand on Aaliyah’s shoulder. Aaliyah guided the pants up Cruz’s hips, and as she did, her eyes lifted, meeting Cruz’s and not wavering. Her hands moved on instinct, finding the button, the zipper, and then the belt. She fastened it without ever looking away.
Cruz’s big hands rested lightly at Aaliyah’s waist, steadying her. The air between them thickened, taut with restraint.
Cruz’s gaze dropped to Aaliyah’s lips, and for a breathless second, she leaned in. Inches away.
Aaliyah’s hand came up, pressing lightly against Cruz’s chest, holding her there.
They stayed like that a moment, and then, then Aaliyah stepped back.
Cruz blinked down at her, heart tight. Was she doing too much? Was this comfort, or just her clinging to something that wasn’t hers anymore?
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Aaliyah replied, voice low.
They stood there a moment, breath shared between them.
Then Aaliyah nodded once. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 7: Reverie
Notes:
Thank you all for the feedback. I mentioned in the comments that I’ve got about ten chapters written already, I’m just going through the motions of editing now. I’m expecting we’ll land somewhere around twelve to fourteen chapters total.
Your comments are always appreciated.
I hope you enjoy this one. Next chapter very soon, likely tomorrow.
Chapter Text
They were somewhere quiet. New York, maybe. It didn't matter. What mattered was the hum of the city muted by thick windows, the filtered morning light stretching across the bed, and the way Aaliyah’s fingers traced idle lines against Cruz’s bare stomach.
Cruz had one arm tucked behind her head, the other lazily wrapped around Aaliyah’s hip. Her fingertips skimmed the soft cotton sheet draped low across Aaliyah’s back. She looked down at her, drinking in the sight, messy hair, sleep-heavy eyes, that little smile she only gave in when the rest of the world was quiet.
“I could get used to this,” Cruz murmured.
Aaliyah raised a brow, amused. “To what? Me waking you up?”
Cruz grinned, eyes half-lidded. “To being here with you.”
The words hung between them for a moment. Aaliyah’s smile faltered, just slightly. She rolled onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“So don’t,” she said quietly. “Don’t leave. Not after this. Not again.”
Cruz’s smile faded. “You know I don't want to leave.”
“Then say it,” Aaliyah whispered. “Say you want me. Say you’ll try.”
Cruz didn’t speak. She leaned over instead, kissed the spot just beneath Aaliyah’s ear, breathing her in like she could hold onto this moment through scent alone.
Aaliyah turned back toward her, voice cracking. “We can make it work. Zara, please. After we’re married, I can talk to Ehsan, convince him to let me travel. America, Europe, wherever you are. I’ll find you between events. We’ll make time. You just have to meet me halfway. Please.”
Cruz pulled her closer, the ache in her chest nearly unbearable. She wanted to believe it. But this was never hers to keep. No matter how much she wanted to give up everything.
Still, she didn’t answer.
Aaliyah didn’t press. She curled tighter against Cruz’s side and began to sob quietly, her breath hitching in short, silent stutters. Cruz held her through it, one hand smoothing gently over her back.
Cruz rolled slowly, shifting to hover above her, letting her weight settle just enough to press them together. She settled between Aaliyah’s thighs, the heat of her body sinking into the cradle of Aaliyah’s hips. She kissed the trail of tears along Aaliyah’s cheek, her mouth gentle, reverent. Her hand slid up Aaliyah’s ribcage, slow and warm, tracing the space just beneath her breast.
Aaliyah let out a shaky breath, arching slightly into the touch. Cruz’s lips moved to her jaw, then lower, her neck, her collarbone. She kissed like she was memorising. Aaliyah threaded her fingers into Cruz’s hair, pulled her closer.
“Don’t go yet,” she whispered.
Cruz shook her head faintly. “I won’t. Not now.”
They moved like it was sacred. No rush. Just touch after touch, the slide of skin against skin, breath catching on shared warmth. Cruz kissed Aaliyah’s shoulder, her breast, the centre of her chest, her mouth returning to hers in between. Aaliyah’s hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t stop touching, palming the length of her lover's spine, the curve of her waist, the scar at her hip.
Cruz moaned softly as Aaliyah’s thigh slid between hers. Her breath shivered into Aaliyah’s mouth. Their movements turned slower, deeper. A push and pull. Tension rising, cresting, dissolving, only to build again.
Aaliyah broke the kiss, forehead pressed to Cruz’s. “I want you to stay,” she said again. “I don’t want this to end.”
“Then it won’t,” Cruz said, breathless. “Not here. Not today.”
Aaliyah nodded once, then pulled Cruz down into another kiss, soft and fierce all at once.
--
The room was quiet save for the occasional click of a laptop key and the low murmur of voices from down the hall.
Cruz slept in a chair, slumped awkwardly, a jacket draped lightly over her knees. Her body was curled toward the empty space beside her like she was trying to remember how to hold someone who wasn’t there. Her face was pale, pinched. A muscle twitched in her jaw.
Bobby looked up from the corner of the room, eyes narrowing. “She’s moving.”
Joe didn’t look up. “Bad dream?”
“She’s saying something.”
They both watched as Cruz murmured a name, Aaliyah’s. Her breath caught. Her hands twitched like she was reaching for something. Then her whole body flinched hard, like a bullet hit her in the gut.
Bobby stood. Took one step forward. Then stopped.
Aaliyah entered the room, silent as a shadow.
“She’s dreaming,” Bobby said quietly.
“I know.” Aaliyah moved to Cruz’s side without hesitation. She crouched, close but not touching, her eyes scanning the bruises on Cruz’s face, the way her mouth trembled in her sleep.
“Cruz,” she said softly. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Cruz. Wake up.”
She reached up and brushed a lock of hair from Cruz’s forehead, thumb lingering. “Habibti. You’re safe. Wake up.”
Cruz jerked awake, breath ragged, eyes wide. Her hand shot to her side instinctively.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” Aaliyah said quickly, catching her wrist. “It’s me.”
Cruz blinked hard, eyes slowly focusing. Her whole body was shaking.
“I was—”
“I know.” Aaliyah didn’t let go. “But you’re here. You’re alright.”
Cruz leaned forward before she could stop herself, forehead pressing into Aaliyah’s shoulder. Aaliyah held her without hesitation, one hand smoothing gently over Cruz’s spine.
Across the room, Joe looked away. Bobby didn’t.
Cruz’s breath was uneven, still coming in shallow waves. Her fingers clutched lightly at Aaliyah’s sleeve like she wasn’t sure if she was fully awake yet. Aaliyah shifted, just slightly, to pull her in closer. Her hand moved in slow, grounding strokes down Cruz’s back, her voice low against her ear.
“You’re okay,” she murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
A fragile silence settled over the room. Joe stepped out quietly. Bobby lingered.
Eventually, Cruz’s grip loosened, her head still tucked against Aaliyah’s neck.
Bobby’s voice, low: “Briefing’s in twenty.”
Aaliyah helped Cruz stand, steady hands on her arms. Cruz caught her wrist, brushed her thumb lightly across the skin there.
Aaliyah looked at her, something unreadable in her gaze. "What were you dreaming about?"
Cruz hesitated, jaw tightening. “New York. That last time together...”
Aaliyah’s expression flickered, surprise, maybe, or something closer to pain. She didn’t speak. Just nodded once, quiet and small.
But her eyes didn’t leave Cruz’s face.
And Cruz, for a moment, wished she’d lied.
A beat passed.
“I didn’t forget, I can't forget actually.” Cruz said quietly. “When you asked me to stay.”
Aaliyah's gaze sharpened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I just... didn’t know how to answer. Not then.”
Still, Aaliyah said nothing. But the edge of her thumb brushed against Cruz’s wrist. Just once.
The moment stretched, then snapped.
“Come on,” Aaliyah said gently. “They'll be waiting on you.”
She moved first, but Cruz lingered, eyes still locked on the spot where Aaliyah had touched her.
Then she followed.
--
The briefing room was low-lit. Cruz had changed into clean clothes, black tactical trousers and a long-sleeved shirt that made the bruises at her throat stand out. She looked steadier, but not entirely whole.
Kaitlyn was already seated, a digital map pulled up on the monitor behind her. Joe stood at her shoulder. Bobby leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.
Aaliyah sat beside Cruz, stiff but composed.
“Alright,” Kaitlyn began. “We’ve gone through the intel we got from Sami. He didn’t give it up too willingly, but it holds.”
Joe nodded. “Two drops confirmed, one in Çeşme, one in Tangier. Weapons-grade material, intended for coordinated attacks. It’s terror-driven, high-impact, high-casualty.”
“And the third?” Aaliyah asked.
Kaitlyn clicked a few keys. A grainy photo appeared, a warehouse in southern Spain. “Unconfirmed. But Sami’s contact says they’ve been using the same shell company we flagged in Marrakesh.”
“So we hit it?” Bobby asked.
“We surveil first,” Kaitlyn said. “You’ll fly to Málaga tomorrow. Get eyes on the site by the following morning.”
Joe added, “It’s a dry site. No obvious logistics. No power hooked up. But we’ve seen activity on infrared. Night deliveries. Short stays. Then gone.”
Aaliyah frowned. “So they’re stockpiling?”
“Possibly,” Kaitlyn said. “Or rotating caches ahead of the final movement.”
“What kind of movement?” Cruz asked, voice low.
“Weapons-grade uranium,” Joe replied. “They’re not stockpiling for fun. The working theory is dirty bombs. High-profile, simultaneous targets.”
Aaliyah exhaled sharply. “That’s what Kamal was building toward, wasn’t it? He inherited the network from Ehsan and my father, but Sami’s the one scaling it. This was never just arms.”
Joe nodded grimly. “Exactly. Kamal structured the infrastructure. Sami operationalised it.”
Bobby let out a low breath. “They’re trying to make a statement.”
“Multiple statements,” Kaitlyn corrected. “Symbolic and strategic targets. Timing is key.”
“And our window?” Cruz asked.
Joe’s mouth was tight. “We surveil first, but clock’s ticking. Time comes at a cost, and the longer we wait, the more we risk losing the element of surprise.”
Kaitlyn looked to Aaliyah. “You’ll keep reviewing Sami’s transcripts. See if there’s anything we’ve overlooked, any phrasing, names, references that could tip us off. You’ve been closest to the source. We need your eyes on this.”
Aaliyah nodded, jaw tight.
There was a pause.
“What kind of cost?” Cruz asked.
Joe hesitated. “The contact’s burned. Might be dead.”
“If the contact’s burned,” Cruz said, “then we’ve been made.”
Joe’s jaw tightened. “You'll follow orders.”
Aaliyah stood abruptly. “She can’t go.”
Everyone looked at her.
“She’s concussed,” Aaliyah said, voice rising. “She’s injured. She shouldn’t be out there.”
Joe’s tone was even. “She’s been cleared by psych. Cleared by medical.”
“That’s not the point,” Aaliyah snapped. “She’s not ready. She’s still in pain.”
Cruz reached out, touched Aaliyah’s knee gently, trying to settle her. Aaliyah shoved her hand away, eyes glassy.
“No,” she said, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t go.”
Joe’s gaze didn’t waver. “She’s part of the team. And she’s going.”
Kaitlyn cleared her throat. “Your cover’s set. Press credentials, freelance investigative unit tracking arms proliferation across North Africa and the Mediterranean. You’re embedded with an independent documentary outlet. Unpaid, but legitimate.”
Joe handed out ID packs. “You’ve got aliases. Backgrounds check out. Try not to do anything that’ll get you searched.”
Aaliyah’s jaw clenched. “And if they do?”
“Then you better pray they're fast.”
--
The team began packing up. Bobby started breaking down the surveillance gear. Two Cups sat in a corner, methodically cleaning his sidearm. Tex was cataloguing the medi-bag. The energy in the room was heavy, the kind that settled in the chest and stayed there.
Cruz moved to stand, hand brushing her tactical vest. Her ribs ached just from the stretch, but she gritted through it. That’s when Aaliyah stormed in from the hallway, fury written in every line of her body.
“What is wrong with you?” she shouted, voice sharp and shaking. “You think you can just go out there like you’re fine?”
The room froze.
Bobby looked between them, jaw set. “Everyone out. Now.”
Two Cups hesitated, then pushed up from his seat. Tex followed without a word. One by one, the team filtered out, leaving the two women alone in the silence that followed.
Aaliyah advanced on Cruz, eyes shining, voice trembling.
“Do you want to die? Is that it? Because that’s what this is. You’re injured, Cruz. You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t just a mission, it’s a suicide run. You don’t get to throw yourself back into the field like nothing’s wrong. What if it kills you?”
Cruz stepped forward, slow and cautious, hands low and open in front of her, like she was approaching something dangerous. She opened her mouth to respond, but Aaliyah didn’t let her.
“You said you remembered what I asked,” she said, the words catching. “Then stay. Please. If it meant anything—if I meant anything—don’t do this.”
Cruz staggered for words. “I, Aaliyah, I don’t know what else to—”
“Don’t,” Aaliyah snapped. “Don’t say it’s for the mission. Don’t say it’s orders. Because you always have a choice, and you chose this. You are going to choose to leave me behind again.”
Cruz took another tentative step. Aaliyah shoved her, hands slamming against her shoulders, full of heat and heartbreak.
“I hate you for this,” she cried. “For pretending we had a chance. For making me love you. Why do you keep making me love you?”
Her hands gripped at Cruz’s shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists like it could hold Cruz in place. Her face was wet now, streaked with silent tears.
For a second, Cruz just stood there, stunned. And then she moved, grabbing Aaliyah’s wrists, pulling her in with a force that said everything words couldn’t.
She kissed her like it was the only thing that might stop her from breaking apart completely.
Fierce. Desperate. Real.
Aaliyah didn’t resist.
She melted into it, one hand fisting the back of Cruz’s shirt, the other threading into her hair.
Everything else fell away.
Cruz backed them into the wall, breath hitching, hands tangling in Aaliyah’s cotton shirt, mouth hot and urgent. Aaliyah gasped into her, her nails digging into Cruz’s shoulder, pulling her closer, closer, as if it still wouldn’t be close enough.
It wasn’t gentle.
“I hate you,” Aaliyah whispered against her mouth, breathless. “I can’t stop loving you.”
“I know,” Cruz murmured.
Their foreheads touched. Their bodies stilled, if only for a heartbeat.
Then Cruz kissed her again, harder this time, hungrier, like she needed to burn their distance out of existence. Aaliyah clutched at her, raw and insistent, hips shifting forward, pressing their bodies flush. Cruz’s tongue met hers on a gasp, their breaths mingling, damp and needy.
