Well, here we are for the final installment. I'm sad. (And nervous. And excited? I don't even know lol). Sorry for the couple of days' delay, there was a lot of work to do on this chapter (the draft was 4,400 words and ended up at over 11,000 lol) and this week didn't give me a lot of time to do it.

Anyway, unlike all the others, this one is a three-parter— because while this story has always belonged to both of them, the real journey has been Remi's, and it felt only right that what started with her should also end with her.

So, here goes.

Thank you all so much for sharing this with me.

x

(Warning: mention of suicide)

#########

One hour.

One more hour until they set down in the States; until they were officially under the protection of the FBI, supposedly out of Orion's reach at last.

Except she didn't really believe that. The FBI had power, but it couldn't be everywhere, and she'd been one of Orion's dogs for long enough to know that whatever it hunted, it caught.

After all, she'd often been the one doing the catching.

Which meant that she already knew the truth: the FBI was a start, but there was only one way for Weller to be truly safe, and that was if she struck first.

So she would hunt the hunters; she would find them, and she would make them pay.

And she would make sure none of them could ever hurt him again.

Even if it cost her life to do it.

Feeling the subtle tightening of his fingers on her ankle, she flicked a glance at his face, seeing it shadowed by the faint frown that she'd already known would be there, her eyes lingering until it softened away a moment later, his body slowly relaxing once more.

She'd already learned back in the village that Weller frowned in his sleep; had seen the deep creases that marred his brow after she'd finally extricated herself from his hold and carefully risen to her feet, somehow finding herself unable to walk away until he'd settled, his troubled expression at last smoothing back into the simple peace of deep sleep.

It was only in the past hour or so that she'd discovered just how often that tension gripped him, though, his expression repeatedly turning grim, his mind clearly haunted by dark dreams.

Which, of course, was more than understandable; hell, they certainly hadn't had any shortage of nightmare material lately.

And yet there was a part of her that couldn't help but wonder if maybe it wasn't the trauma of the last few days that pained him now, but something else entirely.

Or someone else.

She'd hurt him, before. She'd seen it in his face the moment she'd told him to leave her alone, heard it in his voice as he'd made his hasty retreat. She hadn't meant to do it, but he'd just kept pushing, and her control had already been stretched so fucking thin from the battle she'd just spent hours— or days, depending on how honest she wanted to get— fighting within herself, that she'd finally just snapped.

She'd been so busy trying to keep him at a distance to prevent him from getting hurt, and she'd ended up just hurting him anyway.

God, she hated it; hated that there was now no right choice before her, no way to get both of them out of this unscathed, the scars they would leave on each other all but inevitable.

Push him away, hurt him now. Let him closer, hurt him later.

Fuck.

She should never have let them become anything more than the near-strangers they'd been before the crash; should have done the smart thing and kept her distance from the start.

But she'd been too soft, somehow unable— or maybe, secretly unwilling— to just ignore him the way she'd done before, not when he was right there beside her with his eager questions and his gentle hands and his eyes that looked at her with far too much fucking tenderness to be fair.

And so for the first time in her life, she'd let her guard slip just a little— and now, she was paying for it.

Because that tiny chink in her armor had been enough for him to somehow sneak through, to get past her defenses and take up residence behind them.

And now, they were both well and truly fucked.

Holding back a sigh, Remi pressed her fingers to where the ache was forming between her eyebrows, her restlessness growing. Since she'd woken over an hour ago, she'd been embarrassingly content to just stay as she was and wait out the rest of the flight in peace while he slept, but the closer they got to landing the more agitated she felt, the end of the journey they'd shared suddenly all too close.

Because the moment the plane touched down, this brief closeness they'd shared would be over. Not only the emotional kind, but even just the simple physical kind that existed between them right now, her feet in his lap, his hand a warm weight on her ankle, both of them comfortable enough with the contact to be able to sleep easily and deeply. There was something in the utter innocence of it that resonated deep within her, the feeling wholly unfamiliar but also somehow not awkward or unwelcome, and she didn't understand it at all.

Aside from sex, she'd never really sought out the touch of others; in fact, she'd usually actively avoided it, generally finding it irritating at best and suffocating at worst.

But his was neither— and she would miss it, far more than she should.

Which was exactly why it was better to put a stop to it now rather than later; she'd already allowed it for far longer than she ever should have, and there was no reason to let it continue.

No reason she was willing to acknowledge, anyway.

Eyes on his face, she held her breath as she gently eased her legs off of his lap, trying not to wake him.

No luck.

"Remi?" he asked groggily, and she grit her teeth at the sound of her first name on his lips. "You okay?"

"Everything's fine, Weller," she told him quietly, annoyed at the sudden huskiness in her voice. "Go back to sleep."

Grimacing slightly, he lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Should be a bit after 0330 hours in New York," she answered, not bothering to check her watch for something she already knew all too well. "We've got a little under an hour to go. I'll wake you closer to landing if you want to get some more sleep."

"Nah, I'm amazed I even managed to sleep this long," he said, straightening a little in his seat. "But thanks."

Uncomfortable under his gaze, she shifted so she was facing forwards once more, trying not to think about how much warmer her feet had felt a minute ago.

When he spoke a moment later, she could hear a yawn in his voice, making her fight one of her own. "Have you been awake for a while?"

"Just woke up," she lied, knowing that the truth would expose her in a way she was not at all comfortable with, given that she'd only now pulled away from him.

Thankfully, he was too preoccupied to notice the lie— or maybe had heard it and just decided not to acknowledge it, who knew.

"Mmmm," he hummed, the sound low and warm, a rustle coming from his direction as he stretched. "Gotta say, after the last few days, I needed that."

God, she missed the previous mornings they'd shared, where he couldn't wake up and get away from her fast enough. This sleepy, contented Weller was fucking with her head.

And with other things.

After another minute or so, he seemed to be fully awake at last, leaning down to rummage in the duffel bag, pulling out a fresh bottle of water and an MRE before glancing up at her.

"You want anything?"

