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Isobel hates hospitals. More than that, she hates laying in the CT scanner, listening to the sounds of the machine around her. It’s not that she’s claustrophobic, but after all that has happened, the last thing she wants is to feel trapped with no escape route.
It’s also the only place Maggie can’t follow her.
She’s barely left her side since that blast, the first thing Isobel felt, heard and saw when she came to in the rubble. Everything had been a bit of a daze at first. The only two things she had been certain of were the immediate pain and Maggie, hovering worriedly – protectively – over her, Isobel’s self-appointed guardian angel.
She was the one thing that had kept her even remotely calm in the aftermath as she cradled Isobel’s face, her gentle touch soothing away some of the panic and agony. Isobel could barely remember what had happened, tasting blood on her tongue and struggling to even sit up, but she’d known she was safe if only because Maggie was there.
She’d carried Isobel out of that unstable office without hesitation, over all the rubble and past a mangled, bloodied body she knew was Reynolds as the last ten minutes fell back to her. The phone. Seeing him just beyond Maggie’s arm, she knew she was lucky to be getting out of there with just a head wound as the worst of it. Her cuts and bruises almost seemed a godsend compared to his exposed insides.
Except, Keane thought she was just as dead as Reynolds, as Maggie explained when carefully taking her down a back stairwell, less crowded than anywhere else. It had given Isobel an idea, even in her recovering, addled state, but it wasn’t one Maggie had approved of initially.
In the end, as she’d gently set her on her feet, then pulled her tan leather jacket around Isobel’s shoulders in the desolate parking garage, they’d come to a deal – Maggie would follow her, as dutifully as always, and help her play dead, but in return, Isobel would let her take her to the ER the moment this was all over.
It was dangerous, to not immediately get her medical attention, and Maggie had been visibly reluctant even after agreeing, but they’d had more important things than the gash in Isobel’s forehead – at least as far as she’d been concerned. And so, they’d put her plan into action, hoping for the best, even if it meant Maggie had to unwillingly leave her side for longer than a second.
When they all regrouped in an old safehouse, it had quickly become apparent that she was the only one who cared about Isobel’s so-called death, but she had been far too preoccupied to dwell on everyone else’s lack of a reaction to her resurrection. There was only one person there whose opinion mattered to her regardless, and Maggie’s eyes had been fixed on her almost the entire time, ready to reassure Isobel the moment she glanced over and met them.
A small, scared part of Isobel hadn’t wanted to let her go, but Maggie was integral to their plan as the only one she trusted unequivocally at the time. She wouldn’t backstab Isobel or sell her out, and that had been the one thing she was sure of in their current situation. She had to let her leave, no matter how much safer she felt with her in the room, suddenly suffocating in Maggie's absence.
Their plan had been at a stall without resources, and given the state she was in, Isobel had found a quiet corner where she could sit alone while they waited, but it hadn’t done anything to help her body’s excruciating ache. In the silence, there had been nothing left to do other than think, even if her memory of what happened was still partly a blur.
The last thing she remembered was the phone, and she suddenly wondered if there were any warning signs – if she could’ve done anything differently. Maybe she should’ve kept her distance, or left the room altogether, instead of trying to take it considering that she had no idea when it would detonate. After that morning’s events, perhaps she should’ve suspected that Forefront would make a move as soon as possible, if only to deter them.
The only silver lining, if you didn't count surviving, was that she didn’t let Maggie follow her in there as offered. Isobel had been trying to keep her safe and as far out of the firing line as possible, but she’d ultimately protected her even more than intended. She tries not to think about what could’ve happened had she listened to her heart rather than her head and let Maggie join her, unsure if her sudden nausea is from the hypothetical or her injuries.
It had felt like an eternity before Isobel saw her again, drifting in and out of focus in the interim. Maggie had been the first to return, despite apparently having diverted to collect more than ammunition – she was carrying a first-aid kit and a spare shirt that Isobel was sure she’d seen her wear before. Her intent had perhaps been obvious, but Isobel had still given her a quizzical look.
“I’m going to clean you up,” Maggie had said, and Isobel had known there was no room for argument. I’m fine wasn’t going to work with Maggie – it never did, and it certainly wouldn’t now, after she’d pulled her out from the rubble. They’d had the time, given that nobody else was back, but Maggie would have made time even if there wasn’t any.