Buttons slipped loose beneath their fingers, skin pressed hot against skin. Cruz’s thigh slipped between Aaliyah’s legs and pressed upward. Aaliyah let out a soft, broken sound into her mouth, hips rolling instinctively.
Cruz groaned, her hands roaming down Aaliyah’s sides, gripping her hips hard like she needed to ground herself there. Aaliyah tugged at Cruz’s shirt, pulling it free from her waistband, hands sliding underneath to feel the bare, warm skin beneath.
Every kiss turned deeper, more frantic. Aaliyah’s breath hitched as Cruz’s mouth found her neck again, tongue dragging against the spot that always made her knees weaken.
“Come with me,” Aaliyah gasped, voice raw. “Back to the apartment. Please.”
Cruz didn’t hesitate. She just nodded.
Chapter 8: Release
Notes:
Right. I’ve basically got nothing to say about this one, except that it’s about 2,000 words of filth.
I’m enjoying your comments, but I need to duck out for a holy water shower. This is my first time uploading the draft from my laptop and publishing from my phone on the way to work, so hopefully everything lines up.
Hope you enjoy. The next few chapters might get a bit tense.
Please keep commenting and let me know what you think.
Chapter Text
They barely made it through the door.
Cruz’s back hit the wall first, Aaliyah’s mouth already on hers, hungry, breathless, furious.
Their kiss wasn’t sweet. It was desperate. Punishment.
Jackets hit the floor. Boots were kicked away blindly. Cruz’s hands shook as they found the hem of Aaliyah’s shirt, sliding under it, dragging it up like she needed to touch all of her, now, before the moment vanished.
The hallway blurred past them, walls, doors, shadows barely registering as Aaliyah dragged her forward. Furniture knocked aside. Cruz’s boots scuffed hardwood. Somewhere behind them, the door slammed. None of it mattered. The apartment could’ve been burning and neither of them would’ve noticed.
Aaliyah walked her backward through the dark, stumbling into the bedroom with purpose, her hands everywhere, fisting Cruz’s shirt, cupping her face too roughly, as if she was afraid she might disappear again. She shoved Cruz down onto the bed, then loomed over her, her jaw clenched tight, eyes glassy and bright with something raw.
“I need this,” she rasped. “I need you.”
“You have me,” Cruz said, already breathless. “You have me.” And she did. In every way that counted. In every way that made this impossible. She wished she could make it a promise, not just a confession.
Aaliyah kissed her again, slower, deeper, but no less desperate. Cruz moaned into her mouth, her hands clawing at Aaliyah’s hips, dragging her closer until their bodies met, all heat and friction and grief. Their limbs tangled. Their skin burned.
They stripped each other in pieces, not reverent, not gentle, needy. Every inch of bare skin was met with hands that shook, mouths that couldn’t stop. Cruz bit down on Aaliyah’s shoulder when she moaned, hard enough to leave a mark. Aaliyah arched into her, breath ragged, nails digging into Cruz’s lower back, like she wanted the pain.
“I love you,” Aaliyah whispered again and again, the words cracked and furious. “I love you. I hate you. I love you.”
Cruz groaned like it hurt. She touched Aaliyah like she was trying to brand her skin, fevered kisses down her collarbone, her stomach, her hips. She kissed the inside of Aaliyah’s thighs like they were the last place she’d ever rest her mouth.
When her tongue found her, Aaliyah cried out, her legs shaking. Cruz held her down with one hand, steady and strong, while the other gripped the sheets tight enough to tear. She worked her tongue in circles, then deeper, harsher, like she needed to erase the distance between them.
Aaliyah came with a sob, hips jerking, fingers tangled in Cruz’s hair, pulling, clinging, pleading. Her whole body trembled under Cruz’s mouth, but Cruz didn’t stop. She kept going, chasing more, coaxing her over again until Aaliyah was wrung out and breathless, tears streaking her cheeks without even realising they’d fallen.
Aaliyah’s chest heaved. Her thighs trembled around Cruz’s shoulders. For a long moment, she just lay there, one arm flung across her face, as if trying to hide from the weight of it all. Cruz’s breath was heavy against her skin, her hands still locked tight to Aaliyah’s hips, like letting go would break the spell. The silence buzzed. Only their breathing filled it, uneven, wrecked.
When Cruz finally crawled back up, her mouth was slick, her arms shaking. Aaliyah kissed her hard, messy, tasting herself, tasting them.
Cruz settled beside her, their legs tangled, skin sticking where sweat had dried. She reached for Aaliyah’s hand without thinking. Aaliyah gripped it tight. No words. Just breath between them, still panting, still ragged. Then Aaliyah turned, leaned over her like a second wave crashing. “Lie back,” she whispered.
Cruz whimpered as Aaliyah rolled them over, her body already trembling. “Please don’t stop,” Cruz begged. “Please, just, please.”
Aaliyah kissed down her chest, her ribs, her stomach, every press of her mouth rougher than the last, like she was reclaiming what had been taken from her. Her fingers found Cruz without hesitation, two inside her, fast, deep, curling perfectly. Cruz cried out, her whole body arching.
“Fuck. Aaliyah.”
“I’m here,” Aaliyah whispered. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
Her mouth followed her fingers, hot and wet and relentless. Cruz shattered with a broken moan, clinging to Aaliyah like she was the only thing anchoring her to the world. Her second orgasm was louder. Her third left her sobbing.
They didn’t stop touching each other. Not even after. Not even when their limbs gave out and their bodies collapsed against one another, sticky and shaking.
They clung like the world might end if they let go, and they kissed like they’d been starved. Bitten lips, bruised hips, fingerprints blooming dark where hands had held too tightly.
Cruz brushed her lips against Aaliyah’s temple, then her shoulder, then her mouth again.
“I love you,” she breathed.
“You’re beautiful,” Cruz murmured again, hoarse. “You’re perfect. I... God, I want...” She swallowed, forehead against Aaliyah’s cheek. “I don’t even know how to say what I’m feeling.”
Aaliyah’s hand slid up her back. “Just stay. Stay with me, please.”
“I love you,” Cruz whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Aaliyah closed her eyes, tucked her head against Cruz’s chest, and held her so tight it hurt.
And Cruz let her.
She didn’t sleep. She listened to Aaliyah’s breathing, counted every shift in the sheets, memorised the weight of her hand resting over Cruz’s chest. Outside, the city was starting to stir. But inside, the air felt frozen. Like the moment would crack if she moved too soon.
They lay there in a haze, Cruz’s forehead pressed to Aaliyah’s collarbone, their legs still tangled. The sheets were damp, the air heavy with salt and heat. Neither of them moved. Every time Cruz shifted, Aaliyah’s hand found her again, her shoulder, her hip, the curve of her ribs, like her body refused to let go.
--
When Cruz woke, the sky was still dark, a thin silver bruise spreading across the horizon. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
She sat on the edge of the bed, bare skin chilled, feet flat on the floor. She reached for her shirt, crumpled on the ground, smelling like sex and sweat and regret, and pulled it on slowly. Her hands shook as she started buttoning it, fingers fumbling. One. Then another. Her jaw clenched.
She looked back once.
Aaliyah was still asleep. Skin tangled in sheets, one arm flung toward the space where Cruz had been. Her brow was furrowed, lips parted like her body already knew it was being left again.
Cruz reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
“Aaliyah,” she whispered.
Aaliyah stirred. Blinked awake, then froze.
Her gaze locked on Cruz. Shirt half-done. Boots beside her. Leaving.
“No,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, low. Dangerous. “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Cruz didn’t move. “I have to go.”
Aaliyah sat up fast, sheets falling from her body. “When you came back with me, you didn’t say you’d disappear at fucking dawn.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
Aaliyah laughed, sharp and humorless. “No. You didn’t want to face me. You didn’t want to look me in the eye and admit what this really is. That this mission isn’t safe. That you’re walking out into something that could kill you. And I’m supposed to stay here and pretend.” She took a breath, voice low and trembling. “You are not safe, Cruz. Not when you're out there. And when you're here… you're not safe for me either. You walk in a fire and expect me not to burn.”
Cruz swallowed. “I can’t stay.”
“Then why did you come back here?” Aaliyah demanded. “Why did you touch me like that? Did you get what you wanted? To feel something and then go die with it still on your skin?” Cruz didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
She stepped forward, crouched down, and kissed Aaliyah’s knuckles, then the hollow of her throat.
“I love you,” she murmured. “I don’t know what happens next. But if I don’t come back—”
“No.” Aaliyah grabbed her by the collar and yanked her forward, hard. “You don’t get to say a goodbye like that. No goodbye.”
Cruz buried her face in her neck, breathing her in.
“I’ll try to,” she said again, weakly.
But Aaliyah’s mouth was already on hers, wild and desperate, kissing her like it was a fight. Like her mouth could convince her to stay when nothing else could.
Her hands tore at Cruz’s shirt, yanking it open again. “Lie down,” she growled.
Cruz didn’t argue. She let herself be shoved back onto the bed, head hitting the pillow as Aaliyah climbed on top of her, straddling her thighs, bare and furious and shaking.
Their mouths crashed together, teeth, breath, tongue. Nothing gentle. Aaliyah bit her lip hard enough to sting, and Cruz moaned, one hand sliding under her thigh, squeezing tight.
“I want you to feel this when you’re bleeding in the desert somewhere,” Aaliyah hissed.
“I’m already bleeding for you,” Cruz whispered. “You think I don't? That I won't?”
Aaliyah froze for half a second, like something had cracked open inside her. Her breath caught. Her eyes searched Cruz’s face with something that looked dangerously close to tenderness. Then, slowly, deliberately, she rolled her hips against Cruz’s stomach, her slick heat dragging across bare skin, a shiver running through her as she moved.
“Then make this mean something,” she snapped.
Cruz grunted, sitting up enough to wrap an arm around her waist. “Come here,” she growled. Her mouth moved down Aaliyah’s throat, over her collarbone, then lower, teeth catching on a nipple before she sucked hard, leaving bruises in her wake. Aaliyah gasped, her fingernails dragging down Cruz’s back like claws.
She rocked against her harder now, arms trembling as she chased friction, breath broken. Cruz reached between them, sliding her fingers against Aaliyah, then inside, rough and deep. Aaliyah’s whole body bucked. She grabbed Cruz’s face, kissed her hard, teeth knocking.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Cruz didn’t. She fucked her through it, fast and aching, until Aaliyah broke apart on top of her with a guttural sob, clutching at Cruz's shoulders, grinding down as her body shook.
Cruz held her tightly, her breath still uneven, whispering her name into the hollow of her throat.
When Aaliyah finally stilled, breathing like she’d run through a warzone (maybe she had), she slipped her hand between them and shoved Cruz’s pants down just enough.
She curled her fingers inside her, fast and unforgiving.
Cruz came so hard she choked on it, her whole body tensing, back arching, hips grinding into Aaliyah’s hand.
They stayed like that, tangled. Sweat-soaked, sticky, still locked together even as Cruz’s breathing slowed, and her face twisted.
Eventually, they moved to the shower. The water was hot, almost too hot, but neither of them adjusted it. Cruz wrapped herself around Aaliyah from behind, arms loose around her middle, their bodies pressed close. They breathed together, slow and steady.
Aaliyah reached back, fingers threading through Cruz’s wet hair. Her touch lingered, then moved lower, gently massaging the base of her skull. Cruz closed her eyes, head tipping forward into the juncture of Aaliyah’s neck and shoulder, letting herself lean into it.
“You scare me,” Aaliyah whispered, so quiet Cruz barely heard it.
Cruz didn’t answer. Not at first. She just pulled her closer, arms tightening around her middle, her face buried in the crook of Aaliyah’s neck like she didn’t trust her voice. The silence stretched.
Then, finally, she spoke, her voice almost inaudible. “I wish I didn’t make you feel that way. I wish I could be the thing that makes you feel safe.”
Aaliyah’s breath hitched, her body still. And then she turned her head and kissed Cruz’s temple, soft and lingering.
When they stepped out, Cruz passed her a towel, careful not to meet her eyes.
Aaliyah climbed back into bed, damp hair curling against the pillow. She pulled the blanket up and turned her face away, gaze fixed on the far wall.
Cruz stood beside the bed, fully dressed now, boots on. She hesitated, then reached out and gently cupped Aaliyah’s chin, guiding her face toward her. She kissed her. Soft. Steady. Not a goodbye. Just a kiss.
Aaliyah didn’t move.
And this time, Cruz left.
Chapter 9: Still Breathing
Notes:
Been a few days since I updated. I have this whole thing written, I'm just going through the motions of editing. Please let me know what you think, how you're feeling, if you're shouting etc.
Hopefully a new chapter in a couple of days.
CW: violence, conflict, injuries.
Chapter Text
It had been seven weeks.
Aaliyah woke alone. The space beside her was cool and undisturbed, sheets still shaped to the absence Cruz had left behind. The silence in the apartment was complete, no soft footfalls in the kitchen, no whispered curse when the coffee machine stuck.
She rose and moved through the morning like a ghost of herself. Coffee, black. A perfunctory glance through the day’s news, and her messages. No new developments, no word, not even a courtesy lie from Joe. Just the same numb routine.
She opened the blinds out of habit. The city looked grey and wet. Below, the street hummed with distant life, horns, a child yelling.
She pressed her palm against the glass. The outside world was close now, closer than it had been in months. Her security detail had loosened. She could walk out that door. She could buy groceries.
And yet, it felt like a trick. Like the apartment itself was a cell with invisible bars.
She stayed there a moment longer, watching the light crawl over the buildings. Free, maybe. But trapped in the waiting.
--
The ground was dry and hot beneath Cruz, tall grass brushing her arms as she lay prone, eyes fixed through the scope of her rifle. A line of sweat trailed down her back, caught beneath the bulletproof vest. In her ear, static. Nothing.
Seven weeks since she’d seen her. Twelve days since her last encrypted drop. Twelve days without even a ghost of Aaliyah’s voice. She knew the silence was protocol, necessary to maintain cover. But it bit into her nerves like a splinter she couldn’t dig out.
The mission brief had been sharp and cruel. Further orders embedded in a docu-unit. Freelance. Investigating black market weapons flows through North Africa. Unpaid, but legitimate. Cruz wore a press badge now, and a camera slung against her chest that was heavier than any sidearm she’d ever carried.
For seven weeks, she’d lived in field tents and cramped safehouses. Spent days shadowing suspected traffickers under blistering sun and cold desert nights. Filmed interviews with civilians who didn’t know her name. Captured images of empty crates and dead drops while feeding intel into dead-letter systems.