"Yeah, I'll take the same," she responded, more out of the need for something to focus on rather than out of any actual hunger or thirst.

Because hell, the close confines of this flight had given her plenty of both, but of a very different and very unwelcome kind.

Immediately handing over the bottle and MRE packet he held, he pulled out more for himself, the two of them simply eating in silence for several minutes.

It was the first time on the flight she'd almost felt the same easy companionship they'd shared out in the desert, and to her surprise, she found she was actually even enjoying it.

And then he started to speak.

"Hey, Briggs, there's something I gotta tell you."

His voice was steady, unaffected, but alarm bells were already ringing in her head, and fuck, she couldn't do this now, she really couldn't do this now—

"Weller—" she began sharply, but he just spoke over her, clearly determined to get it out.

"I nearly killed myself when I was sixteen."

She froze, her breath suddenly sucked from her lungs, her protest dying on her lips. Taking advantage of her stunned silence, he forged on.

"I was already at the army academy," he explained, his voice quiet but even. "I'd thought that being there, away from my father, would help me deal with everything— with what had happened to Taylor. But being away was just as bad, because now I wasn't there to look after Sarah. I used to sneak out of the academy to go check on her, because I was so scared he would hurt her too. And I hated myself for not being strong enough to stay and protect her."

Eyes locked on his face, she watched him draw in a deep breath, which was something she couldn't quite remember how to do.

"So, uh, I had a particularly bad night, and I got really close to ending it. Really, really close. But I couldn't deal with what it would do to Sarah. So instead I pushed myself harder and harder at the academy, and then the moment I could enlist, I did."

Shrugging a little, he went on. "I figured it was a pretty good solution— either I got to live my life as far from my father as possible, or I died in a way that would hurt Sarah least. Better to be a fallen soldier than a coward, right?"

He glanced at her then, and there was something all too knowing in his eyes, like he knew just how well she understood what he was saying.

Thankfully, though, the look lasted only a second, his gaze soon returning to his hands where they rested in his lap, his thumb idly brushing over the calluses that covered his knuckles.

"I lived that way for years," he said calmly, "Not actively chasing death, even trying to avoid it when I could, but okay with the idea of it finding me if I couldn't. In the meantime, I tried to find ways to do good, to protect or help others like I should have for Taylor. Then I met Mayfair, and she gave me a way to do that on a bigger scale, an actual purpose. I guess I thought that helping her take down Orion and then going to work for the FBI would be a way to pay for what my father did, to balance out the evil he'd put into the world. I pretty much lived for the mission and not much else."

He paused, eyes lifting once more to hers— and she couldn't move, couldn't look away, trapped by what she saw in his gaze.

"And then I met you," he said, his voice steady, but laced with a gentleness she hadn't been prepared for. "And I'm not saying the world suddenly became sunshine and rainbows because it didn't. It was just… it was the first time I'd felt that maybe there could be more out there for me than just the mission, that I could have an actual life rather than just being a cog in the machine. I don't even mean that I'd seen that life with you, because I knew right from the start that that was never going to happen, but I don't know... I guess it's just like you were the key that unlocked a door I never would have been able to pass on my own."

For another moment, he held her gaze— then finally he looked away, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

Clearing his throat, he added, "So, uh, I guess I just wanted to thank you."

Heart racing, she stared at him, completely overwhelmed by the storm of emotions raging inside her until one rose above all the rest.

"Fucking hell, Weller," she snarled abruptly, the spell broken at last. "You can't just say shit like that to me."

Suddenly needing to be as far away from him as possible— because if she didn't put some space between them right fucking now she was going to do something they'd probably both regret— she abruptly exited the humvee, barely pausing to send a fleeting glance around the cargo bay before heading swiftly for the bathroom.

He didn't follow; she hadn't expected him to.

Safely behind the locked door of the bathroom, she seriously considered not leaving this spot until they were about to land, instead just staying put and waiting out the time they had left. It wasn't a completely terrible plan; if one of the pilots discovered her now, she'd just hold them at knifepoint and force them to land, or if she had to, incapacitate them and land it herself. It'd be difficult, yes, but certainly not impossible.

But then again, it had been years since she'd last flown something of this size, and she couldn't be sure that she wouldn't somehow fuck it up, potentially getting all of them killed in the process.

Okay, fine, so probably better to just stay out of the pilots' way.

Plus, she knew Weller would come looking for her soon enough, and would never let her stay somewhere so exposed, no matter how mad she might be at him.

So she just needed to find a new plan.

After allowing herself a few more quiet minutes in the bathroom, she silently slipped out, making her way through the various pieces of cargo to the humvee— except she didn't stop, didn't even bother to open the door and tell him her intentions. Instead, she just kept moving past it towards the back of the plane, a moment later finding a suitable spot between a stack of crates and the far wall, one that was well hidden from the sight of anyone near the cockpit.

It may not be as secure as the humvee, but it was the next safest spot, and a perfectly reasonable place to wait for landing.

She'd already spent several minutes there, eyes closed and breathing slow, before she heard the approach of tentative footsteps.

Without opening her eyes, she spoke bluntly. "Go back to the humvee, Weller."

His answer was given steadily, calmly, but that didn't stop her from hearing the faint strain that lay behind it. "I came to tell you the same thing."

Opening her eyes, she saw him standing several feet away, his eyes glancing nervously towards the front of the plane, clearly feeling exposed. She could tell he was trying to keep a respectful distance from her, but in his current position he was directly in the line of sight of anyone exiting the cockpit, so after another brief moment of hesitation— and a wary look at her— he reluctantly moved to stand before her, where the crates would block them both from view.

For a second he just stood there, staring at the ground, his body angled away from hers as if trying not to crowd her. Then, he let out a small sigh, his voice quiet, subdued.

"Look, Rem— Briggs. I'm sorry for making things weird, and I swear I won't say another word about it. You can pretend I'm not even here, if you want. Just come back to the humvee. Please."

Lifting her eyes to his averted face, she saw the unhappiness there, the struggle he was clearly trying hard to hide.

