When Bridges Burn
He hated lying, but he knew he had to. He had to, he had no other choice. His mind was just a blur; nothing made sense. Why? How? How could this possibly happen? If anyone was hurt because of this it should have been him not the man now lying on the ground. Malcolm wrapped his fingers tighter around the hole that was quickly depriving his friend of life. This was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, so wrong! How did this spin out of control so badly? His fingers were already slick with blood. It just wouldn't stop; no matter what he did it just wouldn't stop.
He felt his stomach lurch. The hand wrapped around his arm was weak, but the emotion in those eyes wasn't. It was sickening to know what was coming. All because of that stupid money! If they hadn't found it then this wouldn't be happening. He wouldn't have to lie. Was it really a lie when you didn't say anything? All he had done was nod… but still, he felt horrible. It would have been hard if it had been any of them, any of his friends, but this was just plain appalling. Out of all of them, why was it him?
Malcolm turned his eyes back to wound. He couldn't watch the other man's eyes. In them there was trust: trust that wasn't deserved. He was lying. He was going to leave, he had to. He couldn't tell them what had happened. He looked back at the bleeding man only to see that his face was no longer turned towards him. He wasn't just dying, he was dead. Maybe he had just passed out or something. He shook the younger man. Nothing, no response. His heart finally broke. This was all his fault. His friend, his best friend, was dead because of him! He pulled the body to him, the black glasses pressing into his chest. He didn't care, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
The worst part was that he had lied. Malcolm had said that he wasn't going to leave him, but now he was. There wasn't another option. The guys, they wouldn't understand. They didn't know him like Malcolm did. They wouldn't believe that he could just drop the gun and manage to shoot himself in the leg. But he could, and he did. He would never forget that look, those words. Mal slowly laid the body on the ground. Death was supposed to be peaceful, wasn't it? His friend didn't look at peace. He looked like he had been in pain even if he didn't know it. The tears wouldn't stop but he didn't hold them back. No one else could know. These would be the only tears he got. Malcolm bit his lip: his friend deserved so much more, but he just couldn't give him more. They wouldn't believe it.
This time the money, that stupid bag of money, wasn't the first thing on his mind. Now that he had lost his life, his friend was the forerunner in Malcolm's thoughts. He grabbed the shovel leaving bloody fingerprints on it. He wanted to just sit and cry and apologize and keep apologizing. But he knew he couldn't. The boys would be worried and suspicious, so he had to go back. But first he had to leave. He had to leave his friend alone. The shovel found its way into the ground and, even through the tears that still blurred his vision, he dug. And he keep digging. He wasn't thinking, he couldn't think. If he did, he knew that he would completely break. Only hours ago they had been laughing together and now there would be no more laughter. Malcolm didn't know if he could ever laugh again.
Somehow the hole was dug. It wasn't deep but he didn't have time. His best friend had just died so fast that everything, everything was just wrong. It was getting too late but Mal couldn't rush. No, his friend, his dead friend, deserved so much more then a shallow grave that he was at least going to be placed in it with some respect. Malcolm's bloody hands slowly lifted the lifeless man off the ground. The blood didn't bother him anymore, it was already all over. What bothered him, what he knew was burned into his memory, into his nightmares, forever was that look with those words. He placed the body in the grave if you could even call it a grave. He couldn't look as he shifted the dirt back in place. He couldn't watch himself bury his best friend.
The dirt finally hid the body. His tears had stopped awhile ago but it was still hard to see. His mind was spinning with so many questions that couldn't be answered. He didn't let himself think. He couldn't. He wanted to make a gravestone, a real one, but there weren't any large rocks around. And there wasn't time because they just wouldn't understand. Instead he made a pattern with smaller rocks. A pattern that he could come back to because he had to apologize; but not now. Now he had to pretend that everything was all right and that his friend wasn't dead. Malcolm had to pretend that he hadn't lied as he watched the blood leek between his fingers. He had to pretend it wasn't his fault. He had to pretend that his best friend hadn't died because of him. He had to pretend that he could go to sleep at night without remembering those words. He had to pretend that he wasn't leaving Booth behind, leaving him alone.