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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A HINDSIGHT THAT KILLS
*
You know where I lie, gently I go into that good night
Never armed our souls for what the future would hold
When we were innocent
Angels, lend me your might
Forfeit all my lives to get just one right
This prayer is for me tonight
-Innocent-
It doesn't take him long to find her. Only her does he see and perceive. A tremor rocks his form. And he knows it's not from the tame autumn chill.
How had it come to this?
His lost angel. And she'd trusted him.
Necessary, a voice whispers in his ear. The chain of his St. Christopher's medal feels hot around his neck instead of cool.
He doesn't deserve to grieve. He'd made a choice–dared to tempt fate. The decision is not his to suffer. Nevertheless, he feels a freezing pain wash over him when he realizes what he must do.
Her guardian reaper. There is something tragically poetic about it. Sometimes, a single life can save countless innocents...
A sea of auburn fills his scope.
Are you going to betray me?
Lethal precision. And she's gone.
He's frozen in place, reality hasn't found him yet. He doesn't hear the screams, doesn't see the fleeing crowd. Brown eyes are locked on fallen angel. Far below him, lifeless and still. Rain kissing her face and hair, molding to her cold skin. The universe blinks, weeps, stutters. Falls still.
With a single bullet, he's literally broken her heart.
He doesn't see the field officers calling in the successful hit. Doesn't feel the rain. It's freezing now, a bitter cold. He shivers in silence, staring. Utterly lost. Paralyzed.
And then he knows. Suddenly he's all too aware.
Bones is dead.
His muscles numb instantly, fingers slacken. Hold slips. His rifle teeters on the ledge, helpless without his grasp. A second later, the weapon is plummeting for the earth, falling with the rain. The metal discharges on impact, scatters apart in a great crash the moment he falls to his knees on the roof.
Bones is dead. Gone. Never to see those eyes again.
His back meets the short wall, and he's locked on the sky. Rainwater beats against his face. His lungs suffocate instead of benefit him. He chokes on a sob, curls in on himself. Trembles, chokes, gasps.
Bones is dead. Because of him, because of him. Fifty-eighth kill.
Dead, dead, dead, dead…
His eyelids fuse together and he lets out a wretched cry. And he is in agony. A thousand knives tear into him from every angle. Head bent low, he releases scream after bloody scream, tears pouring down his face to be swallowed by the rain. His full-throated shouts echo against the storm, in spite of it. He bows over, head on his knees, expelling absolute grief. Hands curl into fists at his sides. He mourns, severe and broken.
And the storm intensifies.
Can't win now. Can't. Nothing can be erased. He can't stand it, can't go on but, dammit, he will. For his son, if no one else. He'll eat at the diner alone. Gaze longingly at the empty passenger seat in his Tahoe, a burning ache in his heart. Still feel her phantom presence everywhere. An echoing reminder, haunting him.
Missing her.
But he'll be alone, waiting for someone who will never come. Waiting.
Forgiveness has always been a gray area to him–never certain if he could possibly atone. There were times, with her, in her presence, that he believed. Believed in miracles.
But now it's impeccably clear. He's erased that clouded line with one pull of the trigger. He'll never forgive himself. God shouldn't, either.
Knees are now forever bloody.
Her name claws its way up his throat. There's no release, he's out of breath.
He gasps and it's a hollow sound. Tears coat his angled cheekbones. He's shaking, hurting, terrified, desperate. Seconds pass like decades, he's hyperventilating. Neck jerking to the left, his eyes finally fall on her sleeping form across the divide. Her ribcage slowly expands with each peaceful breath. He doesn't want to look away, wants to drink in the sight of her–alive alive alive, but he's going to be sick.
He stumbles into the bathroom and rubs his face vigorously with cold water, trying to force down the bile in his throat. The nausea he's tamped down rises up uncontrollably. He retches into the sink until he's dry heaving. A thousand vices wrench at his chest, his heart, and he's in physical pain. Still gasping for breath.
Get a grip. Calm the hell down, you'll scare her.
He forces his hands to stop shaking, clutches the porcelain edges, knuckles white, not daring to look into the mirror. It's early morning he knows, and the sun has yet to break the horizon. The faraway, dwindling calls of the Infected haunt him, remind him. But he'll gladly choose Them over the alternative.
He won't go back to sleep.
She'd heard him in the bathroom, heard his tears.
It's on ground level where she finally finds him, sweat molding his shirt to his back. His tense shoulders telegraph his awareness of her presence. The punching bag shudders beneath the insistent battering of his fists. Unrelenting, unremitting. Slamming, driving, needing to strike something.
Silently, she watches him battle an opponent she cannot see.
When she can no longer stand the silence, she steps up behind him. Speaks his name softly.