She’d followed a lead from Tripoli to Zuwara to a burned-out safehouse in Tunisia. Lost two days on foot in the mountains when a militia convoy diverted the highway. She hadn’t slept more than three hours at a time since deployment began.
“Try not to do anything that’ll get you searched,” Joe had said, face like stone.
So far, she hadn’t. But the camera bag had nearly been torn apart at the Algerian border. Her fake freelance credentials held, but only just.
Now, she lay in wait, the grass still around her like breath held tight. Through the lens, a man leaned over a balcony two compounds down, a mid-level arms runner connected to Kamal’s old supply channels.
She breathed in. Held it.
A flash of memory punched through her focus, Aaliyah, eyes glossy, voice cracked: “If you die, I’ll never forgive you.”
The same words she heard every night before sleep clawed its way in. The same ache that pooled in her gut each morning when she woke still alive.
She exhaled slowly and blinked the image away.
“Focus,” she whispered to herself.
But she could still feel Aaliyah’s fingers in her hair, the echo of her breath in Cruz’s mouth.
Not now. Not yet. Stay sharp.
She adjusted the lens again and locked back in.
--
The briefing room was too cold. Aaliyah sat in the plastic chair opposite Joe, arms folded tight across her chest. She didn’t bother hiding her glare.
Joe was relaxed, annoyingly so. She stirred powdered creamer into her coffee like this was a casual catch-up.
“You’ll know when it’s finished,” she said.
Aaliyah stared at her. “That’s it?”
Joe took a slow sip. “You want a countdown? This isn’t a play. You’re not the audience.”
“I’ve been the bait,” Aaliyah said flatly.
“Not anymore,” Joe replied, setting the mug down smugly. “As of last week, Kamal’s network believes you’re dead. The explosion, the footage, the funeral montage we seeded. It all held.”
Something cold moved through her. Not fear. Not relief. Just hollow space. “He thinks I’m dead. And my family?”
“Aaliyah Amrohi is dead.”
Joe slid a slim envelope across the table. “New identity. Passport. Resume. You’ll be able to work again, freely. We’re soft lifting your protection detail. You’ll get a new place soon, if you want one. Full stipend. Clean slate.”
Aaliyah didn’t move to touch the envelope.
Joe raised an eyebrow. “You should be happy. You’re free.”
“Free to do what?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, but the words struck.
Joe leaned back in her chair, suddenly more focused. “A few weeks ago you asked what you’d be after this. We’ve had you provisionally accredited as a translator. You’re a walking intelligence asset. You’ve got five languages and no paper trail. Anyone’d kill to have you."
Aaliyah hesitated. Her voice, when it came, was low. “And Cruz?”
Joe sighed, long-suffering. “Jesus fuck. What is it with you two?”
“I love her,” Aaliyah said simply.
Joe scoffed. “Cruz is a United States Marine, unofficially seconded to my division. She’s on a temporary assignment, cleared through channels I don’t even have access to. When her enlistment’s up, she can do whatever the fuck she wants.”
Aaliyah’s hand drifted toward the envelope, fingers grazing its edge like it might burn her. She didn’t pick it up.
“Does she know that?” she asked.
Joe’s eyes softened just enough to be dangerous. “If she’s still breathing, then yeah. She’ll know.”
When Aaliyah stepped out into the hallway, the weight of the envelope in her pocket felt unreal. Like holding a stranger’s life.
She wasn’t sure who she was walking away as. Not Aaliyah.
And she didn’t know if the person she wanted to be was even alive, or if the person she wanted was alive.
--
The desert wind stilled in the early dusk, and Cruz lay flat on the rooftop, elbows braced, binoculars trained on a second-floor window across the alley. A half-burnt satellite dish creaked somewhere behind her, the only sign that time was still moving.
Inside the window, her mark paced slowly, an older man, nervous gait, bad shoulder. Not the target. But close to Kamal, which made him valuable.
Still, Cruz's focus faltered. She shifted her grip on the binoculars, and the glass caught a faint reflection, her own eyes staring back, ringed in red, bone tired.
She blinked hard. The image bled into something else.
Aaliyah. Curled beneath cotton sheets, lips parted in sleep. Cruz remembered the sound she made just before she woke, a half breath, half whimper, caught between dreaming and falling. She’d buried her face in the curve of Cruz’s neck like it was instinct, nuzzled into the warmth of her chest. Home.
She should have stopped the memory there.
Instead, her fingers twitched around the grip of her rifle, and the smell of Aaliyah’s skin came back too, warm and infuriatingly impossible.
“Recentre the feed,” Bobby’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “You’re drifting.”
Cruz stayed frozen a moment too long. Then shifted the lens left, recentering on the contact’s apartment door. No one in or out. Just shadows moving behind thin curtains.
“Still got eyes,” she replied, voice dry.
“You’re getting soft,” Bobby muttered.
Cruz didn’t answer. She was getting soft. At the edges. Fraying.
The weeks in the field had sanded her nerves raw. The only sleep she got came in slices of three hours or less, curled against equipment bags in safehouses that smelled of sweat and rust. She’d pushed cameras and drones and coded flash drives across borders that didn’t want her. Hunted men who didn’t know her name. Lost people she barely had time to know.
And every night, in the pause between mission briefings and the dark, her mind drifted back to the same questions: was she okay? Safe?
A stupid question. Not one a soldier should ask.
But it wasn’t the soldier asking. It was the woman Cruz had become in the dark, the one who knew Aaliyah’s laugh by heart. The one who had memorised the sound of her breathing, the cadence of her voice when she whispered to her when they were alone.
She adjusted her scope and sighed through her nose.
Down in the alley, a van pulled up. Still not the target. But close. She took three stills, logged the plates in her mental file, and dropped the camera back into her pack.
Back to the mission. Back to being sharp.
Aaliyah lingered like a shadow just behind her eyes.
--
The safehouse smelled of dust and oil. The fluorescent light above them flickered, casting shadows across the floor. Cruz sat on a metal bench, suiting up with mechanical precision. Knife strapped to her thigh. Pistol holstered. Hidden mic tucked into her collar. Cyanide pill checked in her pocket with a tap of her fingers.
Bobby stood in the doorway; arms folded. She watched Cruz longer than necessary.
"You sure you're steady?"
Cruz didn’t look up. She adjusted the strap of her vest and replied, "I'm sure enough."
Before they left, Cruz had folded Aaliyah’s scarf into the inside pocket of her vest. Something to hold. Something that still smelled like her.
She checked her phone out of habit. Still no signal.
The faux documentary crew was gone now. The press badges still hung around necks, but every camera had been replaced with surveillance gear. Every lens had a double purpose. Every smile was a cover. They were ghosts now, just passing through.
The job was textbook black ops: deniable, surgical, no witnesses. Kamal was the primary mark. Sami’s uncle, Rashid, the secondary. Two teams, two targets, one window. Cruz would take point inside, eliminate Kamal before he reached the meeting floor. The second team would intercept Rashid in the lower corridor. If either team failed, a drone strike would level the building. That was the fallback. Final option. Cruz knew it meant she was expendable.
She stood and gave Bobby a nod. "Good to go," she said, voice low but certain. Bobby didn’t respond right away, just gave a sharp nod back and moved aside.
The ride to the building was silent but for the low hum of the van’s engine. Cruz sat with her head leaned back, eyes closed. She thought of nothing. And of everything. Ten minutes out, Bobby tapped her shoulder and handed her a burner.
"Make the call," she said. "One minute."
Cruz hesitated, then pressed the number from memory. It rang three times. Voicemail.
She swallowed and spoke into the receiver anyway. "Hey. I miss you. I just wanted to hear your voice. Aaliyah." A pause. A shaky breath. "Aaliyah, look... we're running hot here, and I just wanted—"
Static crackled through the line.
"Yeah," she said finally, her voice rough. "I guess I just wanted to tell you that I love you. When I think of my future, it's you. Yeah. I love you."
She hung up. Slid the phone back.
Bobby didn’t say a word. She just nodded once and turned back toward the front.
They reached the drop point two blocks out. Cruz stepped into the heat, gear snug against her body, and disappeared into the flow of the street.
The building was a decaying hotel off a busy road, the kind of place with peeling plaster and crooked signage. Inside, it had been gutted and retrofitted into a private meeting space. Two entrances. Too many blind spots. Cruz had memorised the blueprints, mapped every hallway, studied the shift rotations of the guards.
She knew that Kamal would arrive first. Bobby murmured into her ear that he’d swept in like he owned the place, flanked by two men in dark suits. Gold rings on his fingers. Bodyguards scanning the exits. Same arrogant gait. Same careless confidence. He looked untouched by time or consequence.
Rashid entered ten minutes later from a back stairwell. Different floor. Different escort. His presence was quieter, colder. Not a CIA priority, but deadly in his own way.
Cruz moved. She slipped into the ventilation system from the roof access, crawling slow and deliberate through shafts that reeked of rust and dust, the metal occasionally groaning beneath her. Every movement was calculated and quiet. Efficient. She paused once, adjusted her mic, and waited for the all-clear.
Downstairs, the second team moved into position. Their target would take the lower conference room. Cruz had the upper suite.
On her forearm, the countdown ticked: 00:52:19 before the drone standby went hot. After that, any delay meant death, hers at the very least, or worse, the teams.
Cruz was in position. She crouched in the shadow of a support beam, eyes locked on the suite entrance. Bobby confirmed it, Kamal was alone.
She moved like vapor. Down the final corridor. Past the guards she’d already outpaced. Into the room.
No sound. No warning. Just presence.
Kamal looked up from the tablet in his hands. Confusion registered first, then fear. His mouth opened.
"You."
Cruz fired once. Head shot. Clean. No theatrics.
Blood dripped down his forehead, then poured onto the ornate hotel carpet like ink in water. Cruz didn’t wait. She turned. Checked the hallway. Counted her steps back toward the shaft.
The job was done. But the clock kept ticking.
On the other side of the city, static burst in Bobby’s earpiece. Then, gunfire. Short, sharp, and close.
"Shit."
Downstairs, the second team’s line went dead. The feed cut. Rashid had slipped the net. Bodyguards opened fire on approach. One agent hit. Another pinned.
Civilians flooded the corridor outside the conference room. Screams echoed. A security alarm blared.
Bobby’s heart kicked against her ribs.
"Abort second hit follow through," she snapped into the comms. "I repeat, abort. Evacuate all assets. Get them out. Now."
But her eyes flicked to the upper floor camera feeds. The suite. Kamal’s body. Empty hallway.
"Where the hell is Cruz?"
No reply.
Her mic cracked. One word, low and static-warped: "Moving."
Bobby’s pulse dropped.
Cruz was still in the kill zone.
And the drone clock was running down. 03:41 and counting.
--
Cruz heard Bobby’s voice in her ear. Clipped. Controlled. "Mission’s burnt. Strike window opens in three minutes."
Cruz stood over Kamal’s body, the smell of blood thick and metallic. She glanced up at the ceiling. There was no time. No way she’d make it to the roof.
She breathed in. Thought of Aaliyah’s voice, and ran for the stairwell anyway.
--
On the ground, fire rained.
The drone strike hit with precision. The upper floor of the hotel imploded, sending debris and smoke in every direction. Windows burst outward. Flames licked at the sky, stretching higher with every moment. A plume of ash spiralled into the clouds like a signal flare from hell.
The second team regrouped at the extraction point. Their faces were drawn, streaked with ash. Eyes wide. Ears ringing. No one spoke. They were counting heads. Hoping.
But Cruz still wasn’t there. Neither was Tex.
Bobby’s jaw locked tight, fingers twitching at her earpiece as static hissed and popped. Nothing. The building was a ruin, half collapsed, the rest groaning under the weight of its own destruction.
She gripped her comms, knuckles white.
Then, static broke. A cough. A voice.
“We’re out. She’s with me,” Tex said, breathless.
He’d pulled Cruz down a back stairwell just before the upper floors gave way. She was bleeding. Limping.
But alive. Barely.
Through the smoke, two figures emerged. Staggering. One supporting the other.
Tex. His arm slung around someone heavier than he could carry cleanly. Legs dragging. Boots scraping the ground.
Cruz.
Her vest was shredded, soaked dark with blood. A wound in her side. Another in her thigh. Her head lolled against his shoulder, unconscious, but breathing.
Still breathing.
Bobby broke into a sprint, boots kicking up scorched dirt as she met them at the edge of the blast zone. She dropped hard to her knees, skidding in beside Cruz. Her hand immediately went to Cruz’s neck, feeling for the pulse. Weak. Fast.
"Med-evac now," Bobby barked. "We need a bird."
The radio hissed and crackled before a voice finally cut through. Grim. Flat.
"Airspace is jammed. Hostiles still circling. Stand by."
"Negative on standby. She’s bleeding out. I need airlift. Repeat, I need airlift."
Nothing but static.
They moved her into what was left of a vehicle chassis nearby. The frame was scorched, metal twisted, but it gave them cover. Tex stripped off his own vest to use as a cushion, then reached for the med kit. Gauze. Bandages. A pressure syringe. Anything to slow the bleeding.
Bobby’s hands joined his, pressing into the side wound with a practiced force. Cruz’s face twisted in pain, even unconscious. Her body jolted once, then stilled again.
Blood loss was bad. Very bad.
Time melted. Bobby paced like a caged animal. Shouted. Threatened over the comms. Begged the field op for updates. Every minute that passed was a minute closer to losing her.
Tex kept whispering under his breath, talking to Cruz like she could hear him. "Don’t do this, hardass. Don’t tap out. Not like this."
Two hours passed. Then three.
Cruz’s skin had gone waxy. Her breath rattled. Bobby had to look away more than once.
Finally, finally, a roar overhead.
A chopper broke through the haze, banking hard to avoid a shell crater. Dust kicked up as it hovered low, med team already half-jumping out before they touched the ground. Stretchers. Packs. One of them reached for Cruz, checked her vitals with a quick efficiency.
"She’s still there," the medic muttered. "We can work with this."
Bobby gripped Cruz’s wrist as they loaded her onto the stretcher. There was barely a response. A twitch. A breath.
She held on anyway.
"Hang in there, Marine," she said quietly, leaning in as the rotors whined. "You're not done yet."
The stretcher lifted. Bobby climbed in after her, boots scraping metal as she hauled herself into the hold. The chopper rose into the ash-streaked sky, rotors whining above the roar of wind and sirens. She never let go of Cruz’s hand.
--
The café in Langley was quiet. Sun-washed. Too clean. Aaliyah sat alone at a corner table, a coffee cooling in front of her, untouched. Her fingers curled around the ceramic like they could draw warmth from it. Her eyes were locked on the glass door. Waiting. Hoping.
The chair scraped loudly. Joe didn’t bother with a hello. Joe sat down without warning.
