Click Click Bang
She finds him in the bridge.
"Sir?"
There's a dull click, and she bites her lip when she sees the revolver in his hand.
"Put it down."
"Why?" He coolly opens the barrel and spins it, Russian roulette style, then presses it against the underside of his chin and pulls the trigger. Another dull click.
He's leaning against the back of the captain's chair, facing her. "Please. Mike."
There's a gleam of intoxication in his eyes, but it's far outweighed by grief. He spins the barrel again, and points it at her.
She's not worried until he doesn't fire. Even in this state, he wouldn't try to hurt her – he wouldn't take the one in eight chance that if he fired he could kill her. The gun is loaded. He turns it back on himself; click.
"Mike, please, put it down. Not like this. Not here."
"Why not?" Click.
"We need you."
"I need her." Click.
She swallows. She needs to stop him, before his luck turns. "I know what you're feeling."
He raises an eyebrow, lifting the gun slightly as if making a toast. "You want to play? Click... click... bang."
"No. Mike, listen to me."
"No." Click.
"Mike, please! Stop." She hesitates. "I don't know what to say. Don't do this to me."
His finger pauses on the trigger, and the helplessness in his eyes as he gazes at her is staggering.
"It was my fault."
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes on his. "No, it wasn't. You know it wasn't."
"She's dead because of me. Because of my decision." Click.
"It was the only call you could have made. I would have done the same. She would have done the same."
"I loved her." Click.
"I know." She takes a step closer, top lip trembling slightly. Almost unconsciously, he continues to spin the barrel, take the shot.
"And I never told her." Click.
"I watched her bleed out, Mike. I was there. Don't make me watch you die."
"Then leave," he whispers. A tear is scooped up by his eyelashes as he blinks, and she takes another step closer.
"No. Put it down."
He spins the barrel, then looks sadly at the gun in his hands. "One more. Then I'll stop."
As presses it against his chin, she shakes her head, reaching forward. "No. Enough." Her hand touches his and, breath baited, her fingers slide along the length of his, curling round his hand.
What she does next has her body both tense and trembling. He won't release the gun, so she slowly pulls it away from his head, so it's pointed directly at her chest. His finger trembles on the trigger.
"Mike. Let it go."
His hand falls away, and as she opens the barrel he slides to the ground, forehead touching his knees, shoulders shaking. Her breath catches, and she stares at the bullet. If she had allowed him his 'one more', he would be dead.
She tips it into her hand, pockets it, then places the gun on the closest table. Dropping to the floor beside him, she doesn't hesitate to wrap her arms around his grief battered form.
"It's okay, Mike. We'll get through this."
"No. No, it's not okay." He lifts his head and looks longingly towards where she left the gun.
She wonders, for half a second, why she bothered. One way or another, he'll find a way, and there will only be so many times that she'll be able to stop him.