The Twenty Two Gun Salute

by deuteragonist

I didn't understand before how someone could say that their heart belonged to another person. I always thought it was mine and always would be. If I chose to love someone, it would still be my heart, still be me who made that choice. I thought I was in control. I understand now. I didn't but now I do, because you gave it back to me and now I don't know what to do with it.

A/N T for dark themes. Possible trigger warning. Go ahead and flame if you feel like it. I don't care, so it won't accomplish anything.

Disclaimed. You know the drill by now.

One.

Cold rain runs icy shivers down my spine. Too much has happened over the last week and I can't tell up from down anymore. The rain isn't heavy enough to impede anything, but it's heavy enough that my hair drips in my eyes. Black umbrellas dot the rolling hills in front of me. I stare at them, because I can't bear to put my eyes where everyone expects them to be.

I'm drowning in the strangers around me who pretend that they care. People who don't care. People who hardly remember who you are.

Two.

But I remember. I remember you far better than anyone knows I do, could ever know I do. I remember black eyes like coal lined with tired smudges like ash. I remember cold skin and shivers under dark skies that flashed with broken snaps. I remember secret codes and too many phone calls and late night conversations that, to every one else, never happened.

They happened. They happened to us and that is where they will always stay. Because no one knew, could ever know.

Three.

You told me, once, that you were scared, that you, a hero, were terrified. We sat under the make shift tent we'd made, huddled together to ward of the cold and the loneliness. You said that you were afraid we'd never leave this war behind. That, even if this ended and we won and we survived, that our minds would stay here forever. We would stay with the horrible things we'd done and all the innocent lives we had ended. You were terrified of the scars.

I told you that you were probably right. I told you in a whispered hush of breath that, if we did stay here, even just in our own minds, it wouldn't be so bad. Yes, we'd remember the awful things we had seen, the men and women and children collapsing like discarded marionettes, the smell of charred and rotting corpses, the sound of people mourning. We would always see the blood on our hands and we would forever wear the labels we gave ourselves. Sick. Remorseless. Murderer. Monster. But we could remember the friends we'd made through the hard times, even if they didn't make it through them. We would remember late nights spent somewhere no else could see. We would remember careful glances and reassurances.

I would remember you.

And you would remember me.

Four.

It's strange, how little everything else matters when you have the one thing you want in the world. Or how the fact that no one else even knew didn't seem to bother us. We didn't need to show everyone else. You didn't need the world to see your fingers laced through mine. I needed nothing but you.

What's also is strange how it doesn't suddenly start to matter when that one thing you wanted is ripped away with violent conviction.

Five.

I never told you. Not out loud. I know that you knew all along. I know I said it with more than words. I said it with sweaty palms and stolen kisses and soft gazes only you could see. I never said it out loud and I feel like the words that should have been on my tongue scorched it instead.

I never said it, but I love you. Every inch of you. I love the secret gestures and cues. I love the secret code that was once meant only as a game. I love the sideways glances when no one is looking. I love the strengths that you so openly display and the weaknesses that are just as obvious.

I love the softness of your lips. I love the way I can always tell exactly what you're thinking by your eyes alone, and that only I can. I love the pretenses you set up and flaunt to everyone else so you can save your nights for me.

Six.

And those nights were filled with motel sheets and creaky mattresses and rough kisses. When your mouth would trace the scars that marred my skin and your fingers would burn invisible lines on my hip bones. Soft sighs, gentle caresses, and unspoken, absolute, undeniable adoration. It hung heavy in musty air, but we breathed it in because we craved it.

It was desperate love, but sometimes that was what we needed.

Seven.

Early last week, we got a new case. It was supposed to be open and shut. A weapons bust that would only take a few days at the worst. That was how it appeared and that was how it started. We went into it with light hearts and low expectations. We stayed up too late for no reason besides each other and assumed we could celebrate our soon to be recent victory the following evening.

Eight.

We went along with it as normal, following obvious leads as normal, and planning for the eventual capture of the band of weapons dealers as normal. Everything was so suffocatingly average that it was almost physically painful.

Then came the actual execution of our plan. It started exactly as we suspected it would, how we expected it to. We had all our bases thoroughly covered an all their exits blocked. This was going to be easy.

It was supposed to be easy.

Nine.

You led the first team. Havoc the second and I the third. We were the ones you trusted to do it right, and so we each took six officers through a different part of the building, fanning out, leaving almost no room for anyone to leak through. It was a routine we had successfully played through a dozen times. This time was to be no different. There was no reason for it to be.

So I lead my team through the warehouse, the only sound was the scrape of heavy boots against the concrete floor. It was eerie, the silence. It was too thick and every little sound echoed against my skull and made my hair stand on end.

Ten.

When the sprinkling system came on over our heads, I knew something wasn't right. I was soaking wet in moments and my heart pounded between shivers. I don't remember starting to, but I remember sprinting. I knew that something was wrong and that I had to get there before the worst possibility became the worst reality.