His arms still and he exhales, head bowed. "Go back to sleep, Bones." It isn't bitter or demanding. It's quiet, subdued. He's browbeaten and emotionally exhausted. He can't look at her without seeing her through a scope.
Gently, she touches his bare shoulder, conveying strength if he'll accept it. She nods, and he doesn't need to see it to know she understands–respects his wishes, the need for her to leave.
He hears her drift back up the stairs. The Infected have gone, and so has she. His son is gone. The world is his to bear, too. She isn't totally alone in blame. While Atlas is away, Hercules suffers the agonizing weight alone.
He chokes again, collapsing against the heavy bag, cries muffled by the rough fabric.
He can't stay away from her for long.
Always magnetized to her presence, since day one.
She awakes in darkness, a solid shaft of light protruding from the partially ajar barrier over the window. He looks out through the space, away from her, but not. Drawn face is bifurcated by light and shadow. His back is a solid column, shoulders straight and severe. But his head hangs in a picture of discouragement. She watches his solitary reflection in the window–what she can see of it. Leaning against the glass, he massages his temples with his free hand. She knows, if only a little, his eyes search out the lights of the Capitol buildings. It's always bothered him that they no longer shine. The sight had once brought him small comfort on nights when sleep eluded him.
She finally asks him what he'd dreamt.
He's silent, and for a while, she feels the suffocating disappointment that he won't answer, won't let her in. But his head tips a fraction in acknowledgement.
"I killed you."
The three small words break his voice, barely steady to begin with. She watches an almost indiscernible shudder race through him. Shoulders hunch further in shame. Desolation. This is all he says.
Years spent making people talk for a living and he never says anything in return. Still doesn't confide in her. He's miserable with himself. She deserves better than what he's made of.
The morning breaks and the sun fills the sky. Warms the kitchen in which they stand. Breakfast is finished, and he's cleaning off the table. He's never this quiet and it disturbs her. She doesn't like it. Her breaking point is near as she recognizes the soul-deep weariness in his eyes–a glimpse of him he almost always keeps hidden from her.
It's something. Yet all the same, nothing.
He's bringing the plates to the sink when she stops him. She knows he's hiding. Won't stand for it anymore. She wants to see that goofy, wide grin on his face. Maybe she's selfish for it.
She blocks his path, looking him squarely in the eyes. He looks so exhausted. The shadow on his jaw pushes ten o'clock by now. His eyes are heavy, but he doesn't break her gaze. "Just tell me what you need," she says finally, at long last. She tries to quell the begging tone, but it's too much. "Please, Booth. Let me help you."
The inner struggle is rampant behind his dark stare. A flicker of doubt. He doesn't look away though, and she rejoices. He swallows hard, knowing he has to offer up a piece of himself. She needs this and so does he. God, but it hurts.
"Okay," he says timidly.
And suddenly... the world is a less crushing force.
"Can I… can I just hold you, Bones?" his voice is quiet, small, but laden with surging emotion. He fears her reaction, his own weakness.
She smiles, bittersweet in feeling, and takes his hand. She's glad of this. Proud of him. "Of course," she assents. She settles into his arms, and a great weight dissolves from his shoulders. He holds himself stiffly at first, feeling the despair and grief overwhelming him. The image of her ruined grace left motionless on the sodden earth burns into the backs of his eyes. He needs that picture to go away. "You are wonderful," she repeats herself from the day before, exuding confidence and mercy. She never says what she doesn't mean. "I'd never doubted you. I knew you were doing what had to be done. I forgive you. So please, start forgiving yourself. It's unpleasant for me to see you suffering. It hurts me."
"Are you sure?" Gone is the laughter and charm he usually dons like full-body armor, soldiering on no matter how hard getting up in the morning is for him, leaving in their place a wrenching vulnerability.
"I absolutely am. You're a good man, a beautiful person. I want your strength."
He breathes deeply, her touch rubbing soothing circles over his back, erasing the tension coiled there. Soon, everything is gone except the feel of her body in his arms.
It's a nice feeling. And he's relieved. The danger, the hurting, isn't gone yet, but he's open now to a more hopeful future. The one he's always convincing her exists.
He starts to sob. Let's go for the first real time, and all that dark energy begins to leach from him. She's rocking him like a child and he starts to laugh because it's ridiculous, because he doesn't care. The laughter melds with the tears, and he's crying harder. No longer does he feel like Atlas, that burden begins to lift. They're the outcasts of the myth: instead of handing off the earth when the weight becomes too overpowering, they'll share it. Finally, he's able to breathe again.
It's a nice feeling.
How can I brace myself for razor blades on whips
When everything with meaning is shattered, broken, screaming?
And I'm lost inside this darkness and I fear I won't survive
I wish you'd see me, save me, I'm going crazy
Love me in this fable, my heart is in your hand
And maybe tomorrow is a better day
-Poets of the Fall-