Author's Note: This is for TellatrixForever, who sent me a request for a 9/11 story...on September 10th. I couldn't get it out there in time for the date, but here it is - a late and humble offering with sincere sympathy for anyone personally touched. Thanks to Red Molly for weapons ideas, my rifle lady, as she suggested and respectfully, I repeat as she suggested.

On the Cutting Room Floor – Angels

It was Tuesday and Tim had booked the day off – personal shit. It was the anniversary of a death and he needed to acknowledge it properly. There were a few deaths, the anniversaries of which were spread throughout the year, that he paid tribute to, and he'd managed, with some creative thinking, some fanciful aligning of stars in his past and their pasts, attributing effects to causes, coincidences to far-fetched associations with other coincidences, to convince himself that each life was lost in a violent act that owed its existence, that stemmed and grew from that single day – September 11, 2001.

He remembered where he was that morning – he was in Basic training, just. The news came in and every sorry Private was ready to take on Al Qaeda right then and there. But there was more training and then more training and then there was Afghanistan and some deaths that seemed a long way removed from the attacks that prompted the invasion. When you only got to look at one stretch of road in one territory in an unfamiliar country it was hard to step back from it and keep an eye on the bigger picture. Didn't mean it didn't exist, just that it was difficult at times to see how your friend bleeding out behind a wall in a dirt and dust village on a patrol that accomplished nothing as far as you could tell could link all the way back through the years and miles and make a difference for the families of the dead on that day. But he wished it would, for his buddy's sake, the one quiet now and being lifted onto the back of a scratched and dented and camouflaged truck. Tim remembered picking up a rifle and setting it unneeded in the back of that truck beside the stretcher.

He stopped and picked up a variety of beer. He chose carefully, keeping count: two Budweisers, a Steel Reserve, Yuengling, Miller, a Samuel Adams, a Dos Equis, and a Guinness for the crazy helo pilot who thought the girls might find him sexier if he drank foreign beer. He set his purchases in the back of his pickup with another bottle, a specialty item that he'd bought the previous week. It had taken him a while to find it – Tim wasn't much of a wine connoisseur. Miljana sourced it for him and he went into a specialty liquor store and paid cash and felt like an imposter walking out with a $30 bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. Miljana explained that Sauvignon Blanc was the name of the grape. He was sure she didn't pronounce it right because she skipped a lot of letters when she said it. But, whatever, it was what he needed. It was on his list.

Miljana had lunch with him, made him laugh for a little talking about her dad giving the tech guy on the phone hell for bad internet service, some guy in India doing support for a company that liked to keep its costs down. Then he noticed that he hadn't rebooted the router after a power blip during a thunderstorm. Her dad was a keener, and intelligent, a doctor, just not too smart about anything technical. At the end of lunch she offered to come with him on his errand, but he declined the kindness, told her not to wait up.

It was early still and Tim drove the back roads up to Fischer's, passed him sitting in an old lawn chair out front of the old house that also served as an office for the shooting range. He had taken a little tiny bit of care in his appearance, Tim could tell looking at him as he turned off the engine and gathered his offerings and walked up to meet his friend. Fischer had shaved and wore a better shirt buttoned up and his jeans looked clean.

"Hey." Tim smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Did you comb your hair?"

What was left of the silvery bristles on his head shone in the sunlight.

"Did you get it?"

Not even a glare for the hair comment.

Tim lifted the bottle of wine from the bag. "Milja has contacts."

"So this is how you pay your respects, huh? I probably could've guessed."

"It's what I do. I couldn't…" Tim stopped short of the gravel walkway, looked at the ground. "I don't have it in me to do one of these on every anniversary."

"Firesale."

"So to speak. You up for this?"

"I don't think she'd mind. In fact, I think she'd laugh."

Tim grinned and felt sad despite it. "If she's anything like you."

Fischer pushed up from the chair and looked every one of his sixty-some years today. He slapped Tim on the back and followed him up the hill to the trailer and they each picked the rifle they liked best – Tim, the Barrett, the M82A1; Fischer put together his favorite, his Remington bolt-action, as old as he was.

They wandered companionably up the range and set up their targets, then back to the line and settled in. Tim went first, lined up a Bud and shattered it with a bullet.

"I don't think I'll ever get over losing Pete that way," he said. "He knew me better than anyone should ever have to know anyone."

"Especially someone as obnoxious as you." Fischer lined up a Miller, took two shots but the second one hit its mark and the bottle exploded. "And that's for that fucking idiot Marine who couldn't last the one fucking month he needed to get the hell out of his last tour and home. Fucking asshole. I hate him."

"Should've been you," Tim commiserated.

"Damn fucking straight," Fischer choked out.

Tim sent the Guinness to heaven next. Fischer whooped watching the foam.

"Who was that for?" he asked.

"Craziest helo pilot that ever lived…and died." Tim stretched his face madly to encompass the grin and the sorrow together. "Stupid fucker got us out of a tight spot and had a bottle to share when we got back. I'll never forget him."

They worked their way through the beer, cans and bottles, said a line in memory, until the only target left was the Sauvignon Blanc.

Fischer chambered another round, looked down the scope. Tim waited respectfully. It seemed a long time passed.

"I can't do it."

"Sure you can."

"She was so excited to get that job."

Tim listened.

"I told her I'd come visit at Thanksgiving. I fucking hate cities. I knew I'd fucking hate New York. She was so excited. Big tower. Big job. Big city." Fischer wiped a hand across his eyes. "You'd better do this."

"She wasn't my daughter, man."

"I hate this day."

Tim nodded. "You want me to do it?"

"Yeah."

Tim lined up the $30 bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and sent it to oblivion.

Fischer watched, his head bobbing in appreciation. "Thank you. I like your tradition."

"It works for me. Did you get the bourbon?"

"I did."

"Well, let's go finish it then."

The two men lay in the dirt and grass silently for a little longer. Tim glanced over after a bit, solicitous. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. It was a while ago."

"That don't make it easier. That don't bring her back."

"No, it don't."

The older man sat up first, broke down his rifle. He took off the scope and held it reverently, thinking, then handed it to Tim. "It's yours," he said. "I always intended to pass it on to my daughter and hoped maybe she'd take up shooting again, but…" He squeezed his whole face shut. "You should have it."

"Abe…"

"No, really. It's exactly what I want."

Tim was up on his knees too, reached over and took the offering. Accepted. "Thank you. You know I'll appreciate it."

Abe nodded. "That's a …"

"I know. It's a Pecar Berlin Light-Gathering Scope. Don't think I don't appreciate its worth, old man. Thank you."

Abe nodded again. "I want you to have it."

Tim didn't have anything else to say.

"Now we get to destroy that bottle of bourbon, right?"

"That's the routine," said Tim.

"It's a good routine. Can we do it again next year?"

"If your liver holds out."

"Mine's fine. Are you wimping out, pussy?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too."

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