Isobel’s wellbeing, it seemed, wasn’t something she was willing to compromise any further, and if she couldn’t convince her to go to a hospital just yet, then Maggie was determined to do her best in the meanwhile. She has always shown Isobel a gentleness that she’s never quite felt deserving of, that nobody else has bothered to treat her with, and this had been no different.
It had been intimate, in a soft, unspoken way, with Maggie’s hand cradling her jaw just as it had when Isobel had stirred from unconsciousness. She’s the only one who has seen Isobel so vulnerable, and the only one Isobel would dare to let. Despite the pain, Maggie’s touch had been a great comfort as she’d cleaned the blood and ash tenderly from not only Isobel’s face but her neck and hands, tucking Isobel’s hair back behind one ear as she worked.
When she closed her eyes, for a blissful moment, she could almost pretend they were somewhere else, that their lives, careers and everything else weren’t at stake – that they were just two cherry blossom petals dancing together in the wind. Of course, that was far from the reality, and Maggie had quietly helped her change, trying to make her blazer look slightly more presentable as Isobel pulled on Maggie’s shirt behind her.
Unsurprisingly, it had been a little big on Isobel's narrower frame, tucked into the waistband of her skirt, but it was strangely reassuring to wear. Even though they would soon be separating again, Maggie would still be right there with her in a way. Isobel had tried not to think about that for the time being, trying to focus on the security of having Maggie around as the others finally returned and they began putting their plan into action.
It was risky. If she could have done it all herself, she would have. She hadn’t wanted to put Maggie of all people in danger, but she had also known that Maggie would refuse to sit idly by. She has always been reckless and brave, prioritizing other people over herself, and this time, that had included Isobel – although she never said it, she’d wanted to exact revenge on the people who had considered Isobel disposable and sneered at her ‘dead’ body.
Because Isobel isn’t disposable. Certainly not to Maggie, and as she’d left the safehouse to put their takedown into action, they suddenly found themselves inverted as Isobel worried about Maggie’s wellbeing and the possibility of finding her dead. She’d tried to distract herself by focusing on her anger and disgust, just strong enough to stop her from imagining Maggie’s lifeless body riddled with gunshot wounds.
It had been easier still when confronted with Keane in the flesh. It was a good thing she had one hell of a poker face and could lie with the ease of breathing when needed, because underneath it all she wanted nothing more than to spit vitriol at him. Instead, she'd feigned concern and accused Jubal of being the traitor, disclosing the others’ location in the process.
If Keane had suspected it was a bluff, he hadn’t shown it, but Isobel had been confident that a man too cocky to check her pulse would fall hook, line and sinker for a scapegoat. Given his track record and Reynolds’ own suspicions, Jubal had been the perfect candidate – finally, he’d had a use.
Unfortunately, all she’d been able to do after gaining Keane's trust was wait, looking out over the darkened, empty lobby, the building eerily still around her. This has never been a place where she considered herself unsafe, even despite one or two past incidents, but in the foreboding uncertainty, that was perhaps the only way to describe how she felt – now alone with someone who had already almost killed her and considered it an insignificant consequence.
Time had passed with unbearable slowness, as she’d agonized and hoped that Maggie would emerge from the inevitable gunfight unscathed even if nobody else did. Isobel would rather let the bureau fall than be left standing without her, let alone when it would’ve been her plan that Maggie’s life had come at the cost of. She hadn’t known what she’d do in the aftermath of their potential failure, only that it would’ve been survivable if Maggie was there – if she didn’t make it, Isobel may as well have died in that office.
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath, disassociating with worry, until her phone suddenly vibrated, catching her off-guard. Everyone else was convinced that she was dead. There was only one person who would be texting her, with the same ridiculous code she’d suggested, but at least nobody other than them would be able to decipher what the hell it meant – the pistachio is at the burrito bar.
For the first time that day, Isobel had breathed a sigh of relief, smiling faintly at the nonsensical string of words. Maggie was fine, or at least alive, and she had the very evidence Isobel needed to shut this nightmare down before it could get any darker. They hadn’t been far behind her, an immovable iron maiden as she’d returned the favor by blowing Keane’s treasonous operation up in his face.
His righthand had revealed all when reduced to the last one standing, selling Keane out for some desperate semblance of leniency. Their ship was sinking, and he was going down with it – alone. Isobel hadn’t known if arresting him was justice enough, for all the lives lost and harm caused, but it had been satisfying in the moment, to watch him scramble for justification, to insist that he was somehow the good guy in all of this. As if she couldn’t have felt more contempt for him.
