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His hands trembled on the rim of the toilet while he emptied the contents of his stomach in it. His stomach had been painfully clenching for what felt like hours and had yet to give up and let his weak and shaky body rest. Falling to the floor, he pushed his back up against the wall and stared at his hands that were still covered in her blood from where he had tried to stifle the heavy flow that pulsed under his fingers, his shirt in the same state with a large patch of crimson adorning his chest where he had held her to him tightly after she had paled and stopped moving, the whole time waiting for the paramedics to show up. They had eventually shown up and found her pulse to be extremely weak and thread as they literally pulled her out of his vice-like grip. He had been afraid that if he let her go that it would be the last time he saw her alive, a fear that had been justified by the solemn looking agents that were down stairs trying to consol his father whose sobs could be heard through the floor of the bathroom making his own heart twist for the millionth time and ripping a sob from the depths of his chest out his lips, hot, angry tears streaming down his cheeks for the loss of the only woman he had truly loved.

He pushed off the floor, feeling the caked on blood crack under his weight reminding him that it was still there and needed to be washed, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't wash away the last trace of her life that he had. But he also knew that it couldn't stay there forever, so turning the water on he stuck his hands under it, looking away with tear filled eyes while he scrubbed the sticky substance off. Once he was sure all the blood was gone, he turned the tap off and dried his hands, peeling his shirt off and folding it neatly. If he couldn't keep the blood on his hands, he would keep the shirt that was saturated in the same substance as a reminder that she had been alive.

"Peter?" He could hear Astrid's voice through the door. He looked over to the door and gave an unintelligent grunt that was apparently just loud enough for her to hear since the door slowly creaked open to reveal the young agent. Her eyes were puffy from crying and her cheeks were streaked with mascara but she didn't seem to care about her appearance as she made her way over to him and laid a comforting hand on his arm.

"It should have been me." He gasped out, his stomach twisting again. "I should have been the one to jump in front of Walter, I should have been the one shot and now she's dead. Because I wasn't the one to protect him, she's dead."

"Peter…"

"I loved her." He cut her off. "I loved her and now she's gone."

"Oh Peter." Astrid softly cried, a new batch of tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I couldn't save her. I tried, and I failed."

"You didn't fail Peter; you couldn't save her no one could. She knew what was going to happen when she blocked Walter from the bullets. It was her choice." Astrid sadly replied.

"It doesn't make it any better." He sighed, pushing past her and out to the hall, sinking down onto the carpeted floor not trusting his stomach enough to go any further from the bathroom.

"I know." She nodded sitting beside him.

"Why did this happen?" He asked out loud not expecting a response and thankfully not getting one back.

They sat in silence for what must have been hours, the noises down stairs were dying off, the door opening and closing as they left, and Walter's sobs turning into load snores. Eventually it was just the two of them and the older man left in the house, all of the other agents having left the grieving family alone. Soon after all the noise died down, Astrid stood back up and offered Peter help up.

"I'm going to stay here tonight in case either you or Walter needs me." Astrid said, wiping her eyes and cheeks. "You should try and get some sleep."

"Okay." He smiled weakly at her concern and thoughtfulness. He then watched her make her way down the stairs before slouching off to his room and throwing the covers back on his bed, sitting on the edge but highly doubting that sleep would blessedly take him away from the pain even for a moment.

He placed his ruined shirt in a drawer beside him and laid back; pulling the blanket over him and closing his eyes hoping that when he woke up this would all just be a really bad dream.