And fucking hated it.

"Does Sarah know?" she asked suddenly, the question surprising even herself. But if he just had someone— someone he could trust, could lean on...

"No," he said, then paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to continue. "I've never told anyone. I never wanted anyone to know about that side of me, that... darkness. But I knew that you would understand. You're the one person I ever wanted to know the real me."

He was right; she did understand.

She understood what it was like to feel broken, unsalvageable, unfit to exist in the same space as people who weren't contaminated by the evils of the world. This whole time, she'd thought Weller was one of those people, still somehow untainted despite all he'd been through, too pure to be subjected to any kind of connection with someone like her.

But now, she understood him— and, she was finally realizing, he understood her.

He always had. He'd known from the start what was inside her, because he'd recognized it from himself.

He knew she was broken, and he still wanted her.

"Fuck," she hissed, the sound escaping through clenched teeth. Dragging a hand across her face, she looked away, swallowing back the frustrated groan that built in her throat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

God, she was so fucking tired. She was tired of fighting wars she'd never wanted any part in, whether on the battlefield, or within herself.

She'd been fighting her entire fucking life, and she just couldn't do it anymore.

"What?" Weller asked cautiously, clearly concerned by her response, but she ignored him, instead shoving her fingers through her hair as she tried to focus, to force herself to think.

She could run. There was still time; she could get back into the humvee and just stop acknowledging his existence until the plane touched down, then tell Mayfair and the FBI to shove it before disappearing into the wind the first chance she got, just like she'd considered back in the desert.

She could run, could go so far and fast that she'd become nothing more than a bad memory, another ghost of his past that would fade with time.

Yeah, she could run.

Couldn't she?

Dropping her hand, she forced herself to look at him, seeing the confusion and worry that creased his forehead, seeing the hand that hovered in the air between them, reaching for her without him even seeming to be aware of it.

She didn't know why it was that outstretched hand that did it, that broke the final tenuous defense that she'd been clinging to, her last hope of saving him.

But it did, and now there was no hope for either of them.

Because she couldn't run from this, from him. But she couldn't fight it, either.

So she did something she'd never done before in her life.

She surrendered.

"When all this goes to hell, just remember who fucking started it," she growled, then took a swift step forward, feeling the faintest prickle of stubble under her palms as they bracketed his face, pulling him down into her, her lips meeting his with all the hunger and fire and need that she'd been denying for so fucking long. As ever, he was right there with her, his flicker of surprise instantly giving way to a heat and intensity that stole her breath, his arms banding around her, all but eliminating the space between them.

It wasn't enough, though; releasing his face, she wrapped her arms around tightly around his neck, only the thought of his wounds keeping her from pressing closer still. Caught up in it, in him, she forgot the pilots, and Orion, and all the reasons why she'd tried so hard to keep her distance, no longer giving a single shit about any of it. Instead, she just let him surround her, his body steadily crowding hers back until she was pressed up against the crate, trapped within his embrace, the only prison she would happily endure. Pushing herself up on her toes, she took advantage of their new fit, rolling her hips into his and feeling him jerk a little in response as she deepened the kiss still further, no longer holding anything back.

And neither was he. His large hands shifted continuously, running over her body as as if he couldn't get enough of her, and god, she wanted those hands on her skin. Now, and as fucking many times in the future as she possibly could. She wasn't used to anyone having this much power over her; not used to being so out of control. For once, Weller was the one with the upper hand; scraping her nails across his scalp, she enjoyed the shudder that ran through him, only to be wracked by a tremor of her own seconds later when his lips tore from hers to press hot, greedy kisses to her neck and jaw, somehow finding the exact spots that worked for her. Or fuck, maybe he just worked for her.

With anyone else, she would have swallowed back the moan that rose in her throat, but she was done trying to hide what he did to her, what she wanted him to keep doing to her. His response to it was instant; there was the faintest stutter in his breathing, then his mouth was once again covering hers, hot and urgent and possessive, as if she would never be anyone's but his.

And even in her near-mindless state, she suddenly knew the truth, knew it with more certainty than she'd known anything in her life.

He was right.

#########

Holy fucking shit, Remi.

Her name repeated itself on an endless loop in his head as he all but clung to her, kissing her like he'd die if he didn't, which to be honest was pretty much exactly how he felt. Because jesus christ how had he even survived the last five months without this, without having every inch of her body practically molded to him, without the fierce but needy way her lips moved over his, the taste of her in his mouth like the antidote to every possible poison.

He'd never even dared to dream it could be like this— and fuck, he'd dreamed about it plenty— had never really let himself believe that she could ever be his.

But now, he believed.

And god, he was pretty sure she might even be starting to believe it too.

Which was why it was even more insane that he was the one to finally break it off, her small noise of protest almost destroying his already-shaky resolve as he reluctantly forced himself to pull away, his arms tightening around her as his forehead lowered to rest against hers, their breathing rapid and uneven.

"Please, god, tell me that's not the only time I'll get to do that," he rasped, fingers clenching in the back of her fatigues like if he could just hold on tight enough he'd actually get to keep her. "Because I think hearing that just might kill me."

He felt her hold him a little tighter in response, but she said nothing, her silence pressing a cold blade of fear into the center of his chest. One that was abruptly forgotten only seconds later, though, all thoughts immediately replaced by a sudden and way-too-belated realization.

"Shit, your ribs," he blurted, worry flooding through him as he abruptly released her. "Was I holding you too tight? Did I hurt you?"

Seeming almost amused, she let out a tiny huff that feathered against his lips, then lifted her head a little, her eyes meeting his.

"Relax, Weller. I'm fine," she told him, a heat in her eyes and a huskiness to her voice that had him desperately wanting to lean back in and claim her lips all over again, to pick up where he'd so foolishly made them leave off. But he couldn't let himself, because he was convinced that if he got lost in her now, there would be no holding back for either of them, and fast and hot and dirty in a cargo bay was not exactly what he had in mind.

No, what he had in mind would require both a bed and a near-endless amount of uninterrupted time.

