Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

if you were to put a gun to York's temple right now, and ask him for his one, true favorite thing about Carolina: he would squirm a little, tell you its difficult to pick just one thing in a sea of endless beauty, but inevitably he would find it- her smile.

she's smiling now, teeth white, shining in dim light.

he gets caught up in it, sometimes, the way she shimmers. contagious.

her hand flirts with his in the hallway, halfway to their pretty much shared quarters. the walls are thin on the ship, so they play it safe. safer than they need to, truly.

they skirt around each other during the day, days getting longer and longer, missions getting more and more difficult, like a test of strength. yet, they remain undetected in the end. nobody catches on to the longing glances, the couples banter, they way they're always beside each other, at every possible opportunity.

here and now, the hall is empty, he slips off his helmet to show her his eyes, his trust. like a dog rolling over, vulnerable. hers comes off too, within seconds, standing just outside the door.

"Hey there, sweet girl."

Adoration fills his voice, a sweet smile playing at her lips.

"Heya, stud muffin."

they keep their voices just low enough, cautious of triggering the mics in their helmets. it's happened once before, but they're both impressively good at lying, as good as they are at going under the radar. it served as a lesson to be a bit more careful with what they say when their armor is close by.

speaking of, stepping into their room and out of their armor happens quickly enough. it's a little game that they play together; standing at opposite ends of the room, right by the door, backs to each other, and seeing who steals a peek first. with his hands trembling from excitement, York starts with his gloves.

Carolina always starts with the chest-plate, because it's the heaviest part, and the move that gets his attention easiest, but York always starts with the gloves. It's easier to remove the rest when you don't have metal covering your fingers. metal clinks and clanks against metal as they strip down, leaving all their equipment in small piles at the door, knowing they can simply put it away later, when they have more time. when the air in the room isn't thick with anticipation.

he's the first to turn around. of course he is, he always is. weak-willed, willing to break first to indulge in her. her undersuit clings to every curve, the softness of her hips, her thighs, hourglass waist, beautiful chest, everything in perfect ratio. it gets his motor hot just looking at her, drinking her in, waiting for her to notice.

when she starts to step towards him, he starts to feel an awful lot like a small prey animal, stalked, chased down. she's gonna eat him. his heart hammers. she really does have that sharp look in her eyes, that look that says “I could kill you right here, and you'd thank me with your last breath.” and that look isn't at all misplaced, it's entirely true in what it communicates. she backs him up against the wall, cold metal meeting his back through the thin material of his undersuit.

the second her lips meet his, it's pure bliss. he could die right here, right now, and he'd die the happiest man on the planet. there’s barely even a thought at the back of his mind now that she's touching him. her hands on his waist feel electric, white-hot, sending little sparks of excitement through him. he waits, as usual, for her to place his hands where she wants them. and place them she does, grabbing his wrists impatiently and guides him to grip her hips. he expects it, a little blessing to tide him over while she finishes stripping him completely.

“Careful where you squeeze, I've got a nasty bruise back there.”
she whispers into his neck as she leans in, pressing a little kiss to what small amount of skin is exposed to her there.

her nimble hand finds the tiny, hidden zipper at the back of his suit, pulling it down just enough to expose his chest, and she feels him tense up at the exposure, bearing down on her a little bit, giving her a tiny squish to keep himself grounded- and she decides against telling him that his thumb is directly pressing down on the aforementioned bruise. the pain is nice. Grounding.

“If you’re gonna bite, do it gentle- medical keeps getting on my ass about those ‘weird bruises’ you keep leaving.”

she gives him a little hum of acknowledgement, before sinking her teeth into him, leaving a sharp, defined, teeth-shaped mark in her wake. he’d have been better off not saying anything. the fact that people are noticing, and that they’re powerless to stop it- all that knowing that does is reinvigorate Carolina’s need to claim him.

she likes the way he shudders under her mouth, under the heat of her touch, tracing her tongue over the reddening markings, trying to taste the want on his skin.

he needs her more than he needs to breathe. it comes to him naturally. they’ve always come together so naturally, the way their lips click together, the way her fingers slip effortlessly between his, him following her steps back to the twin-sized and deeply uncomfortable bed. the way her thighs slide around his hips, pinning him in place, kissing him breathless, until they’re both completely red in the face.