Aaliyah stared. She hadn’t even seen her come in.
“It’s done,” she said simply. “We got Kamal. We even got Rashid.”
Aaliyah’s breath caught. Then Joe kept talking.
“But Cruz... we don’t have eyes yet.”
Aaliyah stood so fast her chair slammed back, crashing into the polished floor. Every patron turned. She didn’t care.
“What do you mean you don’t have eyes?” Her voice broke around the edges, sharp with disbelief. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Joe’s expression didn’t change. “Extraction was compromised. Second team failed their hit. Civilians. Gunfire. Building got levelled.”
“No.”
“She might’ve made it out. We’re checking feeds. Cross-referencing field cams and drone footage.”
Aaliyah grabbed the burner off the table and stormed past her, out the door. Joe followed. Outside, the sun was too bright. Aaliyah wanted to scream.
“She might’ve made it?” Aaliyah spun on her heel. “You sent her into a fucking death trap. You gave her clearance to call me before it started. Did you think that meant she was ready to die?”
Joe didn’t answer. A car pulled up beside them. She opened the door.
“We’re tracking the evac. Come on.”
Aaliyah hesitated, then slid in.
The drive was silent. Her throat hurt. Her palms were sweating. That morning, Cruz’s voice had been rough over the line. Hesitant. Scared.
I miss you. I just want to hear your voice…When I think of my future, it's you. Yeah. I love you.
Aaliyah blinked hard. Her jaw clenched. She would not cry. Not yet.
Inside the ops center, monitors blinked and buzzed. Footage looped. Bobby’s voice came through a feed. Wind. Shouting.
Then: “We got her. Alive. Hit bad. But breathing.”
Aaliyah collapsed into the nearest chair, all strength gone. Her hand pressed to her mouth.
Joe stood behind her, silent.
Aaliyah didn’t move. She couldn’t. For the next three hours, she sat in that chair and listened to everything.
She listened to the medics shouting for more gauze. Listened to Tex trying to keep her conscious with jokes she couldn’t laugh at. Listened to Bobby curse and plead. She heard Cruz choking on her own breath, on her own blood, again and again.
She heard Cruz's voice falter in and out of consciousness, slurred and slumped with pain, asking for water, for light, crying out for Aaliyah. Aaliyah bit into her fist to keep from screaming.
Every cry made her flinch. The silence was worse.
She gripped the table like it was a lifeline. Dug her nails in until her palms bled. There was no space for prayer. No words for hope. Just raw, silent terror.
And the grief came in waves. First denial. Then guilt. Then the sick, hollow dread that she had already heard Cruz’s last words, hours ago, over a burner phone from the other side of the world. That Cruz had said goodbye and known exactly what she was walking into.
That she had gone anyway.
When the chopper finally touched down and Bobby confirmed it, "We’re in Istanbul. She’s alive for now, they’ve got her back", Aaliyah exhaled the breath she didn’t know she was holding.
Then she let herself cry.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t quiet. It was the sound of someone who had come undone.
When she finally looked up, the sun outside had begun to set.
Chapter 10: Blood Memory
Notes:
Ah, sorry, another angsty one for now. We’ll get there, I promise.
Thank you so much to everyone who’s reading and commenting, it means more than you know. I really appreciate the time you’re taking to sit with this story.
Also, when I was drafting this chapter a few weeks ago, I ended up writing a little medical AU with Cruz as a paramedic and Aaliyah as a doctor. It’s very different in tone. Might post that one after this wraps up, let me know if you’d be keen?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The chopper bucked hard as it lifted, slicing through smoke and grit. Cruz felt everything. No morphine. No sedation. Just pressure. Blinding, unbearable pressure. Fingers, gloved and frantic, were inside her, deep in the wound at her side, holding something vital shut. She didn’t know who they belonged to. Didn’t care. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound ripped from somewhere deeper than breath. Her thigh burned. She gasped, lungs scraping, the air too thick to breathe.
“Stay with us! Stay with us!”
Voices blurred over the rotor wash. Wind howled. Her ears rang. Her blood felt hot and wrong, gushing out too fast.
Then:
“Aaliyah,” she choked out. Or thought she did. Her lips wouldn’t move. Her mouth was full of blood.
She wanted it to stop. To disappear. Please. Let it end.
Darkness closed in. Vision tunneled. Cold fingers at her ribs. The world shrank to a low, sucking roar.
Then, Bobby’s face, eyes wide, shouting something she couldn’t hear. “Stay with me, Cruz.”
Cruz blinked. Couldn’t answer. She used her name. It must be bad.
And then the dark took her.
The monitor gave a single tone, flat and piercing. “No pulse!” a medic barked. The cabin exploded into motion. “Code blue! Starting compressions, now!”
Hands slammed against her chest. One-two-three. Another hand jabbed a syringe into her thigh. “Epinephrine in!”
“Come on, Marine, stay with us.”
The rotor slowed as the chopper touched down on a rain-slick helipad above Istanbul. No more dust, just storm-washed concrete and urgency.
A weak blip stuttered across the monitor. “We’ve got her. Barely. Keep her steady.”
Langley had cleared a trauma wing. No questions. No press. Just blood, hands, and steel.
A crash team took her from the tarmac. Ten minutes later, she was opened on the table.
Arterial tear. Lung collapse. Nerve damage. The surgeon barked commands. Everyone moved like they were on borrowed time.
Bobby watched from behind reinforced glass. Her fists clenched without feeling it. She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just counted every second.
Then,
“Losing her again! BP dropping, she’s coding!”
“Flatline!”
“Charging to 200-clear!” Cruz’s body convulsed. Nothing.
“Again. 300-clear!” Another jolt.
“Still nothing. Start compressions again!”
Paddles. Chest rise. Blood pooling. Mask over her face. A war zone under fluorescent lights.
A blip. Then another. A thread-thin pulse.
“We’ve got something. Weak pulse. Keep her up.”
Hands. Voices. Blood. Too much blood. She couldn’t be sure, but Bobby’s face was wet. Silent. Set like stone.
Cruz drifted. Weightless. Disconnected. Just barely tethered.
A voice: “Hold on, Marine.” So she did.
Silence.
Then,
Laughter. Distant. Echoing. Aaliyah’s voice, sharp and teasing: “You’re the worst at this.”
Cruz turned. They were in New York, maybe. Autumn light bled through the buildings like memory. She couldn’t feel the ground beneath her.
Flash. A bed. Her hand on Aaliyah’s back. Fingers in sweat-damp curls. Her voice: "I love you. God, I love you—”
A gasp. A sob.
Darkness.
The sound of a call. Static. Her own voice, warped and far away: "Then I’ll live."
A beat.
A hallway. Endless. Whitewashed. A door. She walked. Something scraped inside her head. Pain flared, sharp and sudden, behind her eyes. A thought, no, a knot of them. Jumbled. Not yet. Not like this. Aaliyah. The mission. Pain. Stay awake. Stay alive. Just. Stay. The door opened. She fell. Back toward the sound of her name. Back toward pain.
Later, Cruz lay in ICU, wrapped in gauze and silence. Her chest rose in uneven, uncertain rhythm. Machines clicked. A drip beeped.
Bobby sat beside her. Still in field gear. Blood on her. Smoke in her hair. Watching. Waiting.
A nurse checked the monitors. “We lost her twice,” she murmured.
Bobby’s voice was a whisper. “What will it look like, if she wakes up?”
“We don’t know,” the nurse said. “We won’t until she does.”
A beat. “Can we move her?”
“Not yet. Stabilisation’s fragile. She needs time. Moving her now risks another crash.”
Bobby nodded, in acknowledgment. She didn’t take her eyes off Cruz.
--
Later, she stepped into the hallway and pulled her comm.
Joe answered. “Talk.”
“She’s out of surgery. Barely stable. They brought her back twice.”
A pause.
“What about the asset package? Did the drone take it out?”
Bobby closed her eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“I need the mission wrap, Sergeant.”
From the other end, shouting.
“You selfish, empty kalba! You never cared, never once…”
Joe hissed a curse, muffled the mic. “She’s been like this for hours.”
Another slam. A voice breaking.
Then Joe again: “Put the phone near Cruz. Now.”
“She’s unconscious.”
“Don’t care. Do it.”
Bobby returned to the ICU. Knelt. Slid the phone beside Cruz’s shoulder.
Aaliyah’s voice came through.
Arabic first. Soft. Steady. Like prayer. Like breath.
Then English.
“You don’t get to go. Not like this. You held on. So hold on longer. Be selfish. Stay.”
A pause.
“I’ll be there. I’ll love you, I promise. Don’t make me love a ghost.”
Silence.
--
The world is dark. Weightless. Shifting.
Cruz floats.
A voice. Aaliyah’s? Distant and layered. From another time. Laughing. Whispering. Sighing against her skin.
"You’re the worst at this."
"Look at me."
"It has the future we make it."
Light flickers behind her closed eyes. Shapes she can’t make out. Faces too blurred. She can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe right. There’s a hum in the room. A machine ticking rhythm. Then a long pause. Then a hiss of air. Her chest tightens.
Pain, somewhere far off. Like thunder in bone.
A nurse’s voice: “BP’s still low,” she said.
She tries to open her eyes. Nothing. Trapped, inside her head, in the dark.
More static. Cruz’s own memory bleeding in. Their last night together. Aaliyah’s breath against her throat. The quiet after.
"Have you ever been in love?"
Something sharp. Panic surges, sudden and bright. She tries to move, can’t. Tries to shout, nothing. Drowning in cotton. Trapped in a dream with no edges.
"You know you want this. You know that."
The words loop. Break. Repeat. Her mind glitches like bad radio.
A flash, red neon. A hallway. Then the restaurant. Then the room. Then blood. Hands. Aaliyah laughing.
The hum of traffic. The heat of summer pressing on skin. Aaliyah's voice, low, ragged:
"I’ll never know love, but I guess I’ll never know heartbreak either."
A sob. Not hers. Aaliyah’s.
Cruz’s hand wiping a tear away. But the tear keeps coming. Over and over.
Touch. Heat. The crash of a door. The creak of bedsprings. A body pressed close. Breath caught mid-word. Something breaking. Everything blurring.
Aaliyah’s voice again. Against her skin. Inside her ear:
"It’s all I think about."
Jasmine. Salt. Leather. Dust. Gunfire.
She can’t tell where she is anymore.
Memory or dream. Past or present. There’s no line anymore.
A heartbeat spikes. Hers? Not hers? It stutters in the background.
She’s cold. But sweating.
Then a new noise. Harsh. Mechanical.
A scream, not voice, but machine.
And then, her name.
Aaliyah’s voice: "Stay. Please. Stay."
Cruz tries to answer. Her mouth won’t open.
Dark again.
--
It was just past 4 a.m. Aaliyah was barefoot, pacing her apartment like a caged animal, shoulders tense, hair wild, her tank clinging to damp skin. The floor was cold. Her limbs felt wired with static. A half-drunk mug of coffee sat cold on the table, untouched since midnight.
Her phone lit the room in brief pulses. Missed calls. No responses.
Aaliyah had called Joe six times before sunrise. No answer. No update. Nothing since the night they told her Cruz had made it out "alive." That was the word they’d used. Then someone had bundled her into a transport and taken her back to her apartment, alone.
Alive. As if that meant anything. As if breathing and being were the same.
The seventh call didn’t go to voicemail. Joe answered.
"What."
Aaliyah nearly dropped the phone. "She’s still in surgery, isn’t she?"
Pause. Then the scrape of papers. "She’s out."
"Then tell me how she is. Is she conscious? Can she speak? Did she lose a lung? A limb?"
"She’s stable, for now."
"For now?" Aaliyah’s voice cracked into a shout. "That’s all I get?"
"She’s under observation. We’ll know more when we can."
Aaliyah’s voice dropped, hoarse and furious. "You can authorize an execution without blinking, but you can’t send one person to tell me if she is still alive?"
There was a pause. Joe’s voice came back sharp. "You’re not cleared for that intel."
"She’s not intel. She’s mine."
Silence again.
Then Joe, clipped and professional: "This isn’t safe for you. Kamal’s gone, but there are still questions. Your brother’s been digging. Your friend's uncle might have more friends. We don’t know yet. If they spot you near Turkey, we lose containment."
"He’s not my friend. And I don’t care about containment. I care if she’s-" Her voice fractured. "I need to be there."
"Your presence would compromise the team."
"I won’t let anything compromise the team," Joe said, voice strained now. "You think I haven’t fought for updates? I’m doing everything I can."
"No," Aaliyah said, trembling now. "You’re doing what’s convenient."
She hung up. Called someone else. An analyst she’d made friends with. A soft-spoken logistics liaison who once gave her a ride home.
"Hey, Rory," she said, forcing steadiness. "I know you probably can’t say, but do you know anything? I’m just trying to find out, can you get me through to Kaitlyn?"
"Aaliyah, I can’t," she said. "I’m sorry. I wish I could. But if I touch this, I lose clearance. I’ll be black-bagged."
The line went dead.
Then a text from Joe: "Can’t talk. Will update when I can. Do not speak to anyone. Sit tight."
Sit tight.
Aaliyah threw the phone across the room.
She curled onto the floor beside the couch, her knees drawn in like they could hold her together. Her eyes burned. Her hands shook.
If Cruz died, if she’d come back once, three times? Only to slip away now, then Aaliyah wouldn’t know it until someone decided it was operationally relevant.
They were keeping her in a box.
A protected asset. A useful lie.
And somewhere across an ocean, Cruz might already be gone.
The hours passed. The sky outside Aaliyah’s apartment paled into a reluctant dawn. She didn’t sleep. She didn’t try. Just watched the light change and the city stay silent. At some point, she must have moved. She was showered, dressed, jacket slung over her arm. Standing by the door like muscle memory had carried her there
She didn’t remember leaving. Only the walking. Only the ache.
The corridors were colder in the morning. Cleaner. Harsher. Her feet carried her forward before her mind caught up.
Aaliyah stood in the open doorway of a room, backlit by morning light. Her voice was steel.
"If I can't come as myself, then I’ll come as someone else. But I’m going."
Joe didn’t flinch. "If your brother finds out you're alive…"
"Then let him come," she said. "I already lost one life to this. I won’t lose hers."
Joe exhaled, long and low. For the first time, she looked tired. And for once, she didn’t argue. She just nodded once, and walked away.
--
The plane touched down in Istanbul under a gray, relentless sky. Rain tracked across the tarmac in streaked, broken lines. Aaliyah stepped off the private transport with a new name in her passport: Lila Adid. Lila, the name of her grandmother. Adid, for Cruz, because even when she couldn’t be herself, she had to be hers.