God, he hoped she had that in mind, too.

Despite the fact that he'd completely let her go, she'd made no move to separate from him, so he tentatively put his hands back on her waist, still barely believing he was allowed to be touching her like this. Honestly, there was still a part of him that was convinced that it couldn't be true, that everything that had just happened between them was actually some kind of 'What happens in Vegas' type thing, and there would never again be any mention of it the moment the plane landed and they stepped back out into the real world.

But she knew how he felt, he was sure of it, especially since he'd all but told her back there in the humvee and then again only a matter of minutes ago, even if he hadn't used the exact words. And he knew her well enough by now to know that she would never deliberately hurt him, would never play with his emotions like that.

Which meant that this— whatever this was— must be real.

Holy shit.

When he'd come looking for her, he'd only cared about convincing her to go back to the shelter and security of the humvee, his nerves already completely shot from just the matter of minutes that she'd spent outside of it. And yet now he wanted nothing less than to be back in there, where he would have to let her go, would have to endure the empty space between them, even if it was only a few feet.

But it was the safest place for them to be, and nothing had ever mattered more than keeping her safe.

Letting out a small sigh, he forced himself to focus, shooting her a rueful look. "I hate to say this, but we should really get back in the humvee."

"And the boyscout is back," she muttered under her breath, so quietly he wasn't even sure he'd heard it.

"What?"

Shaking her head just a fraction, she started to loosen her grip, her voice wry. "Nothing. Humvee it is."

"Wait," he said suddenly, halting her. Arms still draped around his neck, she met his gaze, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Swallowing back an unexpected flutter of nerves, he glanced at her lips and back again, seeing the heat that still simmered behind her eyes.

"Can I just—" he began, his half-asked question completed by the way he carefully leaned in, his eyes on hers, moving slow in case her answer was to say no or pull away. But instead she just watched him silently, her face tilting fractionally to his, her eyes fluttering shut half a moment before their lips met. This time, there was none of the desperate heat of the last kiss, no blazing wildfire to hide behind, just... them.

Even with the almost-affectionate way she'd been looking at him, he still hadn't been sure if she would be interested in this kind of connection, or if hot and heavy and complication-free was all she was after— but now she seemed to soften under his touch, the kiss gentle, lingering, all tenderness.

Christ. If there'd ever been a point of safe return for him, he'd well and truly passed it now.

Though he couldn't help but think he might have passed it the day he met her.

He'd meant to keep it short, purely brief and exploratory, but he hadn't accounted for the way she would melt into him, or the way his arms seemed to forget how to let her go. If it had been an option, he'd have contentedly stayed exactly like this forever, but unfortunately the real world didn't work like his dreams, and eventually she drew back just a fraction, her nose brushing his cheek, her breath warm on his lips.

"Humvee," she reminded him, her hands leaving the back of his head to slide down his chest, the pressure feather-light over his wounds.

"Humvee. Yeah," he mumbled distractedly, fighting the urge to chase her lips, instead forcing himself to release her and take a step back. Blinking, he let out a slow, centering breath, then gestured for her to lead the way, expecting her to smirk at his unsteadiness— but instead he found her looking almost as shaken as he felt, her eyes wide and stark with something that he couldn't quite decipher.

As if realizing he was trying to read whatever was in her gaze, she looked away quickly, glancing around the side of the crates to check for any sign of the pilots. Then, flicking a fleeting look back at him, she moved out from their hiding spot, walking swiftly back to the humvee and disappearing inside.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he adjusted himself slightly, then followed.

When he slipped silently back into the humvee, she was already half-covered by her foil blanket and drinking out of one of the water bottles, and was very pointedly not looking anywhere in his direction. Knowing better than to push, he simply followed her cue, grabbing a bottle of his own and settling back into his seat, prepared to endure a very quiet half hour or so as she dissected what had just happened.

But for once, the quiet didn't last.

"This is a really bad idea, Weller."

Fuck.

Swiftly locking down his expression so that she wouldn't see the uncontrolled panic that was rapidly filling him, he swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice steady and measured as he gave his reply.

"How so?"

"I meant it when I said you didn't know me," she said tightly, still not looking at him. "The darkness you were so ashamed of, that's nothing compared to what I have inside me. The shit I've done... I've got a lot of blood on my hands, Weller."

"And you think I haven't?" he asked skeptically, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to find a way to get through to her, to make her see. "Briggs, we've both been in the military since we were in our teens, and I'd been with Orion practically a full year before you even signed on. My hands are no cleaner than yours."

She shook her head, sounding suddenly frustrated. "It's not the same."

"I don't see how."

Shoulders tensing, she asked carefully, "Have you ever tortured anyone?"

"No," he answered slowly, eyes still fixed on her. In his time with Orion, there'd been moments when it had almost been required, and he still didn't know what he would have done if it was.

Her voice turned flat, devoid of all emotion. "Well, I have."

He knew it was the truth— but he also knew she was deliberately trying to scare him away, and he wasn't going to let her.

"Under whose orders?"

She stiffened, and for the first time since they'd returned to the humvee, she looked over at him, her eyes finding his. It was the most fleeting of glances, barely more than half a second, but it was enough for him to know that he'd been right.

"Under whose orders?" he repeated, determined to get an answer.

"Shepherd's," she admitted finally, her voice hard, clearly seeing the point he was trying to make and not liking it.

He lifted his brows. "So you were a teenager."

"Yes—"

He wasn't done. "Following the orders of your only parental figure, a person who had absolute power and authority over you."

"Yes, but—"

"Who you then rebelled against and escaped from," he reminded her, undaunted by the fierce glare she was sending him. "And for pretty much that exact reason, right?"

He heard her let out a faint growl of frustration, her fists clenching in her lap. "You're not listening."

"Oh, I'm listening," he countered mildly, his gaze unwavering. "I'm just not hearing what you're saying the way you want me to hear it."

For a moment she looked away, breathing deep, and when she spoke again the anger was gone, leaving behind something that sounded far too close to pain.