“God, you look pretty under me,”
she smiles, and he feels a lot like he’s drowning, choking on air.

“You look even prettier over me.”

she’d look pretty anywhere, doing anything. she always looks so pretty.

it’s here, stuck underneath her, that it really hits him-

what would he do without her?

it’s an oddly dark thought to be juxtaposed by her stripping out of her suit and saddling up to straddle him, but at the end of the day, it’s a reality he’ll have to face someday.

the thought makes him nervous.

there are a hundred things that can go wrong in their line of work. hell, he could’ve died barely two weeks ago. they’re killers, at the end of the day. and the people they kill can easily do the same to them.

his hands rest on her thighs, willing his mind to quiet.

everything could go so sideways, so fast.

he reasons that he’d better make it count, then.

Chapter Text

her phone is buzzing off the fucking hook. she can barely hear it through the pounding sound of her heart, blood rushing in her ears.

there are thirty-five pills in the bottle she holds in her shaking hands. a standard bottle of extra-strength tylenol, one she swiped from the med-bay the last time she snuck off.

she counts them all, scanning the clear bottle over and over, thinking. how many would she need to take to overdose?

the pills contained five-hundred milligrams of acetaminophen each, times thirty-five, would total out to be about seventeen-thousand, five-hundred milligrams total. it sounds like more than enough, but she wants to be sure. it's better to be sure.

she wants to leave this world clean. she starts to line up the pills along the edge of the bathroom sink, a little line of organized soldiers.

she was never good enough to be one of them. this entire project started around someone she strove to live like, someone her life revolved around. it didn't go over her head, the fact that this new recruit that was taking her place sounded just like her mother, the way she talked in her memories.

there was no chance of failure. she couldn't afford to fail again. if she survives this, it'll be held over her head- a testament to weakness, a mark of her loss of control, another smudge on her record. a demerit to her score. a bump down on the leaderboard.

it's funny, in the cruel sort of way, that even in death she can't escape from the rank. from that desperate need for approval, the need to claw her way towards it. she'll fight for as long as she needs to, any means necessary, to get it.

but here, now, she knows her fight is over. in this tiny little bathroom, 4×4, encased by tile. it’s where she belongs.

there are thirty-five pills lined up across her perfectly spotless porcelain sink, and carefully, precisely, she picks them up, one by one, and swallows.

her throat begins to burn by the seventh, splitting pain in her esophagus as each one goes down, harsher than the last. by the twentieth, the hurting is more like a burning fire, engulfing her chest in flames. she chokes on the twenty-fourth, spitting it back out onto the floor. annoyed, she huffs, filling the little glass jar that stands silently on the shelf beside the sink with a minuscule amount of water.

weak. it’s weakness.

small touches of weakness like this, her inability to swallow pills without some mode of assistance, they build up. like her intolerance to being ignored, like her dependency on her peers, like the number one spot being taken from her, snatched up from her hands, violently, without mercy. they pile up. they bury her.

she’ll never be as strong as her peers. she’ll always simply weight them. nothing but a damper on the team, since someone stronger came to take her place at the head of it. she’s useless in anything aside from a leading position. to see her name anywhere else besides the top is an embarrassment, something to be deeply ashamed of, something that should kill her.

well, now it is.

thirty-five pills, all down her aching throat. she’s well researched on the topic of overdose, thus she knows how long this kind of thing can take, how painful it can be. she knows well enough how to counteract the pain that will likely set in within the next few hours as her liver is overloaded.

diazepam, a common medication prescribed to treat insomnia, nightmares, and anxiety. the medical team had given her the same months supply she’s been prescribed since she was 12. ten milligrams each. she opens up the mirror cabinet, snatching the mostly full bottle off the shelf, shaking five tablets into her hand with a swiftness.

there’s one more step to her fool-proof plan. the sound of water running fills her ears, small porcelain bathtub filling quick. she can barely fit in it these days, but it’ll do. the water is hot, boiling to her oversensitive skin, her eyes starting to flit shut already, placebo effect kicking harder than the pills. she doesn’t bother stripping out of her undersuit, keeping it on as she steps into the overheated water. it’s not comfortable, but it’s not meant to be.

if the medication fails, which it’s almost guaranteed not to, the mixture of sleeping pills and hot water is assured to be a lethal combination. if she can’t keep her head up, she can’t keep it above the waterline.

her eyes slip shut.

her heartbeat is slow, thumping weakly against her ribcage.

she has to do the honorable thing.

she has to step down. any means necessary.

her breathing comes shallow.

and suddenly, she can’t really feel anything at all.

