Disclaimer: Neither Magnificent 7 nor Without a Trace, or their respective characters belong to me. I'm not making a profit, just having some fun.

Thanks to Tari Telemnar who was a sounding board for ideas.

Warning: This fic contains major character death.

Hindsight

Vin dropped to his knees, his fingers reflexively digging into the damp grass. He hardly noticed as the knees of his expensive trousers were soaked with dew. He closed his eyes against the reality that his mind still refused to accept. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. His eyes opened of their own accord to stare once more at the stone which shattered his life.

Christopher Larabee. 31 July 1956 – 11 August 2003

It wasn't real, Vin told himself. This was a dream. It was a horrible nightmare. Anything but real. Somehow he had always harboured the idea that Chris was immortal. It hadn't been logical or rational, but he just hadn't been able to imagine Chris dead. It was just too final, too irrevocable. When he'd been able to bring himself to think about it at all he'd always thought that Chris would be stubborn enough to glare death away.

Intense guilt battled with aching grief. Chris was dead. His mind rebelled at the thought and a wave of nausea swept over him. He swallowed thickly, closing his eyes tightly. Chris was dead and he hadn't been there. He had left his brother to die because he had been too much of a coward to stand up to his father. Chris would never know that he was alright, that he cared, that he hadn't chosen to abandon them. Vin bowed his head, vainly squeezing his eyes against the tears that collected.

"Chris," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

He could not help but expect to hear Chris say "Getting soft, Cowboy?" but there was nothing. He dug his fingers into the ground and clenched his teeth. He could not even avenge his friend because the other five had already done that. He doubted that they would have accepted his help anyway.

Finally he let out a single incoherent cry of anguish to express his all-consuming grief before he wiped his cheeks dry of tears. Martin shuttered his expression as he stood and brushed himself down. A Fitzgerald was always composed in public. A Fitzgerald never showed weakness. A Fitzgerald relied on no one but himself.

He had a plane back to New York to catch.

Fin

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