Hijab wrapped loosely around her head, oversized coat drawn tight, she looked nothing like herself. Her mouth was a hard line. Joe walked beside her, carrying a manila folder with her alias papers and a hospital address scrawled inside.
No entourage. No formalities. Just the hush of wheels and the sting of foreign air.
Neither spoke as the car pulled away from the runway.
Aaliyah stared out the window, jaw locked. Rain blurred the city lights.
Notes:
So, this one was meant to feel fragmented and disjointed. Cruz is barely hanging on, and I wanted the structure to reflect that. It’s loosely narrativised through Aaliyah’s experience, but Cruz herself has no idea what’s happening, and I tried to let that bleed through the pacing and tone.
As I said in comments. I've had this fully written for a while, so most days are me coming home from work and going through edits. I'm not sure if there'll be a chapter tomorrow, maybe the day after.
Chapter 11: Vigil
Notes:
Wanted to get this up last night, but as we are all aware, ao3 went down and we had to collectively touch grass.
Wanted to get this up this morning, but I promised my father in law that we'd reorganize his workshop.
Here we go though. I've appreciated every comment and kudos so far, it means so much to me. Thank you all.
Chapter Text
The corridor smelled like bleach and stale coffee. Aaliyah moved in a slow, purposeful line behind Joe as they passed through the secured access door, her ID checked by a guard who barely looked up. The hospital lighting was too bright, the linoleum floors too clean. Her body moved on autopilot, her mind still catching up.
Just past the final checkpoint, Bobby waited.
She stood stiffly against the wall, arms folded, eyes bloodshot, still wearing her field gear. Her shirt was crumpled, boots scuffed, and her short hair flattened in patches where she’d likely been tugging at it.
The moment their eyes met, Aaliyah stopped breathing.
Then she broke.
Her knees gave way and Bobby was there before she hit the floor, catching her, holding her tight. Aaliyah clung to her, sobbing into her shoulder, the dam bursting.
“I’ve got you,” Bobby murmured. “It’s alright. She’s here and alive. You made it.”
Aaliyah didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her chest hitched with every breath, her whole body shaking. Bobby’s arms didn’t loosen.
“Just breathe,” Bobby said, voice low and warm. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Nothing was. But somehow, the words helped.
Aaliyah hadn’t been touched since Cruz. Not truly. Not held. Not even the grounding comfort of a hand on her back. Her skin had forgotten what safety felt like.
And Bobby, Bobby, who once kept a full arm’s length of detachment, was solid around her now. Warm and present. Anchoring her like a lifeline.
She let herself be held.
Just for a moment.
Then she pulled back slowly, eyes red, breath shaky. “Take me to her, please.”
Joe nodded, and turned to lead her through dim hallways, past hushed nurses and closed-off corridors, until they reached the ICU.
Double doors swung open.
Aaliyah stopped short.
The world narrowed to the shape of a hospital bed. Her legs slowed, breath lodged in her throat.
Cruz lay still. Her chest rose in shallow intervals, just barely perceptible beneath the gauze.
Tubes snaked from her arms, across her chest. Machines murmured and blinked in steady rhythm. Her face was pale beneath a constellation of bruises. Gauze wrapped her side, shoulder, neck. She looked so far away.
Aaliyah moved closer, each step like wading through water.
Her legs threatened to give out beneath her.
She reached out with a trembling hand and brushed Cruz’s fingers. Cold. Still.
“Cruz,” she breathed.
Her voice cracked. She tried again, softer. “Habibti.”
Aaliyah leaned down and kissed her temple, once, twice, three times, one of the few places not bandaged or bruised.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, baby. I’m here with you.”
She pulled a chair closer, her knees bumping against the frame. She sat and took Cruz’s hand in both of hers, held it tight like it might vanish.
Her chest heaved, barely held in. Her forehead dropped against Cruz’s hand.
She didn’t speak again. Not for a long time.
She just held on. And stayed.
--
A few hours later, the sound of soft footsteps stirred her. Joe re-entered the room, this time accompanied by a tall, wiry trauma doctor in navy scrubs. His badge read Memorial Şişli , one of Istanbul’s most advanced trauma facilities. In his forties, with iron-grey hair and crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He carried himself with the steady, economical calm of someone who’d seen a thousand catastrophes and refused to be hurried by any of them.
Aaliyah didn’t rise. Her chair was pushed right up against the bed, her body half-draped over Cruz’s. One hand clutched Cruz’s limp fingers, the other pressed Cruz's palm gently to the side of her face. Her cheek stayed there, eyes tracking the doctor.
No one commented on the intimacy.
“Ms Adid,” the doctor said, with a faint but distinct American accent. “I’m Dr. Kline. I’ve been overseeing her care.”
Aaliyah nodded once.
“She’s stable,” he said, “but still in a medically induced coma. Her vitals have evened out. No secondary bleeds. No signs of infection.”
“And?” Aaliyah’s voice was low. Controlled.
“She’s holding steady, but she’s weak. That body took a hell of a beating. You already know we lost her twice.”
“I want to know everything,” Aaliyah said. “Her lungs? The bullet was close to her spine. Is she paralyzed? Will she wake up today? Tomorrow? Her leg?”
Kline exchanged a glance with Joe, then answered carefully. “Her left lung collapsed but reinflated. We had to reconstruct part of the tissue. She’s intubated for now, but it’s viable. No spinal damage that we can detect. The nerve clusters near her clavicle and thigh might mean some right arm and leg impairment, but we won’t know until she wakes.”
“And when will that be?”
His expression softened. “She hasn’t been brought out of sedation yet. That’ll likely happen tomorrow. After that, it’s up to her. Some bodies just… take longer to come back.”
Aaliyah nodded slowly, eyes returning to Cruz.
“I stay,” she said, gaze turning to Joe. “You’ll have to drag me out.”
Kline gave a small, understanding smile and answered instead. “We won’t. I’ll keep you updated.”
He left. Joe stayed a moment longer. Said nothing. Then gave a short nod and followed.
--
The room darkened with the fall of night. Aaliyah hadn’t moved far. She sat curled in the chair beside Cruz’s bed, her hand still cradling Cruz’s. The machines pulsed their rhythms, soft and steady.
She spoke sometimes. Whispered stories. Hummed a tune Cruz once said reminded her of home. Anything to fill the stillness.
When Bobby entered again, she was showered and changed into dark jeans, and a clean shirt. She looked like she’d scrubbed the day off her skin but couldn’t quite shake the weight behind her eyes. She held out a paper bag and a bundle of folded clothes.
Instead of saying the obvious, she offered gently, “I brought you food. Clean things.”
Aaliyah didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her.
“They said she was dealt with,” Aaliyah said finally. “After Mallorca. That’s what they said. ‘Dealt with.’ I thought she was dead. I grieved her. It was… confusing. Awful. But I did it.” Her voice broke. “I don’t know how I’ll do it again.”
Bobby pulled up the second chair and sat down, not too close, not too far.
“She’s stubborn,” Bobby said. “Too stubborn to give up now. I’ve seen her drag herself through worse. She's trained for this. Her body can take this and still come back.”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
“No,” Bobby said quietly. “She shouldn’t.”
They sat in silence a moment. Then Bobby reached across and gently took Aaliyah’s free hand.
“Eat something. Please. And there’s a shower down the hall. You’ll feel human again.”
“I can’t…”
“You can come back in five minutes. Just take five minutes to breathe.”
--
The following morning, they began to taper Cruz’s sedation. The doctors said she’d been responding well, that her body was holding on, but no one could say when she might regain awareness. Or if she would.
Two more days passed.
Sometime deep in the night, a flicker of sound pierced the quiet.
A monitor gave a high-pitched chirp.
Aaliyah stirred. She was half-asleep, slumped sideways in the chair, hand still clasped around Cruz’s. Her head snapped up.
The rhythm had changed.
Her eyes flew to the bed.
Cruz’s brow twitched. Her lips parted slightly. Her fingers flexed, and tightened gently around Aaliyah’s.
“Cruz?” Aaliyah whispered, breath catching.
Her voice must’ve cut through. Cruz’s eyelids fluttered, heavy, slow. Her mouth moved like she wanted to speak, but no sound came.
Aaliyah leaned closer, heart pounding.
“Hey,” she said softly, urgent and shaking. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. Just rest, alright? Don’t push it.”
She kissed her forehead gently, tears shining in her eyes, her free hand fumbling for the call button. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “That’s all that matters.”
Cruz’s lips stilled. Her eyes fell closed again.
The monitor settled. The moment passed.
A nurse burst in seconds later, her eyes on the screen.
“She came to?”
Aaliyah nodded, voice hoarse. “Just for a second. She squeezed my hand.”
The nurse moved quickly, checking Cruz’s vitals, adjusting the IV. “She regained brief consciousness. That’s good. That’s really good. I’ll inform Dr. Kline.”
The nurse gave a final check to the monitors, then left the room, footsteps brisk and fading.
Aaliyah stayed still for a beat longer, then rose. The walls felt too tight. Her chest too full. She stepped out into the hallway, the door closing softly behind her. Her legs wobbled as the tension finally gave way.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, and sobbed, quiet and shaking, her back against the wall.
She didn’t know if it was relief or fear. Probably both.
Bobby appeared first. She said nothing, just pulled her into a hug. Held her steady.
“She stirred,” Aaliyah said. “She squeezed my hand. Looked at me.”
Bobby’s arms tightened briefly. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
Aaliyah nodded, breath still shaky. “It’s just... real now. I didn’t let myself believe she’d come back.”
From down the hall, they heard her, Joe’s voice, firm and low, speaking with the doctors.
"I don’t care what it takes," she said. "Money is no object. Personnel, facilities, equipment. If she needs it, she gets it. This is your priority. That marine comes home."
A moment later, she stepped into the hallway with them.
Aaliyah didn’t speak to her, but she looked at her a little differently before she stepped back into the room and the vigil resumed.
She sat beside Cruz, fingers gently brushing along her forearm. Traced the faded scars. The newer ones. The curve of her knuckles.
She lifted Cruz’s hand and kissed the centre of her palm. For the first time in days, her pulse eased.
“I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m waiting. Take your time.”
--
The next morning, Aaliyah stood under the stream of a warm hospital shower, head bowed. The tiles were white and clean and silent around her. She closed her eyes and let the water run down her face, washing away the stiffness, the salt, the weight.
She thought of the last time she’d showered with Cruz, weeks ago, the night before Cruz left for the mission. Cruz had been quiet, her arms wrapped around her from behind, cheek resting against her. They hadn’t said much. Just stood there, skin to skin, hips pressed together, the slow slide of water down their backs. Aaliyah had leaned into her in silence. The tension between them had hummed low, and electric. Cruz had kissed her neck once, barely there. And whispered, “I promise. I’ll come back to you.”
Aaliyah let out a breath, remembering the feel of Cruz’s arms, her breath warm against her throat. She missed her with every nerve ending.
She dressed quickly. Slipped into the clean clothes Bobby had brought the day before. Combed her fingers through damp hair and made her way back to the ICU.
When she stepped inside, the room was quiet.
Bobby was there, seated in the chair she’d taken over at some point during the night. Her boots were crossed at the ankles, arms folded loosely across her chest. She looked up, eyes tired but warm, and gave Aaliyah a small nod.
And on the bed, Cruz was awake.
Propped slightly, her face pale, but her eyes open. Glazed a little, dulled with painkillers, but sharp enough to meet Bobby’s.
Aaliyah froze.
Cruz didn’t see her yet. She was looking at Bobby, and Bobby, who never spoke much to Aaliyah, was talking.
She turned slightly; her voice pitched low to Cruz. "Better keep an eye on her, Manuelos. We were half-convinced she’d burn the CIA to the ground if we didn’t get her across the ocean to you. You scared the hell out of us,” Bobby said, her voice quieter now. She hesitated, just a beat. “Next time... maybe try not dying.”
Cruz’s lips curved just barely. She tried to reply. Managed a tiny breath of a chuckle, but it dissolved into a cough.
“Easy,” Bobby said, reaching to adjust the pillows slightly. “Don’t push it.”
That’s when Cruz noticed her.
Her gaze shifted. Landed on Aaliyah.
She blinked, as if confirming it wasn’t a dream.
Aaliyah stepped forward slowly. Her voice trembled. "Hey."
Cruz tried to sit up more.
“Don’t you dare. Don’t move,” Aaliyah warned, tears already brimming.
“Didn’t know if you’d come,” Cruz rasped. It sounded like gravel. Like smoke and ash, and broken.
Aaliyah reached her in two more steps, dropping to her knees beside the bed.
“You really think I’d let you out of my sight again? What if you give me the slip?” she murmured. Her voice shook, but her eyes didn’t waver.
She pressed a kiss to Cruz’s forehead, hesitant at first, scared of hurting her.
Cruz didn’t hesitate. She reached up weakly, fingers tangling in Aaliyah’s shirt, and kissed her. Fully. Without care. Like she’d been waiting every second of her absence just to feel this again.
The monitor beside her beeped a little faster.
A hush settled over the room as the door creaked open.
Dr. Kline entered, brows raised, taking in the scene, the monitor’s steadier rhythm, the faint flush on Cruz’s cheeks.
Cruz didn’t speak, but nodded. Her hand remained curled in Aaliyah’s shirt, unwilling to let go.
Kline ran through the checks. Declared her stable, though still in serious condition. It was remarkable, he said, how intact she was given the injuries. The internal damage alone had been enough to kill her. Twice.
When he left, they were alone again.
“I’m still mad at you,” Aaliyah said softly, brushing a lock of hair from Cruz’s forehead.
Cruz nodded faintly.
“But I love you,” Aaliyah said. “So much it makes me furious. You can’t keep doing this, this going dark and nearly dying. I can’t keep wondering if the next call I get will tell me that my heart stopped beating somewhere across an ocean.”
“I won’t,” Cruz whispered. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just stay here, don’t leave me, please.”
She kissed her again, softly.
Chapter 12: Claimed
Notes:
Sorry for the slight delay, life’s been a little hectic lately.
I’m hoping to have the next chapter up soon, and I’ve got so many AU ideas swimming around in my head that I’m excited to explore when I've finished editing and uploading this one.
Thank you, as always, for the kudos and comments. I truly love hearing your thoughts, so please feel free to let me know what resonated (or didn’t). Your feedback means a lot.
CW: This chapter contains a PTSD episode, including panic, flashbacks, and disorientation related to combat trauma and injury.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cruz drifted in and out of sleep for hours, painkillers fogging the edges of everything. But when her eyes opened next, the light was softer. Morning. Maybe midday. Her head ached. Her side felt like it was stapled together. But she was aware, and she was alive.