"I'm a grenade, Weller. Being close to me isn't... safe."

God, he wanted to hold her. He wanted to yank her into his arms and keep her there until she finally understood, finally saw what he saw when he looked at her.

But he couldn't. At least, not yet.

So he would have to settle for the next best thing.

"It's the safest place I've ever known," he told her quietly, the words gentle, honest. There were very few people in the world who he trusted completely, but she was one of them. "No one has ever protected me like you do, Briggs."

She'd closed her eyes as he spoke, but now they met his, sharp and intense, and in them he could see her desperation, her need for him to listen, to understand.

"Ever think I'm trying to protect you now?"

"I know you are," he murmured, holding her gaze steadily, letting her see how much he meant what he was saying. "And I know you'll keep trying, regardless of what happens between us. And that's what matters."

For another long moment, she returned his gaze, eyes searching his— then she finally looked away, clearing her throat.

"I don't know how to do this, Weller," she said quietly, and he could tell just how hard this was for her. "I don't think I can offer you the things that you want."

"I don't have much experience with this whole thing either, but I'm pretty sure that's how it's supposed to work," he replied evenly, hoping the words sounded as reassuring as he intended them to be. "You decide what you're ready for, and then I get to decide whether I can accept those terms or not."

There was a brief, heavy pause, her next question sounding like she'd had to force it past her lips.

"And if you can't?"

"I'll let you know if it ever happens," he answered honestly, seeing the doubt that crossed her face and immediately trying his best to ease it. "Seriously, Remi. As long as you don't ask me to share you, then I'm prepared to just see what happens. We'll just take it day by day, face things as they come. It worked in the desert, so why not now?"

He watched her process that for a moment, then suck in an unsteady breath, one hand lifting to her forehead as her eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck," she muttered, fingers pressing to the spot between her eyebrows, her expression faintly pained.

"Look, it's been a rough few days," he said quietly, wanting her to know he understood, and that he'd never judge her. "You don't have to decide anything right now. We've got time."

Because they did. Now that they'd finally made it out of the line of fire, they had time, and he was more than prepared to be patient, to wait for as long as it took for them to be on the same page. Just because he was ready for this— and had been ready for this for far longer than he should probably admit just now— didn't mean that she had to be, and he wouldn't push her into anything that she wasn't comfortable with.

What mattered was that she knew how he felt, and knew he would be right there with her when she decided to take that next step, whenever that might be.

Which, as it turned out, was a hell of a lot sooner than he'd been expecting.

"If we're anywhere even remotely public, you call me Briggs," she said suddenly, her voice stern, but with a faint undercurrent of bewilderment, as if she couldn't quite believe what was coming out of her mouth. "And no touching."

It took him a couple of seconds to catch on, and several more to get his euphoric grin under control, but once he did— well, more or less, at least— he cleared his throat slightly, giving a cool nod. "Got it."

Looking over at him, she met his gaze, then immediately grimaced. "Christ. No looking at me like that, either."

Schooling his features into his best poker face, he made his voice brisk and professional, knowing she could still hear the joy he was concealing beneath it. "Understood."

Shaking her head a little, she gave an affected sigh— but only a moment later she was shifting around in her seat, her legs returning to their previous position on his lap, as if knowing how badly he wanted that physical connection.

Or maybe because she wanted it, too.

Pinning him with a look, she muttered darkly, "For the record, I still think this is a fucking terrible idea."

"That's my favorite kind," he replied immediately, his tone faintly teasing, his hand coming to rest once more on her ankle, giving it a tiny, reassuring squeeze.

She rolled her eyes. "Clearly."

Leaning his head against the headrest, he simply looked at her, for once not bothering to try to keep the dopey smile off of his face, fully aware that he was probably all but glowing with adoration right now.

Not that she seemed to mind, her eyes holding his in a way that made his breath hitch, a familiar swooping sensation appearing in his stomach.

Except the feeling just kept on going, and he realized that for once, she wasn't the only cause.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to listen for a change in the engine sound. "Do you think they've started the descent?"

She glanced at her watch. "Timing's right."

"Time to check in with Mayfair, then," he said, leaning down to reach for the sat phone in the bag. Automatically, she started to pull her legs from his lap, but he tightened his grip on her ankle, halting her.

"No, stay," he murmured, eyes lifting to hers once more just as his fingers found the phone. Straightening, he gave her a small smile. "You're keeping me warm."

She rolled her eyes at him again— he was predicting a lot of that in his future— but settled regardless, and he left his hand on her ankle, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin as he dialed Mayfair.

She was as brief and to the point as ever, and after barely half a minute he was hanging up again, looking over to meet Remi's questioning gaze.

"She's meeting us at the airfield," he explained, reaching out and letting the phone drop back into the bag. "We're to stay in here— she's going to have a couple of agents send the pilots away then drive us out."

Seeing the slight flattening of her lips, he paused, tilting his head. "What is it?"

She didn't speak for a moment, but when she did, her voice was grim. "Things are only going to get harder from here, Weller."

"What do you mean?" he asked warily, his chest suddenly a little tight, his mind immediately returning to their previous conversation.

"It's not going to be like out in the desert, where we could see our enemies coming," she warned, eyes serious. "Once we land, anyone we meet could be Orion."

Trying not to look too relieved, he nodded soberly. "I know."

"I trusted O'Callaghan and the doctor because I had no choice," she pressed, clearly needing him to understand. "But anyone else is a potential enemy until proven otherwise. Even Mayfair's people."

"I understand. And Mayfair will too."

For a moment she simply held his gaze, then drew a breath and nodded. "We should get ready."

Slipping her feet back to the floor, she turned away, immediately reaching for her boots and tugging them on. Already missing her warmth, he simply watched her for a moment, seeing the determined way she kept her focus on her task, as if she needed the distraction it provided. With a small sigh at how quickly their brief, carefree moment had ended, he made himself follow suit, pulling on his own boots and steadily lacing them up. With that done, they sat in silence, each staring in different directions, lost in their own thoughts.

