AUTHOR'S NOTE: So I've debated for quite some time whether I wanted to give this idea a shot. With the way "Skins: Fire" ended, it seemed to basically kill off any future hope of Naomily having a future and with it, a lot of the fandom jumped ship. Some of us are still here though, and we keep plugging away. I hope to update this one more regularly than my "opus" fic Cry, Little Sister so expect weekly to bi-weekly updates depending on how quickly I can scrape up the plot pieces.

I must go on record as saying, despite what I will write in this story, I do believe that Naomi did in fact succumb to her cancer based on the way the events played out in the show. But…just because things ended that way in canon world, doesn't mean that fanon Naomi can't find some way to fight her way back, even when things look their absolute bleakest.

I'm going to attempt to fill in a few of the plot holes for "Fire" as I imagined they would have happened. So bear in mind, this is fanfiction, and this is just my interpretation, but hopefully, you guys will like where this is going and continue with me. This won't be a fluffy fic, by any stretch of the means, but I will say that I will do my best to tell the continuation of what I believe would have been Naomily's story. No disrespect to the Brittains or Bryan Elsley…but in this world, in this story…your ending is rejected.

PROLOGUE

I used to love to watch Naomi sleep. Not in a creepy way, just on occasion. Knowing she and I were sharing the same bed, knowing there was no possible chance I'd wake up here alone ever again. Except now I would. Because every time she closed her eyes, I was afraid it would be the last time I would see those beautiful, sea-barren blues. Effy said they looked faded to her, more gray now than they used to be. And they had been a bit a few days ago, but this morning when she woke up and found me laying beside her, my arm wrapped protectively around her thin, frail body as the monitors beeped beside the hospital bed, I saw them sparkle. The way they used to do, and only when she was looking at me.

I hadn't really slept all week. The plane ride had been almost unbearable, the cab ride all the worse, and the arrival at the hospital? It had taken ages to work up the strength to walk into Naomi's room. The first thing I noticed as soon as I had been more or less pushed in by Effy was how thin her hair had become. There was no longer a soft, warm truss to bury my hands into. And oh how I had over the years, in so many ways. Now all that was left was assorted pieced follicles which were so soft, I was afraid if I pressed my hand too hard they would cave back into her skin.

The hours that followed were nothing but tears. So many tears. No words. What was there to say? She was dying. My girlfriend, my lover, my world…was dying. Of goddamn fucking ovarian cancer. Stage 4. Terminal. No chance of recovery.

And as I stood next to her bedside, the DNR papers in my hand, waiting for her to awake, I honestly thought I was going to be sick. I pulled a nearby trashcan just the tiniest bit closer just in case. Closing my eyes, I pinched at the skin around the top of my nose, hoping it'd keep everything down. A soft, "hey," broke me out of my stupor as my weary eyes met Naomi's, her head lulled against the pillow as I leaned forward and placed my hand gingerly on her forehead.

"Hey," I said. Her long, thin finger pointed toward the cup of tap water and straw, Her hand shook slightly as she fought to keep it level. I knew when she was trying for my sake, to not appear as broken I knew she was, as hopeless and helpless as I'm certain she was. Another bout of sobs broke against my throat, but I swallowed them down and reached for the water. I helped her take a few sips before her lips dropped the straw and she sighed. Placing the water back on the counter, I said quietly,

"The doctor brought something by." Naomi tried to sit up slightly, so I stuck my hands beneath her shoulders, doing my best to match the muscle movement cues she was giving me until she was comfortably half laying but also half sitting against the higher set of pillows just above her.

"What was it?" I didn't have the heart to say the words aloud, so I merely brought the papers as close as Naomi needed to read them. Her mouth thinned and as her eyes scanned what was in front of them. My eyes couldn't look anywhere but at the bolded letters at the top: Do. Not. Resuscitate.

What happened next, I won't ever forget for the rest of my days. Perhaps even past then. It's something a reincarnated sense of self will always remember and acknowledge because it was the first time I felt hope in a dreary, dire sense of permanence.

Naomi's eyes turned to mine, a half smile cracking into her parched lips as she stated firmly, "Fuck that. And fuck this cancer too." She took a deep breath, and as she took my hand, she stated quite firmly. "We're going to beat this bitch."

I was overwhelmed. And honestly, in that moment, I didn't give a damn if it was absolutely impossible or not. I knew that look. This wasn't over. Not even fucking close.

I was crying and kissing her before I even realized I was probably being far too exuberant about it. "Yes, we will," I said as my forehead rested against hers, my lips, "We'll find a way, somehow."