Aaliyah sat beside her, a paper cup of water in hand, a straw poking out.
"Hey," Aaliyah whispered, voice hoarse with relief. "Thirsty?"
Cruz nodded, barely.
Aaliyah guided the straw to her lips, careful, steady. Cruz drank, tiny sips. Each one felt like lifting a mountain.
When she was done, Aaliyah adjusted the blanket around her, tucking it just so. Her hands lingered.
"You look like shit," Cruz rasped, her lips twitching.
Aaliyah blinked, then laughed, wet and startled. "There she is."
They stayed like that for a moment. Still.
Then Cruz’s brow furrowed. "My team?" she asked. "Who made it out?"
Aaliyah hesitated. Her hand stilled against Cruz’s.
"Tex, Two Cups, Randy, Tucker, they're okay. And Bobby too, obviously," she said. "But…" A pause. "Daniels didn’t make it. They couldn’t recover the body. But he went down in the drone strike, trying to get the others clear."
Daniels. Marine intel. Blonde. Mid-thirties. Good instincts. Always carried extra gum.
Cruz closed her eyes.
"Fuck," she whispered.
She was the lead. His blood was on her hands.
"And the family," Cruz rasped. "They know?"
Aaliyah nodded. "Joe went to them herself.”
--
Joe arrived in the late afternoon, all pressed lines and efficiency. She entered quietly, holding a sealed folder in one hand.
Aaliyah stood before she got three steps in. "She’s not ready."
Joe held up the folder like a peace offering. "This isn’t interrogation. Just briefing. Recovery timelines. Extraction protocols. What’s next."
Cruz stirred weakly. Aaliyah’s voice snapped out: "What’s next is she’s not going back into the field."
Joe’s brows lifted. "That’s not your call to make yet."
Aaliyah stepped between them. "Yes, it is."
Joe’s gaze moved from one to the other. Then she placed the folder on the tray beside Cruz’s bed.
"Inside’s your statement, the mission closure outline, and a list of conditions for a medical discharge, if you want it, and if it’s approved. Also, the unofficial cost ledger."
Cruz frowned. "Cost?"
"Bodies. Assets. Favours called in. Every life. Every favour. Every compromise. What it took to keep you breathing."
Joe gave them one final look. "You’ve both earned time. Take it. We’ll talk when you’re back stateside. Bobby will keep checking in."
And she left.
Aaliyah stared at the folder, jaw tight. Cruz reached weakly for her hand.
"I’m sorry," she whispered. "For everything."
Aaliyah didn’t answer. Not yet. She just watched her. Then her fingers curled tighter around Cruz’s.
--
That night, Aaliyah sat curled up beside Cruz, one leg folded beneath her, thumb tracing light circles on the inside of Cruz’s wrist.
"You should sleep," Cruz murmured.
"So should you."
Silence stretched.
Cruz’s voice cracked the quiet. "I didn’t think I deserved you. Not after Mallorca."
Aaliyah's lips parted. Her throat worked. "You didn’t."
Cruz flinched.
Aaliyah leaned in. "You burned my whole world to the ground. And I still came to you. I love you. I loved you as Zara Adid. I love you as Cruz Manuelos. I love you. So. There’s that."
Cruz let out a weak laugh. It turned into a wince. But she smiled.
Later, Aaliyah helped her to the bathroom. Cruz could stand, just barely. The warm water of the shower steamed the room. Aaliyah steadied her, stripped her hospital gown slowly, reverently.
Cruz leaned her forehead to Aaliyah’s. They stood close. Breath to breath.
Aaliyah ran a cloth gently down Cruz’s spine. Washed her carefully, wordlessly. Her hands lingered on her shoulders, her ribs, the curve of her hip. No urgency. Just care.
Cruz turned in her arms. Rested against her. Naked but untouched. Skin against cotton.
"I missed you," Cruz whispered.
"I know," Aaliyah said.
And they just stayed like that.
--
Somewhere deep in the night, Cruz woke with a ragged gasp, lungs seizing. Her hands clawed at her chest, tearing at the bandages beneath her shirt.
“Fuck. Fuck, I’ve been hit!”
She tried to sit. Pain tore through her ribs.
“Pressure. I need pressure. Where the hell’s my vest? My vest!”
The room spun. Too soft. Too quiet. Sheets, not dirt. No smoke. No screaming. Wrong.
Her breathing quickened, sharp, panicked.
“Aaliyah!”
Then louder. “Aaliyah! Move! You have to go. Please. You need to get out. Please!”
She was half up now, swaying, fists tangled in the sheets.
“There’s another strike. Move—RUN—”
Then, in panicked Arabic: “Aaliyah, run! Please, go!”
Aaliyah was already there, barefoot, heart pounding. She’d jumped up from the cot they’d tucked beside Cruz’s bed at the first yell.
“I’m here. Cruz, I’m right here. You’re safe.”
“NO.” Cruz shoved at her arms. “Get OUT! I saw it hit… I couldn’t… please, I tried.”
Aaliyah’s eyes shone with unshed tears as she reached for her, voice breaking around the edges. “Cruz. Look at me. Look at me.”
But her eyes were wild. Her voice cracked wide open.
“I can’t feel my leg. Too much blood. I didn’t clear the—I was—Aaliyah! Please, go.”
She jolted at Aaliyah’s touch, arms flailing. “Don’t touch me! I don’t know if we made it. I’m dying.”
Footsteps pounded in the hall. The door burst open as nurses rushed in.
“She’s dreaming,” Aaliyah said quickly. “It’s a nightmare. She’s not awake.”
Cruz ripped at her IV. “Don’t sedate me. I swear to God. Don’t fucking sedate me. I’ll fucking die.”
A nurse stepped forward. Cruz flinched, glassy-eyed.
Then again, desperate, in Arabic: “I’m going to die. Don’t leave me alone.”
“No. Go, Aaliyah, please,” she begged. “It’s not safe. Run. Aaliyah, RUN.”
Aaliyah climbed onto the bed behind Cruz and wrapped her arms around her. One hand pressed against Cruz’s side, firm and steady, holding pressure like muscle memory. The other threaded into her hair, smoothing it gently.
“She’s caught in the memory,” Aaliyah said, voice trembling. “But I’ve got her. She’s safe.”
Cruz collapsed against Aaliyah. Her body buckled like a landslide, all slack limbs and breathless weight. She clung to Aaliyah, shaking.
“I felt it. I felt it hit me. It tore through me. The heat. I thought that was it. Aaliyah, please. I think I'm dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Aaliyah whispered. “You’re here. With me. I've got you.”
“I can’t stop hearing it,” Cruz said. “It won’t stop. I can't stop feeling it.”
“You’re not dying, habibti,” Aaliyah said, fierce and soft all at once. “You’re safe. Stay here with me.”
She kissed Cruz’s temple. Her fingers stayed in Cruz’s hair as she pressed her cheek to hers and held on.
--
The light in the room had shifted by the time Cruz stirred again. Grey-blue and soft-edged in the early morning haze.
She blinked, slow and dry-eyed, awareness catching up one piece at a time. The ache in her ribs. The tug of bandages at her side. The weight of exhaustion behind her eyes.
And then the warmth.
Cruz had ended up on her side, her bandaged ribs propped gently against a wall of pillows. Aaliyah had settled into the narrow space behind her, limbs curved in carefully. One arm wrapped across Cruz’s middle, the other tucked beneath her head, cradling it close to her collarbone. It wasn’t perfect. Too tight. Far too small. But it was safe, and warm.
Cruz had fallen asleep like that, fists curled in Aaliyah’s shirt, her breathing shallow but steady. Aaliyah hadn’t moved all night. She just held her. Murmured soft reassurances when Cruz whimpered. Pressed her hand firm when the tremors came. Kissed her brow, again and again.
By morning, they hadn’t shifted. Cruz was still nestled against her chest, cheek tucked beneath Aaliyah’s jaw. One of her legs had slid over Aaliyah’s thigh sometime in the night. She looked small. And alive.
Aaliyah kept her arms locked gently in place, thumb stroking slow circles over her sternum like a tether.
Cruz shifted slightly. Aaliyah stirred immediately.
“You okay?” Aaliyah murmured, voice sleep-rough, her hand instinctively smoothing down Cruz’s side, fingers brushing lightly across the edge of a dressing.
Cruz nodded. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Aaliyah didn’t answer right away. She pressed a kiss to Cruz’s temple, lips warm against her skin, and just stayed there, breathing her in.
“I didn’t want to leave you,” Aaliyah said finally, voice barely audible. “Not after last night.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Cruz whispered.
“Please don’t be sorry.” Aaliyah said against her temple, finishing her sentence with a kiss.
They stayed like that a while longer. No hurry. No rush. Just the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat. Cruz let herself melt into the warmth. Into the safety she rarely allowed herself.
Aaliyah's hand found Cruz’s again and held it between both of hers. She brought it to her lips. Kissed her knuckles, then pressed their joined hands back to Cruz’s chest, right over her heart.
Cruz’s eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, it felt like the only thing in the world was this, the weight of Aaliyah’s body against hers, the certainty of her touch, the breath against the side of her neck.
Eventually, Cruz stirred. “You should shower. Eat something.”
Aaliyah didn’t move.
“I’m okay,” Cruz said softly. “I promise. I’ll be right here.”
Aaliyah exhaled slowly, still searching her face for any sign of collapse.
Then she nodded. She pulled away carefully, like she was untangling from something fragile. She sat up, tucked the blanket back around Cruz’s body, checked the bandages at her side with deft fingers.
“You’re sure?”
Cruz gave the smallest smile. “Yeah.”
Aaliyah’s lips twitched. She stood, shrugged on her jacket from the back of the chair, and padded to the door.
“Hey,” Cruz called softly.
Aaliyah turned.
“Thank you.”
Aaliyah’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to thank me, habibti. I love you.”
--
Later, Bobby entered, a protein smoothie in one hand, a dog-eared paperback novel in the other.
"This was all they had," she muttered, nodding at the drink.
She tossed the book gently on the tray table, some old crime thriller, its spine barely intact.
"It’s trash," she added. "But you’ll live."
Cruz offered a small smile. "Thanks."
Bobby hesitated, then pulled the nearby chair a few inches closer. She didn’t sit, just leaned against the wall, arms folded.
"You scared the shit out of us," she said quietly. "I know I’ve said it before, but I strongly discourage taking the full brunt of a strike."
Cruz huffed a tired laugh. "Noted."
They were quiet a moment. Then Bobby looked at her, really looked.
"You’re always part of the team. Doesn’t matter if you’re benched, out of contact, or ready to walk away. We’re your family. Even if you don’t want us to be, we still are."
Cruz swallowed.
Bobby watched her for another beat, then said, softer this time, "It’s okay if it’s time to tap out. You don’t have to keep pushing just because you’ve always had to."
Cruz looked away, throat tight.
Bobby didn’t press. She just set the smoothie down beside the bed.
"Drink that. Try the book. Rest up. We’ve got you."
And then she left.
--
It had been nearly three weeks since the mission, since Cruz had died twice. The bruises on her torso had started to fade to sickly yellow greens, but her lungs still ached with every deep breath. The risk of pulmonary embolism meant she was grounded, no flights, no strenuous movement without clearance. Her days were a steady cycle of short walks, breathing exercises, and a kind of physical therapy that left her soaked in sweat and humiliation.
Recovery, it turned out, was its own kind of war. And Cruz was losing her patience.
The private clinic near Şişli had cleared out a rehab room just for her. The view was half-decent, patches of cityscape, the suggestion of water in the distance, but the real show was inside. That morning, like every morning for the last week, Cruz sat perched on the padded bench, jaw tight, sweat soaking through the grey tank she’d tugged over bandages and healing scars. Her cane leaned against the wall beside her, unused for now.
“You’re doing great, tough guy,” said Doctor Maya Delgado, her voice an easy California drawl. “That’s three more steps than yesterday. And only one more ‘fuck.’ You’re practically a saint.”
Cruz gave her a flat look.
“I’m serious, superstar,” Maya said with a grin. She was in her late twenties, maybe. Short, compact, all lean muscle and relentless cheer. Her auburn curls were pulled into a tight bun, and she had the kind of boundless energy Cruz usually associated with explosives.
She bounced slightly on her feet, clipboard in one hand, the other resting lightly on Cruz’s shoulder. “You’re strong as hell. Most people in your condition wouldn’t be upright. You’re already a damn miracle.”
Cruz exhaled sharply. “I don’t want to be a miracle. I want to walk across a room without feeling like I’m drowning.”
Maya’s smile softened. “And you will. But your lungs took a big hit, and your thigh’s still healing. You’ve got to let yourself rebuild.”
Cruz clenched her jaw, twitching with restrained frustration.
“I know patience isn’t your thing,” Maya added, voice gentler now. “But you’ve got grit. And hey, bonus? You get to hang out with me every morning.”
She winked, then leaned in slightly to adjust Cruz’s posture, her hand pressing low on Cruz’s back, guiding.
Cruz flushed. Just slightly.
“Careful, I bite,” Cruz muttered.
“Oh, honey, I’m counting on that.”
Cruz blinked, unsure whether to laugh or fake a coughing fit.
That’s when the door opened.
Aaliyah stepped into the room, her heels soft against the polished floor. She was in slate grey slacks and a fitted navy blouse, her hair neatly pinned back from her face. She paused at the threshold, her eyes sweeping the room.
Her gaze landed first on Cruz, bandaged, sweating, still seated. Then on Maya, standing far too close, hand still low on Cruz’s back.
Cruz didn’t miss the subtle shift in Aaliyah’s posture, the way her shoulders squared, the tension that pulled tight in her jaw.
Doctor Delgado straightened but didn’t step back. “Hey,” she said brightly. “We were just finishing up. She’s doing amazing.”
Aaliyah’s eyes didn’t move from Maya. “Doctor Delgado.”
“Please,” Maya said, oblivious or pretending to be. “Call me Maya.”
Aaliyah ignored that completely. She crossed the room, her steps measured, and came to stand beside Cruz’s chair. Her hand found Cruz’s shoulder, warm and deliberate. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Cruz’s temple, soft, lingering. Her lips brushed just beneath her hairline.
Cruz’s breath caught.
Aaliyah pulled back only slightly. “How did you go, habibti?”
Cruz looked up at her, surprised at the endearment. “Okay. I think.”
“She’s underselling it,” Maya chimed in. “Even with the scar tissue and muscle fatigue, she’s pushing through like a champ.”
Maya added, glancing toward Aaliyah, “She’s tough. And she’s got someone to fight for. That helps more than physio sometimes. She’ll be back at full strength in no time, my hands are that good.”