Hers were probably about what they might be about to face down on the ground, what threats she might have to neutralize.

Whereas his were all just of her.

As the plane descended still lower, they hit a little turbulence, and he saw her flinch just slightly, her knuckles suddenly turning white where they gripped her knee.

Oh, no way.

"Briggs?" he asked, trying— and no doubt completely failing— to keep the disbelief out of his voice, his eyes wide.

"What?" she asked curtly, and he could hear the faint strain behind it, something more than just her usual irritation.

"Are you afraid of flying?"

She scowled. "I'm fine."

Holy crap, she was. He was more blown away by the thought than was probably warranted— he'd known since the desert that she wasn't as fearless as she seemed, their conversation of just minutes ago only further reinforcing that— but there was something so startlingly innocent about the idea of this incredible, indomitable warrior having such a normal, human phobia.

Though given what had happened the last time they were in the air, it was hardly an unwarranted one.

"Is it because of the crash?" he asked, abruptly sobering. He'd assumed it was a long-term thing, but maybe what had happened with the helicopter had affected her more than he'd realized, the mere thought of it making his chest ache.

"No, Weller," she answered with a faint, resigned sigh, clearly picking up on his sudden change in mood. "You can relax, I'm not traumatized. It's always been like this with flying."

Letting out a relieved breath, he shot her a grateful look, and she gave him a tiny nod before looking away again, her arms crossing over her chest.

"But we've flown together dozens of times," he said a moment later, his amazement returning now that he knew she wasn't suffering anything that she wasn't well and truly used to, his curiosity even stronger than before. "How did I never realize?"

"I don't exactly like to advertise my weaknesses," she muttered, clearly wishing he would just let it go already. "I trained myself to sleep through a flight whenever possible, and when it wasn't, I just made sure to to keep my distance from anyone who might look closely enough to notice."

Like him, who had spent five months fighting to keep his eyes off of her. Now that he thought about it, he realized they'd really never been anywhere near each other on any kind of aircraft until now, usually in their respective door-gunner positions on either side of the squad's helicopter or seated practically at opposite ends of any plane they found themselves on. He'd always suspected that it was deliberate, the way she'd always managed to be as far from him as was physically possible in whatever space they occupied, and had genuinely thought he'd known the reason why.

Happily, though, the last few days— hell, even just the last few hours— had definitely shown him just how wrong he'd been.

He was very aware that he was currently still staring at her, but he found he couldn't make himself stop, too caught up in the wonder of discovering yet another side of her, of understanding another piece of the puzzle. Before he could think too much about what he was doing— because if he did, he might talk himself out of it— he simply reached out a hand toward her, seeing her body stiffen in response.

The look she shot him was dangerous. "I'm not a fucking child, Weller. I don't need to be coddled."

"Trust me, I'm aware," he answered dryly, then nodded slightly at the hand that still hovered in the air between them. "Now just hold my damn hand, Briggs."

Eyes flicking from his face to his hand and back again, she said nothing, her mouth twisting in a small scowl— but only a couple of moments later, she grudgingly reached out, her fingers closing tightly around his.

And only when they were securely on solid ground did she let go.

#########

She was so damn sick of waiting.

Waiting for enemies to find her in the desert. Waiting for allies to provide her a way out.

Waiting for the bullet that was destined to bury itself in her brain.

Or Weller's.

Because that's what she was really waiting for, wasn't it? The chance to end Orion before they could end him.

And the first step to doing that was getting off this damn plane.

She didn't need to look at her watch to know how many minutes had passed since they'd landed, since they'd started to taxi to whatever hangar they were bound for. She knew the exact number, not that that prevented it from feeling fifty times longer.

Weller had clearly noticed her impatience; once or twice he'd tried to make conversation, to distract her, but he'd given up quickly enough when he'd realized he wasn't going to get anywhere. Now he just watched her with those eyes that saw too deep for comfort, so she kept hers fixed elsewhere, ignoring the tiny part of her that itched to reach out and take his hand again, to let his touch silence the thoughts that raced through her head.

But he'd already witnessed more vulnerability from her during this flight— hell, during the last hour— than she'd shown to just about anyone in her entire life, and she couldn't really deal with adding even more to that right now.

Honestly, she couldn't really deal with anything in regards to him right now, or to what they now where.

Because suddenly, they'd become something.

Fuck.

She hadn't been lying when she'd said it was a terrible idea— her final, desperate attempt to get him to reconsider, to save himself while he still could, though his stupid, stubborn heart had made it a losing battle from the start. Despite what he clearly thought, it was a bad idea— fuck, probably the worst one either of them had ever had— and she was already bracing herself for the moment when it all went to hell, crashing and burning so badly that it would make what had happened to the helicopter look like nothing.

Whatever this was between them, it could destroy them both more easily than Orion ever could.

And yet she still fucking wanted it.

God, she must be losing her mind, the last few days somehow robbing her of all sense and reason, the logic she'd relied on all her life suddenly nowhere to be found.

Instead, somewhere deep inside of her was a tiny voice that just wouldn't shut up— a voice that sounded suspiciously like him— and it reminded her that everything else they'd faced together, they'd survived, even against huge odds.

So maybe— just maybe— they could even survive this, too.

Drawing in a slow breath, she tried to pull her focus back to the present— to what would be awaiting them when they finally made it off this plane, which was what she should be thinking about, not the man beside her or the little makeout session they'd shared.

Though fucking hell, who knew that someone who was such a boyscout in every other way could ever kiss like that.

If he could get her that worked up without even getting under her clothes, then fuck, she had some things to look forward to in the future.

The very near future, if she had anything to do with it.

Suddenly feeling a little too warm, she shoved the foil blanket off of her lap, and from the corner of her eye she could see the curious look he sent her, no doubt dying to ask what was going on in her head. She refused to look at him, though, instead determined to completely ignore his existence, just as she'd done for the majority of the five months that they'd known each other.

Evidently she was out of practice, though, because she cracked within minutes, their eyes meeting and holding as the plane finally slowed to a stop, the engines powering down, the ensuing silence loud in her ears.

