A/N: Thank you to everyone who read this story. I hope you enjoy the final chapter!

TWO WEEKS LATER

Rumlow heard the metal door squeak open. The rusty hinges were like nails piercing his ear drums. He would've covered them but that would've ruined his, as Skye called it, 'mysterious gunslinger' image. Plus his arm still hurt like a bitch from the last blood draw.

He was on the ledge watching the sunset, his usual evening activity. The nurses had given up trying to stop him. That's what they get for not padlocking the door. He made sure to be back in bed as soon as night fell. It made their jobs easier and hopefully meant they wouldn't make good on their threats to get out the body restraints.

Down below on the streets, businessmen and women rushed home after their long work day. Groups of kids laughed while pouring over comic books. An old woman on a bench fed breadcrumbs to pigeons. Any one of them could've been wearing a bloody mask two weeks ago.

Business as usual.

A man on a motorcycle zoomed down the road. He popped a wheelie like a jackass and Rumlow wished he had a sniper rifle. In the absence of a churning engine, muted footsteps reached his ears. Sounded like old sneakers. He scooted over to make a spot for her, not that she'd take it. Something about his legs dangling over the edge of a building made her nauseous, she said. He didn't get it.

"How're you feeling?"

Rumlow stretched his neck, getting all the kinks out. "A little tired, a little achy. Really fucking bored."

Skye giggled. "But excited, right? You're getting discharged tomorrow."

"Yup. I get to sit around my dump of an apartment 'taking it easy' and 'not straining myself.' Damn doctors. This is why I never go to them."

"Right. Should've just handed you a knife and let you get that bullet out yourself like a man."

"You got it."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you're still here."

She hadn't been admitted to the hospital. Her injuries were superficial and required little more than antiseptic and some bandages. He couldn't even see the bruises anymore. Yet every day, without fail, she was in his room with a sandwich from the cafeteria and a magazine from the gift shop. At first, he thought she had nothing better to do. She'd gone back to her apartment just once to gather her belongings and drop off her key. Since then, he didn't know where she'd been living. It could be a motel like she said, or she could've been sneaking twenty minute naps in the waiting room.

By the fifth day, in which she unironically placed a bright pink Get Well card on his tray table, Rumlow had no choice but to consider the idea that she might actually like spending time with him.

"So…" he kicked out a leg, just to make her squirm, "you doing okay?"

She bit her lip, sitting with her back to the ledge. "I don't know. I think so."

"Feeling any better?"

"Yes… maybe." She sighed. "I wanted him dead for so long. I replayed that night so many times, finding more and more ways I could've ended everything if I'd just been brave enough. Now that he's gone, I'm starting to think that's all I was staying alive for. Now I don't know what to do."

Rumlow scoffed. "Seriously? You're giving him way too much credit."

"Am I?"

"Yes." Rumlow turned, ignoring the sharp stab of his wound being pulled. "Grant Ward was a waste of air from the day he was born to the moment he died. He wasn't worth the ants he stepped on, let alone your life."

Her lips twitched, but still she hung her head. He understood. Baggage like hers didn't just disappear overnight. He should know better than anyone, and he was starting to think she was right when she said they were alike.

"They say to purge is to cleanse your soul. To release all your hate so you can be at peace for the rest of the year."

"Sounds like bullshit."

"Doesn't it?" She rolled her eyes. "It's not that I feel bad, because I don't, but I don't feel good about it either. There's no relief, I'm just going back to the rest of my life. All on my own."

Their hands were almost touching. He had the strangest desire to know if her skin was as soft as it looked. His were so rough, he might cut her with the pad of his thumb alone. Even so, they'd survived a Purge together, gone up against death multiple times, had sappy heart to hearts like over-emotional teenage girls. He'd taken a fucking bullet for her and God, those painkillers did a number on his brain. As far as he was concerned, they absolved him of guilt when he took her hand and rubbed it tenderly.

"Not completely."

Skye stared at him. He didn't know what to make of it, but she hadn't slapped him yet. That had to be a good sign.

"Brock," she said, leaning closer, "I'm going to kiss you now."

He raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"

"Just giving you fair warning."

Her lips were softer than her hands. They moved clumsily against his. Her inexperience was obvious, but charming in its own way. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been with anyone. Well over a year at least. Great as sex was, he'd had far too much on his plate to think about finding a girlfriend. One of his favorite phrases to run through his head every time a woman eyed him in the bar was 'after they're all dead.' Now they were all dead, and this broken twenty something who kissed like an awkward virgin was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

He blamed the painkillers.

As she pulled away, her face was flushed, and he had a feeling so was his. Hopefully, that would give her a nice confidence boost. "You are really something else, Skye."

She smiled at him, for real this time. "Daisy."

"What?"

"My real name is Daisy Johnson. I think I'm ready to use it again."

Rumlow smiled back. "That's cute. It suits you."

Skye- Daisy- blushed. "You think I'm cute."

"I said the name is cute, not you. You're just okay."

"And you're an ass."

"Is that the best you got? I've heard worse from my grandmother."

She covered her mouth as her shoulders shook with laughter. He wished she wouldn't, as now he couldn't kiss her again like he wanted. Instead, he had to listen to some guy driving down the road with his windows rolled down and his stereo blasting. He stopped at a red light and the pulsing dubstep cut out for a commercial at just the right moment.

'This year, we purged for the people we love. For our friends, our families, our children. We purge to rid ourselves of our demons. Because nothing mends a broken heart like taking up a gun and doing your God-given duty-'

The light changed and the car drove off, taking the soothing voice of the NFFA spokesperson with it. Rumlow felt pressure as Daisy rested her head on his shoulder. She was careful not to aggravate his wounds, her touch gentle and, dare he say it, loving.

"I was thinking," she muttered, "Canada sounds pretty good right now."

Rumlow stared straight ahead. The sun was long gone and darkness had fallen. All the newly repaired street lights shone bright like fireflies. An American flag hung from the side of a building across the street. The red stripes looked almost black. "Yeah, it does."

THE END