“Is that so?” Aaliyah said, still not looking at her.
Maya grinned. “Let’s just say I’ve got a reputation.”
“I’m sure you have,” Aaliyah said. Her voice was smooth and polished. Sharp as a blade.
“Jesus,” Cruz muttered, rubbing her eyes. “You two want to take it outside, or...?”
Maya laughed. “Oh, we’re good. This isn’t even my final form.”
Cruz didn’t answer. She was still caught on the word Aaliyah kept using, again and again, habibti. It hadn’t come out in over a week. Not since the night she’d woken from that nightmare, shaking and gasping, only to find Aaliyah there. Arms around her. Holding her together.
Aaliyah finally turned to Maya, her eyes sharp. “We’re done for today, aren’t we, Doctor Delgado?”
Maya blinked and looked to Cruz. “Sure. Unless you want to try one more lap?”
“She doesn’t,” Aaliyah said gently, her tone brooking no room for argument. “She’s tired.”
Cruz’s throat worked, but she nodded.
Maya stepped back finally, collected her clipboard. “Alright, tough guy. Same time tomorrow. Rest up.”
She lingered for a second, then added with a grin, “Might be time to try that warm shower trick I mentioned. Gets the blood moving, helps with the soreness.”
Aaliyah’s hand slid down Cruz’s arm, fingers threading between hers. “Oh, we’re very willing to accommodate that,” she said lightly, eyes locked on Maya’s. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
Cruz, oblivious to the undercurrent, just blinked. “Uh. Okay.”
Maya raised a brow, amused. “Great. See you both tomorrow.”
As she left, Aaliyah moved to crouch in front of Cruz, her hands ghosting over her knees before settling on her thighs.
“You okay?” she asked, low.
Cruz looked down at her, eyes searching. “I’m getting there.”
“You’re doing what you need to. Healing takes time.”
Cruz gave a brittle laugh. “You sure? Because I feel like a mess.”
“You’re not a mess,” Aaliyah said.
Cruz leaned forward, their foreheads touching. Her hands slid into Aaliyah’s hair, careful, reverent.
“I hate being this weak.”
“You’re not weak, Cruz,” Aaliyah said. “You’re healing.”
They stayed like that for a moment, breathing together. The room felt warmer suddenly.
“I see the way she looks at you,” Aaliyah murmured finally.
Cruz blinked. “Who?”
Aaliyah gave her a look.
“Oh,” Cruz said, then winced. “It’s not like that. She just…talks.”
“Mm.”
“She called me a miracle today.”
Aaliyah turned to her, voice soft but certain. “You are my miracle, habibti. So she can get in line.”
Cruz smiled, despite herself.
“Come on,” Aaliyah said, standing. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She helped Cruz to her feet, their bodies brushing. Cruz leaned heavier on her than she meant to, but Aaliyah didn’t seem to mind. She slipped an arm around her waist, steadying, grounding.
They walked slowly down the hall to the rehab wing’s private bathroom, one careful step at a time.
Aaliyah reached in and turned on the water, testing the temperature with her wrist. Steam started to rise as the room began to fill with warmth.
She helped Cruz out of her tank and the loose sweatpants she wore, careful around the dressings. Cruz moved with effort, gritting her teeth with each shift.
Aaliyah shed her own clothes quickly and stepped into the shower first, then extended a hand.
When Cruz joined her, the water hit her back and she let out a soft sigh. Aaliyah stood behind her, arms circling around her waist, pressing her lips to the back of Cruz’s shoulder.
Cruz turned in her arms slowly, their fronts now pressed together. Her hands slid down Aaliyah’s sides, deliberate, reverent. One rose, cupping her breast with aching slowness. Aaliyah’s breath hitched.
“I want you,” Cruz whispered, voice low and cracked. “So badly it’s making me crazy.”
Aaliyah’s hands curled around her arms, steadying. “You’re not cleared for that yet, sweetheart.”
Cruz’s hand slipped back down, but her mouth found the curve of Aaliyah’s neck, pressing, tasting, open-mouthed and desperate. “But I miss you.”
“I’m right here,” Aaliyah breathed, but her voice faltered.
“I want to feel you,” Cruz said again, more like a confession than a plea. “I want to touch you and know you’re real.”
Aaliyah made a quiet sound, almost a whimper. “You don’t play fair.”
“I’m not trying to,” Cruz murmured. She kissed along her collarbone, slow and raw. “I just want you.”
Aaliyah’s hands caught her face. Held it. Her thumbs brushed Cruz’s cheekbones, her eyes dark and steady. Then she kissed her, deep, hungry, like she’d been holding it back for weeks. She kissed her until Cruz went still, breathless and aching.
Then she broke the kiss, just enough to speak, voice rough with restraint. “Please don’t think I don’t want you, Cruz. I do. I want you so badly it’s unbearable sometimes.”
She stroked her fingers down Cruz’s jaw, kissed the corner of her mouth.
“But I need you to heal. I won’t risk making it worse.”
Another kiss, slow and aching.
“We wait. Just a little longer. Not because I don’t want this. But because I do, so badly.”
Cruz exhaled shakily, forehead resting against hers. “Okay.”
Notes:
Thanks again for reading. Please let me know your thoughts.
Chapter 13: Trying to Breathe
Notes:
Chapter 13. Wow. One more to go, then maybe an epilogue? Feel like they deserve an epilogue.
Content Warnings: Medical trauma and recovery, brief reference to past death and resuscitation, mobility issues and physical vulnerability, feelings of inadequacy and self-worth.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
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."
Notes:
Please let me know what you think. I love to read your thoughts, and predictions. Thanks for sticking with me this far.
I only have a few weeks before I go back to teaching and writing (non-fiction, unfortunately), so I'm going to try and immediately get onto my medical AU.
Chapter 14: Release
Notes:
Thank you so much for sticking with me. I know it hasn’t felt long for you, but I started writing this months ago. This pairing pulled me right back into wanting to imagine happy endings, and it pulled me back into writing again. I have so many little one shots, and story plans that I've together since I watched this series.
They mean a lot to me.
Please, please let me know what you think.
Epilogue to follow.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the kitchen, the clatter of dishes had quieted. The scent of cooked vegetables and omelettes lingered faintly in the air. Bobby dried her hands on a tea towel, slung her bag over her shoulder, and gave Cruz a long, knowing look. Then her eyes flicked to Aaliyah.
"Alright," Bobby said. "I’m out."
She didn’t linger, or offer any more advice. Just gave a nod that felt like both a warning and a blessing.
Cruz watched her go. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence bloomed in her absence, thick but not uncomfortable. Just... waiting.
Two plates still sat on the table, half-finished. Cruz shifted in her seat, turning slowly toward Aaliyah.
"I don’t need until tomorrow," she said.
Aaliyah didn’t move. Just looked at her, guarded but open.
Cruz took a breath that trembled at the edges. "I was scared. And it came out wrong. Ugly. I thought I was losing myself, and I made it about losing us. I let being scared make me cruel. I'm sorry."
Aaliyah said nothing. Her face didn’t change.
Cruz kept going.
"It wasn’t the pain. Not the injuries. It was waking up and thinking maybe I’d come back as someone you couldn’t love anymore. That I’d broken something inside myself that you wouldn’t recognise."
Still, Aaliyah stayed silent.
Cruz’s voice dropped, thick with emotion. "But I love you, Aaliyah. I’m in love with you in the way that it hurts to breathe when you’re not near me. I miss you even when you’re in the next room. My body aches for you, I crave you. I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t even want to pretend I’ve got a plan. But I know this, I don't want to imagine it without you."
The silence held. Then Aaliyah stood.
Cruz flinched, but didn’t drop her gaze.
Aaliyah crossed the room without a word. She knelt, took Cruz’s hands gently in hers, and held them like something fragile.
"You didn’t break us," she said, voice low. "I'm bruised. Just a little, but we're not broken.”
She paused, then added, quieter still, "I’ve been bleeding too. Not just from this. From holding everything in. From trying to be enough while feeling you slip away anyway."
Cruz’s breath shuddered. She looked down at their joined hands, then up into Aaliyah’s eyes.
"I’m sorry," Cruz said again. "For all of it. For shutting you out when you were trying to keep me together. For making you wait like that."
Aaliyah leaned forward. Their foreheads met, breath mixing.
"Then maybe we stop trying to be brave and just let ourselves exist. Love each other. Right here. As we are."
Cruz gave a faint, broken laugh. Her thumb brushed over the back of Aaliyah’s hand.
"I’m not fixed," she said. "But I love you. I'm yours."
Aaliyah whispered, "That’s all I needed to hear."
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time, not anymore. It hummed with something softer, tentative, warm. Cruz’s hand lingered against Aaliyah’s. Their fingers curled tighter, not pulling, not pushing. Just holding onto each other.
Cruz didn’t realise she’d moved until Aaliyah’s hand cupped her jaw. She looked up from her plate, half-eaten dinner gone cold, and found Aaliyah watching her.
Cruz stood first. It wasn’t graceful. Her thigh ached, her balance was shit, but she didn’t care. Aaliyah was still kneeling in front of her, hands in hers. Cruz touched her shoulder, then used her good arm to gently pull Aaliyah up to her.
Aaliyah rose slowly, matching her. Their faces were close. Breath to breath.
The kiss started in the kitchen.
It was slow at first, apologetic and searching, but it shifted fast. It deepened, darkened. Cruz’s teeth grazed Aaliyah’s bottom lip, then caught it between her own. Her tongue followed, demanding, dirty. It was a kiss that said I’m sorry, I need you, and I want you spread open under me, all at once.
Aaliyah moaned into it, hips arching forward. Cruz swallowed the sound. Her fingers threaded into Aaliyah’s hair, tugging, guiding. It was messy. Filthy. Beautiful. A kiss that tore through weeks of grief and silence like a match to kindling.
Cruz shifted, crowding her until Aaliyah’s back hit the wall. She braced there, breath catching as Cruz’s hand landed beside her head. Her other hand slid down, under Aaliyah’s shirt, fingers splaying across bare skin.
Aaliyah gasped, rocked against her. Their bodies pressed close. Cruz kissed down her neck, teeth scraping the skin just below her ear.
“Bedroom?” she asked, voice wrecked.
Aaliyah’s eyes were glassy, blown wide. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Now.”
They didn’t waste time. Clothes were tugged off in the hallway, shirts half-peeled, pants kicked away. Aaliyah guided her, steadying her when Cruz faltered.
The bedroom was dim, in the evening light. Cruz sank onto the mattress, breath catching with the effort. Aaliyah followed, kneeling over her, kissing her again.
"I want you," Cruz whispered. "I want you so badly. I've wanted you for so long."
Aaliyah’s hands slid to her waist. “Then have me,” she said, voice trembling. “You’ve always had me.”
Cruz kissed her like she meant it, like the world would stop spinning if she didn’t.
They moved with care, but with urgency, hands rediscovering skin they knew by memory. Aaliyah helped Cruz lie back. She climbed over her, kissed her jaw, her collarbone, the slope of her breast. Cruz gasped, arching into it.
Fingers found heat, slick and ready. Cruz moaned, long and low. Aaliyah touched her like a prayer, like a promise. She dipped her head and licked across a nipple, then lower. Cruz’s thighs parted, eager, trembling. She didn’t care that she was shaking. Didn’t care that her leg ached with her need.
Aaliyah’s mouth replaced her hand. Cruz bucked, head falling back against the pillow as her fingers tangled in Aaliyah’s hair, holding her close.
“Fuck,” Cruz groaned. “Don’t stop.”
Aaliyah didn’t. She licked and sucked and moaned right back against her until Cruz shattered, crying out, breathless. Her whole body clenched. A sob slipped free, of relief, not pain.
When it passed, Aaliyah slid back up and kissed her gently, lips swollen, eyes soft.
Cruz tugged her gently, kissed her hard, and began guiding her up. "Come here," she said, voice low and rough, hand curling around Aaliyah’s hip. Her voice was thick with need. "Up here. I want you, like this. Let me taste you."
Aaliyah’s breath hitched. She didn’t say a word as she moved, slow and graceful, straddling Cruz with practiced ease, her thighs braced either side of Cruz’s face. Cruz lay back, jaw slack in awe, her hands gripping Aaliyah’s thighs as she adjusted herself. One of Aaliyah’s hands braced on the headboard, the other steadying herself as she lowered herself to Cruz’s mouth.
Cruz moaned into her, devouring like she’d been starving for this. Every flick of her tongue, every guttural sound, was an offering. She clutched at Aaliyah’s thighs, drawing her in, kissing deeper, harder, until she felt Aaliyah start to quake above her. She didn’t let up, didn’t stop until Aaliyah was sobbing her name, her body taut, voice cracked and shuddering. It was raw and reverent and everything they'd been too afraid to ask for. It was surrender. A claiming. An unspoken vow sealed with sweat and gasps, with whispered pleas and shaky exhalations, with every ounce of ache undone in each other’s arms.
Cruz held her thighs, gripped them. She was slow, deliberate with her movements. Aaliyah’s head fell back, a moan ripping from her chest.
She rocked gently, fingers curling into the headboard, riding the rhythm of Cruz’s mouth. Her knees trembled, thighs tightening.
“Cruz,” she gasped. “Fuck. Yes, just like that.”
Cruz moaned into her, relentless. Tongue circling, teasing, plunging. Aaliyah’s whole body shook. She came with a cry, loud and desperate, grinding against Cruz’s mouth as she fell apart.
Cruz didn’t let go. She held her steady, coaxing her through the aftershocks, until Aaliyah sagged forward, boneless and panting.
Eventually, they moved, slowly and gently, into the bathroom. The shower was short, just warm water and quiet hands.
Aaliyah helped her towel off, kissed a scar near her collarbone. Cruz didn’t say much, just let Aaliyah love her.
Cruz sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, legs parted, head dipped slightly as Aaliyah examined the healing wound along her side. Her fingers moved carefully over the bruised ribs. Cruz flinched, a sharp breath catching in her throat, but didn’t pull away. Aaliyah paused, then gently placed a steadying hand against her neck.
“I’m so, so relieved that you’re here. You’re alive,” Aaliyah said softly. Her other hand came up, thumb brushing tenderly across Cruz’s bottom lip. “You came back to me.”
Cruz swallowed hard. She didn’t speak, just nodded, eyes fluttering shut as she fought tears. Then she leaned into Aaliyah’s touch, lips brushing softly against the pad of her thumb, a silent apology, a promise.
Aaliyah’s thumb lingered, just for a second. “I was so afraid I’d never get to touch you again.”