Doors slammed open and water dripped down my back. My grip tightened on my gun. My breath came in panicked gasps. I hadn't found you yet and I was suddenly terrified.

Eleven.

I did find you. I almost wish someone else had instead.

I got there in time to watch the last of your team get slaughtered. My gun flashed again and again, but I didn't hear it. My eyes were glued to you, the torn remains of your gloves on the ground, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the glazed look in your eyes.

With one enemy remaining, I stared hard, but my finger hesitated on the trigger. His gun was on you and mine was on him. It was a standoff and neither one of us was willing to back down.

My skin was cold and my knees trembled. My whole being shook but my hands were steady.

He grinned at me maliciously and two gunshots sounded. I heard them both loud and clear, sending little jolts down my spine and a haunted feeling deep in my chest.

Twelve.

My bullet hit true, as it always did. It hit it's mark dead on and he fell back with a thud, his gun skittering across the floor. I watched him fall, crumbling like shattered glass. But I had only fired once and I had clearly heard two shots.

His had hit just as true. Your unsteady breaths stilled but your glazed eyes still stared at me. My heart didn't pound in my head, or beat against my rib cage. It didn't ache or shatter. It disappeared and left me confused and empty and cold. My gun slipped from my hands and I found myself on my knees by your side.

Thirteen.

I don't care to remember what happened next. I'm not proud of it, of the hysteria that overcame me, the weakness I showed, or the promises I broke. For that, I'm sorry.

But to watch you slip between my fingers when I never got to tell you how much I love you... to never tell you goodbye... I didn't know then what I should feel, as I stood frozen and watched you die, and now I don't feel at all and that scares me.

Fourteen.

It hasn't rained once this summer. You expressed more than once how amazing that was. You always did despise the rain. But today, of all days, the sky is crying. It feels ironically appropriate, but the humor of it is lost on me.

Fifteen.

The sky may be crying, but I'm not. I didn't. I never did. In all of that panic and weakness and hysteria, there weren't any tears. Not the ones you can see. My heart still hasn't come back to fill the hole it left behind. I feel like a shell. Not a shell of myself, because I can't. I don't feel like myself at all. I feel like a stranger in my own skin, a shadow that may shatter into a thousand tiny slivers at the slightest provocation.

Sixteen.

I lied, before. When I said that I was drowning in strangers.

It isn't true because, while I am drowning, I'm drowning in myself. I'm the stranger, and the thought, that when your last enemy went down with a bullet, I was lost in the flash of gunpowder, sits in my stomach like a rock. The feeling probably should bother me, but it doesn't.

Of course, nothing does anymore. I can't find the piece of me that cares.

Seventeen.

I blink. It's far too loud here. Yet it's too quiet. There are too many people here for it to be this quiet. These people, who were your friends, your comrades, as good as family to you who had none, stand with their heads bowed somberly. Several have silent tears streaming down their faces and everyone else looks as close to it as is possible. Or maybe it's just the rain.

Eighteen.

Gunshots like thunder boom against my chest where my heart used to be. I fight the urge to flinch after each one. I've made it through this many, though... I can make it through a few more.

Nineteen.

But perhaps it is my heart. It didn't hurt this much before. The empty hole is suddenly a roaring flame that sears my insides and throbs through every muscle. My throat tightens and my chest feels ready to collapse at any moment. Breathing is suddenly far too difficult and I don't know how to deal with this sudden surge of raw emotion that rips through me like a tidal wave.

It hurts. It hurts and I miss you and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

Twenty.

Someone next to me coughs to hide a sob. I don't know who it is and I don't look to find out. Likely because I feel like doing the same.

Twenty one.

The last shot of the salute sends a bolt of electricity through me and I can feel my dams shuddering. The walls I had so carefully erected are trembling like my shoulders, mere moments from falling. I clench my fists at my sides and bite my lip.

I had suffered through nightmares of losing you, but none had even scratched the surface of how awful it truly was.

I stand there for a long time. Long enough that the light rain has turned to a torrential downpour and everyone else has left to escape it. I'm soaked to the bone and I can't feel my fingers anymore. Water drips down like tiny rivers into the pools of rain at my feet.

I sink to my knees, ignoring how the mud squelches underneath me. My fingers trace the marble headstone and the dam finally shatters. Twenty one shots of gunfire still reverberate through my bones as each sob tears through my throat. A cry of anguish is ripped away in the wind.

My eyes burn like fire with salty tears and rain water.

I can clearly hear the teasing words that would undoubtedly fall from your lips, the scathing, though lighthearted, remark about my tears.

I can hear your voice, clear like glass, but it sounds wrong. It sounds warped and I know it's not real, and it makes every fiber of me ache and I let out another wail of grief. I feel childish and foolish. I feel pathetic and weak and more alone than ever.