Chapter Text

the bathroom off of her room is slightly bigger than everyone else's.

York's always sort of wondered about that.

there were rumors flying around that Carolina was the Director's daughter, and he didn't really believe them, but he did have to admit that everything in her quarters seemed to be a little bigger. the bed, the closet, and of course, the bathroom. it even had a little bathtub, where most of her fellow freelancers had communal showers to deal with.

"are you planning on coming to bed any time soon?"

he teases, his playful banter being met with a sharp sigh in reply, echoing off the tile walls that surround her. she was brushing her teeth a minute ago, but he guesses she must have finished up.

"mmm, I don't know. maybe not."

he shifts out from the thin covers, propping himself up on his elbows, trying to get a peek into the bathroom through the crack in the door. call him nosy if you must, but he likes to know what she gets up to, sometimes.

she tries to quiet the sound of the medicine cabinet opening, but its a creaky little thing, irritating her ears with its shrillness. she just needs to take her meds, that's all.

she hasn't been able to sleep without them, recently. though the sleepless nights make for good late training sessions, when the gym is all quiet and empty aside from her, it gets to a point where it interferes with her work. exhaustion makes her mind unravel, makes her reaction time slow, makes her practically useless, makes her rank drop. and she can't let her rank drop any lower than it already has.

she's careless as she shakes two pills out into her hand, swallowing them dry with ease.

"what are you taking in there? happy pills?"

she scoffs at his pitiful attempt at chiding her, peeking her head out of the bathroom door to send a glare his way.

"they're sleepy pills, actually."

she holds up the bottle to show him, not missing the brief flick of concern on his face.

"diazepam, ten milli-vanilli grams."

he manages a little chuckle at her pun. he didn't know that she took meds like that, he supposes that's because it's none of his business.

"you have that much trouble sleeping?"

it comes out a little more judgy then he meant it to, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"mm-hm,"

she hums, stepping out from the bathroom and shuffling up into the bed, sliding her slippers off her feet as she goes. he holds his arm out for her to curl up against his body, one of her arms sprawling out across his chest and the other tucked up her own. her legs tangle up with his, sharing each other's warmth. it was starting to get to the colder seasons, evident by the lingering frostiness to the air. they had to fight that any way they could, cuddling being their weapon of choice.

"you'd rather hit the hard shit than smoke up with me?"

it was no secret that York enjoyed the occasional consumption of cannabis, and Carolina didn't really mind that too much, but she'd sooner die than break protocol. she was sure the panic attack she'd have within minutes of smoking would be enough to alert the higher-ups.

"oh, please. if you think valium is hard, you should see what Maine takes to sleep."

he shudders at the thought.

"I fear what unholy concoctions of hard drugs that guy takes to pass out.... actually, I kind of just fear that guy in general."

a beat of comfortable silence surrounds them, Carolina snuggling up closer to him, resting her head upon his chest. she lets out this contented little sigh, one that sounds like a symphony of happiness, makes his heart stutter. she’s beautiful. everything about her is beautiful. he intertwines his fingers with hers, lacing them together, perfect fit.

her warm weight against him quiets any worries that filled his head, temporarily maybe, but it was more than enough for him.

"love you, 'lina,"

he sighs out, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. she doesn't respond. her eyes are already shut.

he can't lie and say that the way she falls asleep like that, heavy, rock-like, doesn't scare him. her breathing gets so slow, heart pumping slower.

she kind of looks dead.

he closes his eyes, praying for the same kind of sleep to take him too, take him to her.

Chapter Text

as long as there's beeping in that room, there's a pulse. a pulse means that she's alive.

he doesn’t remember much of getting here, blanking the panic straight out of his memory. the stress. the pain.

he got a call, in the middle of the night, a call from the med team. he was used to being paged, occasionally, when he was needed somewhere on the ship, and sure those pages came in the middle of the night once in a blue moon, but never from medical. their voices were calm from the other line, when he blinked his eyes open enough to answer.