She hadn’t quite known what to do with herself in the wake of their success, but while she’d idly stood there, staring at where Keane had been escorted out, suddenly feeling her every cut and bruise, Maggie hadn’t forgotten their agreement. Her hand on Isobel’s arm had been gentle, but her tone was firm. “ER. Now.”
Isobel hadn’t even considered objecting. After all, she did promise she would go, wordlessly letting Maggie guide her to their desks and then downstairs to the same corner of the parking garage where she’d pulled her jacket around Isobel’s shoulders. Still, Isobel couldn't say she was looking forward to sitting in a waiting room for hours, let alone when she was suddenly feeling the full force of the bomb’s impact, but at least it would be somewhat tolerable with Maggie sat beside her the entire time.
Only, it turned out she didn't have to sit around waiting for very long. Isobel still doesn't know if Maggie managed to pull some strings, or is friendly with someone working in the ER, but she was seen within less than an hour of them arriving. Most of the waiting was instead done in a cubicle, with Maggie stood vigilantly on guard right beside her, as if she’d thought another bomb would go off – and this time, she’d be able to shield Isobel from it.
Isobel is simply glad when she can leave the CT scanner behind, second only to a set of x-rays. After the day she’s had, she doesn’t even have the energy to be nervous for potential bad news – if anything, Maggie seems more uneasy than her. Isobel tries not to dwell too hard on why, reminded of the horrified, nauseated look on Maggie’s face when she’d flippantly joked about being killed ‘again’.
In the end, they tell her she has a concussion, but there’s at least no blood percolating in her brain, or anything else concerning. Three of her ribs are broken, and her left wrist is badly sprained enough for them to splint it, but she almost considers herself unscathed given the alternative. She could be dead. She could be on a table in the OR with her skull carved open. She could be trapped in a coma she’d never wake up from.
Maggie doesn’t seem too comforted by the outcome. The visible tension in her body lessens only slightly with what Isobel assumes is relief. She’s still scowling slightly by the time they leave with a prescription for hard pain meds in hand. Isobel isn’t entirely sure what it is that’s troubling her, but she opts not to ask, tiredly letting herself be guided back to Maggie’s car.
Naively, she’s expecting to be dropped off at home and left to her own devices, but when the car crawls to a stop outside her gate, Maggie is the first to step out onto the sidewalk. Isobel knows she shouldn’t really be surprised, not after how attached to her Maggie has been, perhaps since even before she walked into that office alone. Nobody else would’ve looked at her with the same concern over something so – at the time – inconsequential.
She winces slightly despite how gently Maggie helps her out of the passenger seat, hovering protectively right by Isobel’s side as they approach the front door. She unearths her keys from her handbag with her good hand, unlocking the door, and she thinks she sees Maggie’s fingers shift instinctively in the corner of her eye, as if wanting to do it for her.
Isobel almost thinks this must be where they part ways. She’ll turn in the doorframe, and Maggie will look up at her with her soft, honeyed doe-eyes, entrancing as always, and they’ll say goodnight as if she didn’t very nearly die today. It’s the sort of disconnect Isobel has come to expect from the people in her life, but the concussion must have made her forget how much of an outlier Maggie is. She all but trips over Isobel in her haste to follow her inside, clearly having no intention of leaving already.
It’s as if she thinks she’ll turn back to a headstone if she looks away from her, closing the door in their wake. The brownstone’s still silence is suffocating, and Isobel sighs, trying to lighten the mood. “I could really go for a glass of wine,” she remarks quietly, only to be caught off-guard by Maggie’s instant reaction.
“You are not drinking,” she retorts firmly, and Isobel doesn’t miss how she deliberately moves between her and the kitchen, clearly worried that she's serious. “You have a head injury, remember?” In her exhaustion and self-denigration, Isobel had failed to consider that Maggie is nowhere near as blasé about her fate and wellbeing as she is.
She softens, the surprise quickly fading. Of course not. Maggie has never shared the indifference of everyone else. She’d mourned her even as she was still breathing, giving Isobel some comfort when faced with the rest of the group's ambivalence – if she really had died, at least someone out there would have considered it a loss.
“They cleared me, Maggie,” Isobel reminds her gently, but she isn’t so easily reassured. Apparently even minor injuries are only marginally better than her brain bleeding into itself.