Cruz opened her eyes, meeting hers without hesitation. “You will,” she said, voice steady. “Every day. I’m done, Aaliyah. No more suicide missions. No more playing invincible. I just want this. I just want you.”
Aaliyah’s breath trembled. She nodded once, eyes shining.
She moved behind her with a towel, drying Cruz’s hair in slow, unhurried motions. Cruz closed her eyes. Her body hurt. But it didn’t feel like punishment anymore.
When the sheets were pulled back, Cruz lingered at the side of the bed.
“You’re staying here, with me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Please. Don’t sleep apart from me again. I can’t do that anymore.”
Aaliyah turned, met her eyes. Didn’t answer right away, just nodded again, quiet and certain. Then she slipped beneath the covers, settling into the bed with a soft exhale and turned slightly, waiting. Cruz eased in after her, careful and slow, then let herself curl into Aaliyah’s side. Her head settled against Aaliyah’s chest, one arm draped over her waist. Aaliyah shifted to hold her there, steady and warm, fingers brushing lightly through Cruz’s damp hair.
She tucked the blankets over them both and whispered, “There’s nowhere else I want to be.”
They lay still in the quiet, Cruz’s breath beginning to slow, syncing to the rise and fall of Aaliyah’s chest. Aaliyah’s hand traced gentle, idle lines along her spine. Cruz pressed her face in closer, eyes fluttering shut like she was finally letting herself rest.
Cruz shifted slightly, voice soft and raw. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
Aaliyah smiled faintly, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered, “I know.”
Cruz let herself sink into it, into Aaliyah’s body, her arms, her steadiness. Her cheek rested over Aaliyah’s heart, where the rhythm was strong and even. One of Aaliyah’s hands stroked lightly along her back. The other stayed tucked in Cruz’s hair.
Neither of them spoke for a while. There was nothing left to say, to explain. Just shared breaths, and skin and a quiet peace, finally.
Later, still wrapped around each other, Cruz shifted again, voice barely audible.
“We’ll be okay, won’t we?”
Aaliyah didn’t answer at first. She tilted her head, brushing still-damp strands from Cruz’s forehead. Her gaze was soft, searching, and whatever she saw there made her chest rise with something akin to relief.
She kissed the corner of Cruz’s mouth. Then her temple. Then her lips, slow and reverent.
“Yes, habibti,” she murmured. “We’ll be more than okay.”
Cruz closed her eyes, one hand fisted gently in Aaliyah’s shirt, the other resting against her side. The world outside the room could wait.
For now, they had this.
And it was enough.
Notes:
Thank you all so much. It means a lot to me.
I have a medical AU underway at the moment, jump on over there and let know your thoughts!
Chapter 15: Ölüdeniz
Notes:
It’s been such a pleasure writing this story. Thank you for being here with me along the way. I’m really glad I got to give them my version of a happy ending.
As always, feedback is so appreciated.
I have another story on the go for these two. I imagine I have a few one shots in me as well. Looking forward to hearing what you think!
Chapter Text
The sun had just started to drop when they reached the edge of the beach, casting everything in the kind of gold that made even Cruz stop and take a breath.
“Is this it?” Aaliyah asked, pausing just off the path, where stone gave way to sand. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and squinted at the water.
Cruz kicked off her sandals and let her toes sink into the heat-soaked sand. “Yeah. This is it.”
The Blue Lagoon wasn’t what Aaliyah had pictured, she’d imagined something more remote, more untouched. But this was better. The water curved inward, sheltered by hills, its turquoise surface scattered with boats and the distant silhouettes of swimmers. Kids laughed somewhere to their left. Someone was playing music. The smell of salt and sunscreen drifted up on the breeze.
Aaliyah crossed her arms. “Okay. Now tell me why, of all the places on earth, you wanted to come back to Turkey.”
Cruz didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head back, letting the sun soak into her scarred shoulder. “You remember that day in Chesapeake?” she asked eventually. “When you said there was a beach in Ölüdeniz that was like heaven?”
Aaliyah blinked. “That was over four years ago.”
“I remember everything you told me,” Cruz said, stepping closer. Her hands found Aaliyah’s hips like it was muscle memory. “You said your fantasy was to be ravaged on that beach.”
Aaliyah gave a short laugh, incredulous. “Ravaged? I said that?”
Cruz turned toward her, brushing a strand of hair behind Aaliyah’s ear. “You looked out at the water and said, ‘My great fantasy is to be ravaged on that beach.’ You told me about the Blue Lagoon, and how it was heaven. And then, maybe thirty seconds later, you started talking about babies. About the world letting you get fat.”
“I must’ve been delirious.”
Cruz leaned in, lips brushing Aaliyah’s ear. “Well, sweetheart,” she murmured, “I brought you here to ravage you.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow, though her smile was already spreading. “You don’t need to drag me halfway across the planet to fuck me, Cruz.”
“No, but dragging you is half the fun.”
She stepped back a little then, glancing at the water, but her tone stayed soft. “Did you ever think about that again?”
“Think about what?”
“The baby thing,” Cruz said, still looking out toward the sea. “Getting fat. Having something soft, and yours. Once you were safe.”
Aaliyah tilted her head, questioningly. “You remember everything I say?.”
Cruz finally looked back at her. “Yeah. And I was just wondering if you want that.”
Their hands brushed, then settled together, fingers tangling. Cruz’s wedding band caught the light, just briefly, a flicker of gold against sun-warmed skin.
Aaliyah was quiet. Then: “Are you asking me if I want a baby?”
“I’m asking if we’d want one. Eventually.” Cruz shrugged, trying to keep it casual, but her voice went a little quieter. “I want to make every dream you have reality.”
Aaliyah didn’t say anything right away. She looked back out over the water, the lagoon turning rose-gold as the sun dipped, and then down at their hands, her thumb absently running over the slim band on Cruz’s finger.
When she looked up again, her eyes were steady. “You’d be a good parent.”
Cruz blinked, caught off guard. “You think so?”
“You’re patient. You’re kind. You notice the small things. And you make people feel safe.” Aaliyah’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Even when you don’t feel steady.”
That coaxed a crooked smile out of Cruz. “That’s a pretty good start, isn’t it? You’d be amazing.”
Aaliyah laughed softly. “I think when we’re home, and we have the time to really think about it... let’s talk. Let’s look into it.”
“Yeah?”
Aaliyah leaned in, pressed her lips lightly to Cruz’s. “Yeah.”
Cruz kissed her back, slow and certain, the way she always did when something quiet inside her settled.
Then Aaliyah pulled back just enough to murmur, “I’m still holding you to the ravaging.”
Cruz grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you down.”
--
They ate at a quiet restaurant tucked just off the beach, a place where the tables were uneven, the tablecloths didn’t match, and nobody cared. String lights swayed overhead. A fan rotated lazily in the corner, barely moving the warm evening air.
Aaliyah was nursing a second glass of white wine, flushed from the sun, her legs stretched out beneath the table. Cruz sat across from her, ankle propped on knee, one hand wrapped around a sweating bottle of Efes. Her other hand was resting in the middle of the table, absently turning Aaliyah’s engagement ring on her finger, slow and rhythmic.
“You know,” Aaliyah said, lazily circling her glass, “if you keep limping like that, I might need to get you a cane again.”
Cruz didn’t look up. “If you buy me a cane, I’m using it as a weapon.”
“So romantic.”
“I do my best.”
She finally glanced up, and Aaliyah grinned. Cruz’s expression was dry, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.
They fell quiet for a moment, the clink of cutlery and distant sea breeze filling in the spaces between them.
“I missed this,” Aaliyah said softly. “Us. Like this.”
Cruz reached across the table, brushed her fingers lightly over the inside of Aaliyah’s wrist, then resumed tracing a thumb around the edge of the wedding band just beneath the engagement ring. “You say that like we don’t have dinner together every night.”
“It’s different here,” Aaliyah said. “The city’s always moving. Manhattan never shuts up.”
“But you love it.”
“I do,” she said, smiling around the rim of her glass. “I loved NYU, even when I was dying under coursework. And I love our place. The noise, the smell of roasted nuts from that guy on 7th, the fact that you can get dumplings at 2am.”
“But?”
Aaliyah shrugged. “I just... need the ocean, sometimes.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
They’d made it work, found a strange, shimmering balance between two worlds. Aaliyah lectured and researched; her PhD in Linguistics neatly framed on the wall of their apartment in Manhattan. Her work focused on trauma and language displacement, the emotional violence of being denied your own voice. She travelled sometimes for conferences, sometimes for fieldwork, but she always came home.
Cruz didn’t need much. She ran workshops. Taught defence. Wrote training material for NGOs. She was someone who could be happy in a room with no windows and a bag of cashews, but she’d followed Aaliyah back to New York without hesitation. Their apartment overlooked the blur of taxis and steam vents and scaffolding. Cruz sometimes watched it all like it was a foreign film, fascinating, fast, full of rules that didn’t apply to her.
Still, they made it work. The city pulsed around them. They carved out their quiet.
“Bobby texted this morning,” Cruz said, lazily picking at a plate of grilled peppers. “Said she’s thinking of spending New Year’s with us. Again.”
“Bring her. I still have that half-bottle of Armenian brandy she likes.”
“She also said Joe might come. Her divorce just got finalised. Apparently, she’s struggling. Bobby said we can say no, but... would it be okay if she brought her along?”
Aaliyah gave her a look. “Do you want Joe at our place?”
“Not particularly,” Cruz said, leaning back. “But I’m willing to tolerate her if she keeps her mouth shut and remembers that I could still kill her with one hand tied behind my back, or pay someone to do it.”
Aaliyah snorted into her wine. “Nothing says closure like a government cheque with six zeroes.”
Cruz raised her bottle. “To being bought off.”
They clinked. The joke tasted better with alcohol.
By the time they left, the last of the light had gone. The sky above them was dark and low and blooming with stars. Aaliyah held Cruz’s bicep as they wandered back toward the beach, shoes in hand.
--
The beach was deserted by the time they returned.
The moon was high now, silver on the water, casting long shadows across the sand. Somewhere behind them, a dog barked once. Then silence.
Aaliyah dropped her shoes in the sand and walked a little ahead. Cruz followed, slower. She wasn’t limping, or sore, but the incline made her cautious. She watched Aaliyah’s silhouette move through the dark, hair loose, dress soft around her knees. Cruz felt something tug in her chest.
They found a patch near the water and laid the towel out without speaking.
Cruz sat first. She leaned back on her hands, legs stretched in front of her.
“Come here.”
Aaliyah turned. “What?”
Cruz reached for her. “Just, come here.”
Aaliyah stepped between her knees. Cruz tugged her down gently, guiding her into her lap. Aaliyah laughed once, surprised, then settled, knees bent on either side of Cruz’s hips, hands braced lightly on her shoulders.
She shifted a little, hips rolling with just enough pressure to make Cruz’s breath catch.
Then Aaliyah leaned close, voice warm against her ear. “Is this the ravaging part, habibti?”
Cruz huffed a quiet laugh, sliding her hands up the backs of Aaliyah’s thighs. “Getting there.”
She kissed her, open and slow, warm.
One hand moved beneath the hem of Aaliyah’s dress, palm resting at the small of her back. Aaliyah’s fingers threaded into her hair, holding her in place, mouth parting with a soft sigh that made something deep in Cruz settle and spark at the same time.
The kiss deepened. They moved together instinctively, like the years hadn’t passed, like the wounds hadn’t scarred over.
Cruz felt it all, the heat of Aaliyah in her lap, the moonlight on her skin, the ache in her thigh that flared when she shifted too fast. But it didn’t matter.
Aaliyah leaned back slightly, looking down at her. Flushed, hair tousled, lips bitten pink.
Cruz reached up and cupped her jaw.
“Okay?” Aaliyah asked quietly, fingers brushing the place where Cruz’s pulse fluttered.
“More than.”
Aaliyah kissed her again, and everything else fell away.
Her hands found the hem of Cruz’s shirt and pushed it up, slow and deliberate, until Cruz raised her arms to help. The cotton slid free, and Aaliyah tossed it aside without looking. She kissed down her throat, over the old scar at her shoulder, and Cruz shivered.
“You cold?” Aaliyah whispered.
Cruz shook her head. “I find myself quite hot, actually.”
Aaliyah smiled against her skin, murmured “Good,” and kissed lower.
Cruz’s hands found her hips, thumbs stroking under the fabric of her dress. She shifted to lay back, guiding Aaliyah with her. A dull pull sparked in her thigh, but she gritted her teeth through it. Aaliyah noticed.
“You sure?”
Cruz nodded. “Don’t stop.”
So Aaliyah didn’t.
She moved like she knew every nerve beneath Cruz’s skin. Her mouth was soft and hungry. Her hands were steady. She kissed across Cruz’s chest, over the scar tissue that still tightened in the cold, over the curve of her ribs, down her stomach.
When she hooked her fingers into the waistband of Cruz’s shorts, Cruz tensed for half a second, old instinct, old pain, but then Aaliyah kissed the inside of her knee, so gently it almost broke her, and the tension slipped away.
They undressed each other in pieces, with patience and reverence. Aaliyah’s dress slipped down her shoulders and pooled in the sand. Cruz took a moment just to look at her, bare in the moonlight, beautiful and entirely hers.
Then Aaliyah straddled her again, and Cruz pulled her down, hands flat on her back, mouths colliding with heat and need. She kissed her like the sea might swallow them if she didn’t hold on hard enough.
Their bodies found a rhythm that was theirs alone, familiar, slow, building with each breath, each drag of skin on skin. Cruz moved carefully, aware of the ache in her thigh, the old stiffness in her side. But Aaliyah adjusted without asking, without pity. She shifted her weight, braced Cruz when she needed it, kissed her like nothing had ever broken.
When Cruz came, it was with her forehead pressed to Aaliyah’s chest, breath sharp and full of her name. One hand was fisted in the towel beneath them, the other caught tight between Aaliyah’s thighs. Aaliyah had a hand between her legs, working her through it with slow, sure pressure until Cruz shuddered and stilled beneath her.
Aaliyah followed soon after, hips rocking gently into Cruz’s hand, her forehead pressed to Cruz’s as she gasped out something half-formed and sacred. Cruz held her there, fingers slick and steady, coaxing her through the waves of it, her other hand anchoring them both at the small of her back.
Aaliyah curled into Cruz’s side, arm draped across her stomach, breath slowing against her collarbone.
Cruz shifted slightly, then settled, muscles finally loose, heart thudding steady again.
The stars blinked overhead.
The ocean kissed the shore.
And the woman she loved was still here, warm against her side, wearing both their rings.
The world had not ended.
There was nowhere to be, except with each other.
Fin
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