“Agent Carolina’s overdosing. She asked us to call you before she passed out.”

overdosing. overdosing. overdosing.

it meant it wasn’t over yet. that she had a chance. that there was the smallest inkling of hope she could make it through. that’s what he repeats now, sitting next to the bed, keeping a close eye. it looks like it hurts. all those tubes inside her arms, the ones in her nose keeping her breathing. the monitor beside her beeps so rarely, once every couple of minutes. her heart barely beats. her eyes flit weakly around beneath her eyelids.

it wasn’t over yet. she still had a chance. that’s what the IVs are for. they said something fancy was in them, something he couldn’t really pronounce. acetylcysteine. he knew it was helping her, that’s all that mattered.

they said that they couldn’t get the amount of acetaminophen she’d taken out of her before she went under again. they told him that she’d woken up, very briefly, between them getting her out of the bathtub and onto the stretcher. that she slurred out the tylenol, the diazepam, his name. over and over and over, his name. she chanted it like a prayer, York York York York, like he could save her. like he could stave off the blackness taking her under. like it was all that she could remember. she wanted him by her side, like always.

when her eyes fell shut, that was it. nothing. not a peep from her. no complaint of pain, no fear for her life.

he guesses he has to take up that mantle now, worrying for her.

it’s not right, the fact that she’s not awake. the fact that she couldn’t answer him if he asked her why.

his hand is in hers, icy, unresponsive. it's not like her. it doesn't feel real.

she always squeezed his hand when she was in medbay. all the machines made her nervous, needles made her pass out with terror. he always has to accompany her if he wanted her to get any kind of care from them.

but her hand is cold. her fingers slip right through his own. he can't seem to keep a good grip on her through the thin sheen of sweat covering his palms.

--

he'd been there all night, nearly asleep, early morning light spilling in through the window, when her eyes started to twitch open.

he almost completely missed it, dismissing it as some sort of trick of the light, before she started to move. before her hand gripped his back, as hard as she could get her fingers to close around him between the beginning tremors.

"York,"

she chokes out, throat aching relentlessly, cracked and chemically braised.

he could swear his heart stopped cold when he heard her voice. that soft little sound that he'd been praying for hours that he would be blessed to hear again.

"Lina? Lina, oh god, Lina, I'm here, I'm here baby."

the relief that floods his voice, his expression, doesn't stay for long. her hands are shaking like hell, spreading up her arms.

"I don't have a lot of time."

she says it with frightening clarity, clinging to his hand like it's the only thing keeping her here. her storm-grey eyes meet his, pupils the size of quarters.

"Listen to me, okay?"

silent, he nods, lips pressing into a thin line, mouth dry.

"Listening."

through the shakes, growing more violent by the second, she pushes herself up, bringing herself closer to him.

"I'm pretty sure- I'm gonna have a seizure, if the.... if I got it all right."

she squints, eyebrows knitting, fighting. she wouldn't go down easy. she couldn't go down without saying she loved him.

"I need you to get the med team in here, and I need you to leave after that."

her speech starts to slur, and tearfully, he shakes his head. he can't just leave her. he won't just leave her.

"Carolina, I can- I'll get the team, okay, but I'm not... I can't leave you."

she sighs, through gritted teeth, jaw locking up. her dampened eyes catch the light in the most beautiful way, sparkling in the brightness. how could he look away? how could she ask him to go?

"York.... Brooke. Brooke, I love you. I love you, okay? I love you, and I need you to leave."

he can't stop his eyes from spilling tears, dripping down his face, soaking into the sheets that surround her. he didn't want to spill like this. he didn't want to break his brave face, but he can't stand to see her like this. see her in pain. see her breaking down. seizing. losing the thread.

“I can’t do that. I can’t let you suffer alone.”

beneath it all, a quieter undertone of i can’t lose you lurks in his shaking voice. some small part of him knows that if he leaves this room, it’ll be the last time. the last time he’ll see her face. he focuses hard, committing every piece of her to his memory. like it’s the last time.

because he knows. he knew.

everything went sideways so fast.

“I love you, Carolina.”

his hand cups her jaw, holding her tenderly, like she’s the entire world, a fragile flower, something beautiful, soft, breakable. something crumbling under the weight of itself, the weight of burdens that she was never meant to carry, that were never hers, never should have been.

when her hands comes to stack over his, just barely, freezing cold, it feels like a gunshot. the touch burns him, cold-branding her eternal memory into his skin.

when her eyes roll back, that’s when he starts screaming.