“No, they said you have a concussion,” Maggie corrects, undeterred. “So, you can have water or chamomile, even lemonade, but no wine.” Isobel resists the urge to tease her for her hypocrisy, for how she begs and pleads to do things she certainly shouldn’t be when she herself has a concussion – and she has had more than plenty.
Isobel shakes her head affectionately, only for the hallway to spin ever so slightly. “I do have lemonade,” she concedes, finally shrugging off her coat. “It would go great with taquitos if I didn’t feel halfway to the grave.” She almost winces when Maggie’s eyes widen slightly in response. “Sorry.” She suspects that too soon is going to be a long time yet.
“I could always order something,” Maggie suggests, knowing that Isobel has been too preoccupied to eat today. Even she herself hasn’t had anything since breakfast, and she’s starting to feel it now that the looming threat has passed. Of course, food maybe isn’t a priority for Isobel given what she’s been through today. “But if you’d rather just get some rest...”
Maggie trails off, starting to frown again, but Isobel isn’t entirely sure which she’d prefer. She's dead on her feet and feels close to passing out, but now she’s also suddenly craving taquitos – or at least something similar. She doesn’t even know what time it is. Would anywhere she likes still be open? She glances down at her watch, miraculously functional despite the chipped glass, and grimaces at the hour. If they did want her at the office tomorrow, she’s already screwed out of a decent night’s sleep.
“Well, the least I owe you is dinner,” she reasons, smiling faintly. After all, if it wasn’t for their trip to the ER, Maggie would’ve been free hours ago – though Isobel suspects she would have always chosen to prioritize her instead. She’s done so much for her today, secret-keeping and risk-taking and dutifully protecting, that paying for dinner couldn’t even begin to cover it, but it would at least be a start.
Some of the weight seems to suddenly leave Maggie’s shoulders. “You don’t owe me anything,” she tells her gently. Isobel has done more than enough for her over the years, a voice of reason, supporting her when she needed it most, standing by her regardless of what may come. Maggie thinks it’s her who owes Isobel if nothing else. Her unfaltering trust and loyalty are plenty, even without why it had felt like the world was ending when she found her unconscious in that office.
Isobel is so used to all shades of relationships being transactional that it feels almost wrong to hear her say it. “Not even a thank you?” she counters weakly. After all, who knows if she’d even still be alive without Maggie, watching as she perhaps inevitably shakes her head.
“No, not for this,” she answers, as if everybody else hadn’t hurried in the opposite direction, as if any of the others would’ve questioned Isobel’s safety in the aftermath of those explosions let alone gone looking for her.
Isobel sighs under her breath, knowing she’s in a losing battle. Care without strings might be unfamiliar to her, but it isn’t surprising of Maggie's gold-plated heart. “There’s a container of menus by the fridge,” she reveals, but this is a defeat she for once doesn’t mind. Isobel offers her a tired smile. “I’m sure you’ll know what to order.”
“I think I have some idea,” Maggie says, but she doesn’t move until Isobel does so first, watchful eyes following her all the way into the lounge. Isobel can’t help but grimace slightly as she lowers herself onto the far end of the couch, her bruised body protesting the motion until she sinks back against the soft fabric and stills again.
For the first time all day, her tension-locked body finally relaxes. There is no danger, no threat, no enemy. For once, nobody is after her anymore, and even if they were, Maggie is only in the other room on the phone. If anything were to somehow happen, she would come running in a heartbeat, just as she had at the sound of a bomb. Isobel lets her eyes drift shut, resting her head back against the couch.
She thinks she might need a break, to make use of those vacation days she keeps letting pile up and remember how to breathe. The bureau will most likely mandate one after what happened, even if she isn’t bound to a hospital bed. They won't want her seen around the office so soon, with her wrist splint and broken ribs and a visible violent cut in her forehead.
She doesn’t realize she has company until she feels the couch dip slightly right beside her, her first alert to Maggie’s oddly silent entrance. “I’m not asleep,” Isobel reveals, suspecting that’s the reason for her being so soft-footed. She hadn’t wanted to wake her.
“Oh.”
Isobel tilts her head in Maggie’s direction, eyes fluttering open again. She has a glass of lemonade in her hand, but strangely only one, as if neglecting to spare even a first thought for herself, let alone a second. She wordlessly holds it out, and Isobel forces herself to sit up. “I couldn’t find anywhere with taquitos,” Maggie admits, sounding strangely disappointed.
