Falling. She is falling, blood all over her chest and her eyes so shocked, so surprised...

I drop my staff and run to her, gather her into my arms. She isn't moving, isn't breathing, there's a huge fucking hole in her chest and she isn't breathing.

Wait. I've lived through this before. She's alive. She lived. I relax, loosen my arms.

There's blood all over my hands, and smeared on her face, and I look for Jessie. Fix it, fix this, I'm thinking, you did before, fix it. But she's nowhere to be seen, and neither are the others who were with us. It's just me and Murphy, trapped, surrounded by enemies, no way out.

And Murphy is dead.

I wake up, panting for breath, tears hot on my face. Stars and stones.

It's been three weeks since I saw Jessie safely home, the acknowledged Messiah and untouchable by the people who'd been trying to hurt her. And I have not slept nightmare-free since.

I roll over, sit up and get out of bed. I won't be sleeping any more tonight. I never do, after one of those nightmares, because every time I close my eyes I see Murphy, dead in my arms, her body limp, her eyes frozen open and the blood...so much blood.

The nightmares come unpredictably. I glance at the clock, and see it's five in the morning. About normal, though I've woken up as early as twelve-thirty AM, and as late as nine. That was a bit of a fluke, though; I'd spent three straight nights getting less than three hours of sleep, and something had to give. It turned out to be the nightmares and not me. For which favor, much thanks.

I wish I could talk to someone about it. But the one person I really want to talk to doesn't remember, and I haven't told her. Jessie said she took the memory away; said that no one should remember what it is to die. I agree with her, but I still wish I could tell Murphy...

I'm being selfish again.

I choke that train of thought off, and shuffle to the kitchen for a morning can of Coke, split as always with Mister. My huge tomcat has not yet deigned to open his eyes, but I pour half the Coke into a bowl for him anyway. He knows when I've denied him his rightful tribute. The night after Jessie'd gone home, I'd drained a full can myself, and Mister had refused to acknowledge my presence for a full three days.

But then, I thought I'd been justified in keeping that can. It was drink Coke or get drunk, and I didn't want to get drunk for several reasons. One, it was about two in the morning, and that is either far too early or far too late to start drinking. Two, I had nowhere to pass out in comfort; Murphy occupied my bed, and I was not about to crawl in with her, no matter how much I wanted to. My couch is only barely long enough to hold me comfortably, and it wouldn't if I was smashed.

And three, I still had Murphy's blood on my hands, on my shirt.

It always came back to that.

The Metatron had sent her home with me. I'd asked him to. I'd carried her through the gate he set up, and laid her in my bed, and watched her for a bit as she slept. Murphy is a restless sleeper, I've discovered. She kicked at the blankets, wrestled my pillows into submission, twisted herself up in the sheets and threw her arms and legs freely across the bed's expanse. I shudder to think what it might be like, sharing a bed with her every night.

Though I think I could take the abuse.

And she did other things while she slept; she mumbled sometimes, and there's a soft sighing noise she made once or twice that made my stomach tighten and my fingertips tingle. Once she reached out, and I thought she said my name...

And there I go again. I shy away from that line of thought, rest my elbows on my scrap of kitchen counter and put my head in my hands.

I have to remember it, even though (maybe especially because) she doesn't. I have to remember Murphy with a hole through her chest, blood all over her body and mine, her eyes wide open and her body completely limp, completely still. I have to remember that even when she was healed, I still left bloody handprints on her shirt.

Don't think I don't notice the symbolism in that, either.

It was my fault she was there. All my fault. I could have left her behind, I could have chased her off the case, I could have kept her at arm's length, away from the supernatural. I could have never known her at all. I could have said goodbye to her before I even said hello.

My stomach twists, and I feel like throwing up at just the thought. But wouldn't it be worth it? To know she was safe, to know nothing that I fought against would ever hurt her? Would it be worth never knowing her?
It's just an academic exercise anyway. I prod myself into motion, put Mister's bowl down for him, stumble over to the couch and collapse on it, staring sightlessly into the darkness of my apartment and occasionally taking a sip of Coke. I couldn't go back and change the past, because I'd end the world by doing so. And even on the off-chance that I could change the past like that, I'd fade away, because I know without Murphy I'd be dead a dozen times over.

So I can't change the past. I can't save her from the pain she's already endured for me.

But maybe I can change the future.

I know why she was there. She was there because there was a terrified child who needed us, and because I needed her there, because I couldn't do it without her. She may even have been there because she knows on some level that I love her. That I'll always want her near.

I can change that. I can make her think I don't love her or even care about her at all. I can push her away, save her from what will happen. I can kill whatever love she feels for me.

I should anyway. At the very least I have to keep her from knowing how much I love her. Either I'll scare her away, or I'll draw her closer. And I can't risk pulling her closer to me. It will be the end of her. I know that as certainly as I know that I do love her. Even if I don't draw her into some mad quest that tears her life and soul apart, some enemy of mine will see how much she means to me, and they'll take her, and they'll kill her. My love will destroy her. I will destroy her.

I should let her go.

I've finished off the Coke, and it's with a faint feeling of surprise that I notice the empty bottle. I let it drop to my side, let it fall and roll across the couch to lie next to my thigh.

It hurts to even think about not having her there. But I can live without her. So what if I love her? I loved Susan, and look what happened there. I want her—well, I can push down that desire, ignore it. I've done it before with her. I need her—that one's a little trickier.

I need her, but I need her alive more than I need her with me.

My eyes burn, and my chest tightens, but I've already acknowledged the truth of everything I've just thought. If she stays with me, somehow, some way, she will die, and I will never be able to forgive myself. So I'll let her go. I'll push her away. I'll make her hate me, and she will live. I won't ever forget her, and it will hurt every day, a low dull pain I've already gotten used to having in the back of my heart. Women I've loved, women I've lost.

This will just be the first loss I've chosen.

Jessie told me that no one should know what it is to die. I never understood why she didn't take that memory from me, too. I know she saw what happened when I held Murphy in my arms and watched her die.

I know she knew that I died too.