"Hey, uh," he began, and there was something in his tone that made her instantly tense up, wishing for the engines to come back to life, to drown out whatever it was that he was about to say. But it was too much to hope for, apparently, and a second later he was speaking again, his voice low and far too gentle. "While we've still got a minute, I uh, I just wanted to say that if Orion does catch up with me sometime, I'm really glad I got to make the trip home with you, and I don't want you to blame yourself for anything that happens. You've saved my life many times over already, so..."

"So don't let Orion waste all my fucking effort, then," she snapped, abruptly furious with him, with Orion, with everything. Feeling the sudden burn in her throat and behind her eyes, she clenched her jaw and turned away, unable to deal with him and his fucking martyr bullshit right now.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a quiet mix of apology and assurance. "I won't. I promise I'm going to be fighting my ass off to stay alive, no matter what's ahead of us. I just needed to make sure it was said."

Swallowing against the stupid lump in her throat, she growled back, "Are you done?"

She heard the tiny huff he let out, his words carrying a subtle tenderness. "Yeah, I'm done."

"Then how about we focus on—" she began, but was immediately cut off by the unmistakable sound of the cargo bay door opening, the entire plane shuddering slightly as the ramp hit the ground. Instantly, they both fell silent, ears straining to listen for any sounds of approach.

After another long, anxious minute, they heard it.

Footsteps.

At least two people, their tread lighter and more deliberate than the clomp of military boots.

Exchanging a glance, they both tensed, waiting, ready. The footsteps halted by the humvee, followed by a second of silence, neither of them daring to breathe.

Then the driver's door cracked open.

"Agents Reade and Zapata," spoke a smooth male voice, its owner remaining both out of sight and out of striking reach. "Mayfair sent us. Sit tight, we'll have the humvee free in a second."

The door closed again, and almost immediately they heard the sound of the fastenings being undone, the straps pulled free. A moment later the coverings over the front two windows and windshield disappeared, the fluorescent cargo bay lights flooding the vehicle and making them blink.

It was only a matter of seconds before the driver's door cracked open again, the same voice speaking up.

"Heads up. We're coming in."

In a synchronized motion, both the driver and passenger side doors opened, and Remi kept her hand close to her sharpest knife as two people slid smoothly into the seats and closed their doors with simultaneous clicks.

In the driver's seat was the man who had spoken; tall and crisply dressed, African-American, his build lean and athletic. Even without seeing the ease with which he interacted with the humvee's controls, she would have instantly marked him as former military.

Which made him even more of a threat.

As the engine roared to life, she cut her eyes to the female agent who sat in front of her— whom she already knew Weller would have assessed as closely as she had the driver— but could discern nothing more than a petite build, a thick head of shiny dark hair, and an approximate height of a couple inches less than her own.

And then, as if sensing her gaze, the woman spoke.

"I'm Zapata. That's Reade," she said briskly, her voice all business. "We work directly under Mayfair at the NYO. I'm turning around now."

As Agent Reade slowly began to reverse the humvee out of the cargo bay, Agent Zapata twisted in her seat, leaning around the headrest to be able to meet her eyes, her brows lifting slightly.

'I'm guessing you're Briggs?"

Holding her gaze, Remi gave a curt nod.

"Figured as much," Zapata replied, her manner calm and confident, free of the suspicion that was coiled in those behind her. "I'm gonna hand you a gun now, okay?"

Instantly, she felt Weller go tense beside her, instinctively knowing that he'd taken his eyes from Reade to watch Zapata draw out the weapon. Lifting her hand just a little off of her knee, she held it there for a moment, and he immediately obeyed, turning his attention back to the man in front of him as he steadily guided the humvee away from the plane. Reaching out with the same hand, Remi warily accepted the gun that Zapata held out grip-first, seeing her eyes flick quickly from one of them to the other, dark and perceptive, having clearly picked up on their silent exchange.

Leaving it to Weller to watch both of their companions, Remi swiftly inspected the weapon and ammo with a practiced efficiency, finding nothing amiss. Looking up, she found Zapata still watching her, her interest clear.

"Why?" she asked, voice flat, giving nothing away.

Zapata shrugged. "Mayfair told me to."

Eyes narrowing, Remi searched her expression. "Is she expecting trouble?"

'Nope," she replied, and Remi could hear no trace of deceit in her answer. "I think she just thought you'd be more comfortable if you were armed.'

From the corner of her eye, she saw Weller shoot her a glance, knowing full well he was thinking about the multiple knives currently hidden under her fatigues, and how efficiently she could have used them.

"It's a nice gesture," he said mildly, as if replying to her thoughts.

"And so you're the famous Weller," Zapata acknowledged, taking him in with the same steady, measuring gaze she'd directed at Remi. "We've heard a lot about you, though we never knew your name until your call to Mayfair a couple days ago. Gotta say, rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated."

"Not that anyone knows that yet," Reade chimed in suddenly, his eyes never leaving the tarmac. "As far as the world is concerned, you both died in the accident with the rest of your squadron. Now that you're back home and have the protection of the FBI, though, that narrative can be changed."

She heard Weller shift slightly at that, already knowing the subject of his thoughts before he voiced it. "My sister?"

"She's the only one who knows. Mayfair flew us out to inform her ourselves," Reade answered, then paused, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. "She's strong, your sister. She and her son are back in your hometown under the guise of preparing for your funeral, but the moment Mayfair gives the all clear they'll both be flown to New York."

"Thank you," Weller murmured, and she could hear the relief in it, finding a tiny part of herself relaxing as well.

"Least we could do after all you've given us on Orion," Reade replied simply, and she saw Zapata give a nod of agreement. She may be miles from even considering the thought of trusting these two, but their respect for Weller seemed genuine, and that was the first point in their favor.

"Do you guys have any idea yet who might be pulling the strings?" Weller asked, voicing the question she'd been wondering herself, and she listened intently.

Her hunt would be so much quicker and easier with a name.

Zapata and Reade exchanged a look, and this time it was Zapata who spoke. "Not yet. But we're getting closer."

