Olivia catches up to Sarah about three miles outside Cleveland city limits, in a run-down old motel with worn brown carpets and stains on the walls. Sarah’s sitting in the bar with a weary smile and a glass of whiskey; she looks up when Olivia steps inside, but she doesn’t stand to run.
They’ve been a long time running, toward each other and away. A long time in this wary dance.
Olivia’s not sure when chasing Sarah became less about her job and more about Sarah; when it was that she first started to understand that maybe, just maybe, some of the things Sarah says are true. Sarah’s younger than she ought to be, knows things she shouldn’t, has been caught so many times in places she shouldn’t even know about. Trailing a strange history behind her, blood and metal and loss.
It’s been a long time since Olivia last spoke to her handlers, her bosses. Since she last followed orders.
Olivia’s pretty sure she’s not an FBI agent any more.
But tonight -oh, Sarah’s here, tonight, and she’s not running. And Olivia’s smiling and smiling and smiling, like she’ll never stop.
She sits down on a bar stool beside Sarah, and Sarah slides a brimming glass her way.
Just for a moment, their fingers touch.
For a moment, just for a moment, Olivia can see the future -
“You’re not running,” Olivia says, words coming out low and husky.
“No,” Sarah says, and for the first time she smiles. “I’m waiting for you.”