“That’s alright,” Isobel assures her, taking the glass. She admittedly hadn’t expected her to, touched that Maggie would even search the myriad of takeout menus trying, but her expression only does the opposite of soften. She stares at Isobel with that same troubled frown from earlier, worry etched into the familiar lines of her face, and Isobel slowly sets her drink on the nearby table, unsure whether she should be concerned in turn. “What?”
There’s a pause that seems to last a lifetime, as Maggie’s tortured gaze burns through her and she becomes faintly aware of their legs pressed together across the couch cushions. “Does it still hurt?” Maggie finally asks, leaning forward slightly, her voice quiet. She reaches up to brush Isobel’s hair back behind her ear, fully uncovering the butterfly stitches stark against her irritated skin, and leaves no question of which injury she’s referring to.
“Not really,” Isobel tells her, but Maggie’s hand doesn’t fall away as she expects it to, cradling her bruised face much like it had when she woke up in agony. She knows it doesn’t make sense, but Isobel is sure her touch is almost more effective than the pain relief, her thumb stroking away even the faint reoccurring twinges left behind.
Yet she’s still frowning despite the answer. It's not the clueless look that Isobel finds adorable, or the thunderous one when Maggie had found out she was being stalked. It’s grieving, melancholy, guilt-ridden. It almost hurts to look at, but Isobel isn’t sure how to fix it – or if she even can.
“I shouldn't have left you,” Maggie murmurs, forlorn, and Isobel immediately realizes the cause for her expression – she blames herself for what happened. The notion must have been haunting her ever since that bomb went off, even though she is guilty of nothing if not rushing to her rescue. Isobel had been the one to insist she go into that office without her.
“You came back for me,” she reminds her gently. Maggie had come running even as everyone around them fled in terror. Nobody else would have – they hadn’t even questioned where she was – but Maggie had refused to leave her behind, regardless of any danger to herself. Isobel will never know what state she might be in right now if not for her.
“What if I’d been too late?” Maggie asks, unable to stop herself from thinking about the alternatives – standing helplessly outside a hospital room, staring numbly down at a sheet in the morgue, kneeling full of regret in front of a headstone.
“You weren’t,” Isobel assures quietly. She finds herself at a loss for what it is that Maggie thinks she could’ve done had she been with her. Neither of them had known what was coming – she couldn’t have shielded her in time. The likeliest outcome would’ve been both of them laying injured amid the rubble, and Isobel certainly could’ve never forgiven herself for that.
Maggie’s gaze finally begins to soften, with what Isobel thinks is adoration as much as reassurance, unaware of how close they’ve already gotten – not that they were far apart in the first place. She isn’t sure which of them starts bridging the rest of the gap. Maybe it’s Maggie, with her hopeful eyes, who has always found comfort most in physical touch.
Maybe it’s her, a desperate, unrequited mess of longing, when it feels so right. Inevitable. Needed. She can taste her heart on her tongue, the almost shy brush of Maggie’s nose against hers like a livewire. There’s barely a whisper between them, and then – for the first time in her life, Isobel understands the sentiment behind mi media naranja.
She wonders if the afterlife would’ve been as heavenly as the press of Maggie’s lips, starving yet somehow tender at the same time. She kisses Isobel with a fervor of years in the making, as if she's been waiting to give up forever and more for just this one single moment. It’s a devotion and yearning want that Isobel has never had the privilege of experiencing until now, Maggie’s hold on her jaw almost possessive.
Only when they eventually break apart, and just barely, does her touch relax slightly, but she still doesn’t let go, cradling Isobel’s injured face in both hands. “Stay?” Isobel murmurs, suspecting she won’t sleep tonight without her, and not just because she feels safest when Maggie is beside her.
Maggie nods slightly, staring at her as if she’s more mesmerizing than every star in the sky. “I need to know you’re still here,” she answers, perhaps even more unwilling to leave than Isobel is to let her. After seeing her ashen and covered in blood, as still as if she were already dead, Maggie needs that reassurance more than ever.
She’s sure she’s never been more grateful to see someone’s eyes open at the sound of her voice, and Maggie leans in to kiss her again – softer, slower, with the same gentleness and genuine care she has always afforded Isobel even if nobody else wants to – but it's not the last of the night.
When they curl up together in the heart of Isobel's bed an hour later, a tangle of limbs that refuse to let go, Maggie presses a trail of them against the crown of Isobel's head – an unspoken promise intertwined with her curls.