Weller seemed to accept that answer, but there was something in the way it had been given that made Remi think they weren't sharing the whole story.

She didn't get the chance to do any subtle digging, though, because only a moment later the humvee began to slow, then finally rolled to a stop.

"Alright, here we go," Reade said, parking the vehicle and turning to look at them for the first time. "Mayfair has your ride waiting."

Sharing a look with Weller, she gave the shadow of a nod, then tightened her grip on the gun and opened the door, stepping out onto a near-deserted stretch of tarmac only faintly lit by the distant lights of the base's various hangars and personnel buildings.

Several yards from her stood a middle-aged woman who barely cleared five feet tall, yet wore an air of authority like it was kevlar.

And behind her was a motherfucking helicopter.

"You've got to be shitting me," Weller said quietly at her shoulder, having rounded the humvee while she was scanning their surroundings.

She couldn't help but agree.

The woman— Mayfair— stepped forward.

"Good to see you both safely Stateside," she said in a steady New Yorker accent, her tone a practiced mix of official and amiable. "I apologize for the chopper, but there was no other choice. The priority is getting you somewhere secure, and this is the fastest way."

Seeing the look they exchanged, she spoke again.

"However, you've been through a lot, so I won't force you. Zapata and Reade will be making the drive back, and you can join them if you choose. They know the risk."

Glancing at the two agents, who now stood quietly together by a nearby black sedan— looking almost like a distorted mirror image of she and Weller— Remi shook her head, her choice already made. Knowing Weller would be right behind her, she crossed the distance to Mayfair, almost certain she saw a trace of approval in the woman's dark eyes as she silently stepped aside and let them climb up into the chopper's rear seats.

"Gotta get back on the horse, right?" Weller muttered as he buckled himself in beside her, and she met his eyes for an all-too-brief moment before they both turned and reached for a headset, pulled them on. In the passenger seat in front of them, Mayfair did the same, then twisted around to look at them as she spoke.

"The flight won't be much more than 20 minutes," she assured them as the engines abruptly roared to life, the familiar vibration making Remi clench her teeth together, fighting a faint wave of nausea. "I know it's been a long road, but your journey is almost over."

She didn't wait for an answer; didn't seem to expect one, instead simply turned back around and signaled to the pilot, and suddenly there was a slight lurch as the chopper lifted off the ground and immediately began gaining height.

Fingers clenched and muscles tense, Remi stared straight ahead, refusing to let the fear get to her. A moment later, she felt a slight pressure against the side of her knee, and glanced down to see Weller's leg resting lightly against hers, a subtle reassurance. Even just a few days ago, she would have instinctively drawn away from the contact, but instead she shifted her foot just a little, leaning into it, taking the comfort only he could provide.

It was a smaller connection than either of them wanted, but for now it was enough, and she could already feel them both breathing a little easier.

After a few more minutes— time that was no doubt specifically intended to give them a chance to shake the memory of their last helicopter ride— Mayfair spoke up, her voice crackling through their headsets.

"So, there'll be a full briefing this afternoon," she explained, not bothering to turn to look back at them. "But first you'll have some time to get settled and catch up on sleep. I've lined up one of our better safehouses for the two of you— it should only be for a few days while I get my ducks in a row with Quantico, just a precaution to keep you off of Orion's radar until you have the full force of the FBI behind you. After that, you'll be free to return to the world of the living, but for now you have to stay ghosts, understood?"

She'd been able to feel Weller's eyes practically burning into her skin from the moment Mayfair had uttered the word 'safehouse', and now she found she couldn't keep herself from glancing over at him, seeing him quirk a devilish eyebrow, his gaze somehow both amused and heated at the same time. Shooting him a warning look, she turned away, instead fixing her eyes on the back of Mayfair's head.

"Understood," she answered evenly, ignoring the sudden fluttering sensation that had taken up residence somewhere low in her stomach. A second later, Weller echoed her, his voice as steady as hers had been, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Good," Mayfair said approvingly, nothing in her tone indicating she had any idea of the silent exchange happening directly behind her. "So, you two think you can handle being stuck together for a few more days?"

This time, when her eyes met his, she didn't look away, didn't try to hide. Seeing the spark of mischief in his gaze soften into tenderness, Remi pressed her knee a little closer against his, answering for the both of them.

"We'll survive."

#########

Oh man. Well, here we are.

God, there's so much in this I'm nervous about, but I mean at least they're all nice things? Like hey, we got emotional conversations, we got kissing, we got our babies together, got to see the team (even if only briefly), got to find out that these two smitten idiots are literally on their way to their own private love shack— ahem, safehouse— right at this very moment...

Ngl, I'm somewhat terrified that I shot myself in the foot by making last chapter as angsty as it was, only for things to change so quickly in this chapter. But the entire point of last chapter was to make Remi realise how much she fucking hated trying to keep her distance from Weller, and the point of this one was to make her realise that her desire to be with him outweighs her fear. And I know they communicated a hell of a lot more in this than they usually do, but fingers crossed it felt fitting for the situation and not weird or OOC... although lbr this is an AU, so I am therefore the leading expert on these two, and I say just roll with it haha.

Also, not sure what the response to my little bit of Weller backstory will be, but I'll just say that as someone who works closely with people struggling with trauma and acute mental health crises, I believe that even canon Kurt Weller has 100% had suicidal periods in the past. But if you disagree that's totally cool, because again this is an AU and that's what headcanons are for.

Okay lastly... given that this is our final chapter, I would seriously love to hear from all of you, whether you've been reviewing the whole way along or have only left one or two (or none! No judgement!). I promise I will be delighted by any and all comments. And jsyk, I do have some (*cough* potentially smutty *cough*) sequel ideas haha, so if you'd be interested in seeing what happens next for these two, this is the perfect time to reach out and say so!

Anywho, that's enough from me. Thank you for an awesome ride, guys.

.

"Wherever you go, I'm your shadow; desert to ice floe, I will follow."

-Shadow, by Birdy