It was my fault. I wasn't there to save you. I stood by while your life disappeared like dust in the wind. Now, you're gone and I am left with the bleeding empty space.

Hours later, when the rain has stopped and the sun has set, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. Bleary eyes look up to meet the sympathetic face of Maes Hughes. He looks exhausted but his smile is soft and genuine. He doesn't speak as he helps me to my feet.

He steers me toward the military car idled on the path ahead. He helps me into the back seat and the car moves forward.

Another hour finds me in an unfamiliar bedroom, sitting on the end of a bed that isn't mine with borrowed pajamas sitting in my lap. My chest feels as if it is imploding and my eyes itch. Slowly, I get to my feet, let my hair down, and change into the clothes Gracia has been so kind to provide.

They smell like lavender. It's a soothing, familiar scent. Your house always smelled like lavender. I sit back on the bed.

The comforter is soft. It smells like lavender too. I fall back onto the springy mattress. It's softer than the one I sleep on at home. Too soft. I frown and curl into the pillow. It all smells like lavender, like you, like home.

My whole body trembles. I try to fight off the new wave of tears that pull at my eyelashes. I realize that it's an exercise in futility and I choose instead to muffle the sobbing with a pillow. Hughes is an incredible person, but his walls carry sound far too well and I've inconvenienced him and his wife far too much already.

But it's too easy to forget that I'm not the only one here and my cries increase in volume. I didn't understand before how someone could say that their heart belonged to another person. I always thought it was mine and always would be. If I chose to love someone, it would still be my heart, still be me who made that choice. I thought I was in control.

I understand now. I didn't but now I do, because you gave it back to me and now I don't know what to do with it.

Within a minute or so, the door creaks open. I pretend I don't notice, but I know that someone's there. Someone sits on the bed directly behind me and they run their fingers through my hair. Their hands almost feel like your hands and I can't help but cry harder because you used to do the same thing during late nights spent in your living room, hunched over crumpled case notes and glasses of wine.

There are no words of comfort or reassurances that it's okay or quiet hushing. By now, I know it's Hughes because I've never met another person this acutely aware of precisely what a person needs and the exact way to provide it for them. He draws me upright and hugs me to his chest.

He strokes my hair and I cry into his shirt, taking advantage of the comfort he is so readily providing me.

I almost feel ashamed for the weakness I'm showing, but I can't bring myself to care. I haven't let myself cry for far too long and, suddenly, it doesn't feel so childish.

I must have fallen asleep at some point. I wake up to dim sunlight filtering through the curtains, washing the room in a pale gray that seems to suck the life out through my skin. The blankets feel too heavy and I throw them off in haste, leaping from the bed in a sudden burst of energy that disappears just a quickly.

I glance in the mirror over the dresser. My eyes are rimmed red and my hair a tangled mass around my head like a glorified halo. I sigh but don't attempt to fix it. I gather my things from the floor and slip through the bedroom door. The house is silent and still. I sneak out through the front door unnoticed and make my way home.

Once there, I change into my own clothes. I run a brush through my hair, wincing as it catches in the tangles. I still feel exhausted, but I know I won't be able to fall asleep again. I sit on the bed slowly. A few days ago, you were sitting next to me. A few days ago, there were whispered nonsensical declarations of love and deep chuckles that sent shivers down my spine. A few days ago, your heart was beating and your cheeks were flushed with life.

I set the brush on the bedside table and something catches my eye. The drawer isn't closed all the way, and I can only just see the glint of steel. I open the drawer the rest of the way, pulling the object out. It's a gun, one of many I have stored around the apartment. I'm not surprised to see it, really, but something inside of me stirs. Something about the familiar weight in my hand feels exhilarating and more comfortable than I think it should.

I examine it carefully. It's clean, well kept. Just like all of them. It's fully loaded, too. I know that I haven't used this one in awhile. I run the fingers of my other hand across the cool metal. I can't help but remember the promise I made you. That I'd follow you, even into hell.

We talked once, about the existence of heaven and hell. You couldn't decide if you believed in them or not. I did, I do, but there is little else I am willing to put my faith in. One of them being you. You said, during that conversation, that you know where you'd end up. If they existed, you knew which one you would go to. You never told me which one it was, but it wasn't long after that when I made the promise to follow.

Haven't I broken enough promises? How can I look at myself in the mirror knowing that I even broke that one? I look down at the gun again. Maybe you haven't gone where I can't follow after all.

I lift the gun.

I hear a soft knock on the front door, but chose to ignore it.

My chest tightens.

I promised.

I press the cool metal to my skin.

I take a deep breath.

There's another knock, more urgent, almost frantic.

I finger the trigger, my eyes closed.

The knocking turns to pounding, but I can barely hear it.

"If that is your wish," I whisper, my finger tightening. "Then even into hell."

Twenty two.