They hold hands. All the way to the airport. And it doesn't mean anything, it doesn't have to mean anything, but it does. Because that's them. Because holding hands means I got you and because she might never come back.

His grip is safety. Support. A declaration of his unwavering trust on her.

She never thought she would be able to trust someone so completely (blindly, would be his choice of words). And she's not sure how or why this happened. She certainly didn't see it coming, wasn't expecting, and despite the romantic in her, never really believe in it.

Until him.

As a CIA operative there's so much risk all the time and the longest she walks through this world, the more she's sucked into it. The darkness of it, the blurry edges, it's hard to not lose grip on what she used to call reality. The little things.

Everything now is hard angles and pointy edges and one slip could be one too many.

How do you not lose yourself into this?

But then there's him.

And he's holding her hand.

And he can't really see you.

He doesn't see the way your feelings just pour out of your eyes whenever he's near you. Can't see the smiles that visit your face – specially these days – exclusively for him. Because of him. He can't see the scars you carry on your chest or the blood that stains your shirt when you push yourself too fast and too hard.

But the funny thing is, truthfully, he's the only one who really sees you after all.

He may not see the scars on your chest, but he doesn't miss the ones left in your soul.

And you think, you think you may actually love him. Not consciously, not openly, maybe not even by choice. But how could you not to?

Because when he sees the darkest side of you – and maybe the fact that he's used to living in darkness has something to do with it – he doesn't hesitate, he barely blinks. Instead he offers you his hand and his total and complete support and he fights for you.

It's actually a thing of wonder the way he loves. How he can balance strength with gentleness and how he can be incredibly stubborn but ever so kind.

It's almost unfair for him to be so right at such wrong times.

Life does that.

The arrival at the airport comes way too quickly. Annie sighs heavily, unwilling to let go of his hand. Auggie doesn't seem to mind at all. He just waits. He always waits. He's patient and almost reverent to her pace. She's scared. She wants this, doesn't know how to go on without it. She says it's for Simon, but that's not the complete truth. This is also about herself. About proving herself. It's also about learning a lesson: don't be so fucking naïve next time Annie. Because the cost, in this life, it's too damn high.

He doesn't say a word. But he does take her hand to his lips before she leaves. And if he hears the hiccup stuck at her throat he's kind enough not to mention.

Uncharacteristically he doesn't crack a joke. The silence remains sacred. She doesn't shed the tears that menace to escape.

This is it. It's time to go.

He wishes her luck.

She appreciates the words, the gesture, still feeling the softness of his lips against her skin long after its gone.

And when she leaves, taking the path of revenge and justice, she walks alone.

But the warmth of his touch still lingers.