|For the Ones We Love
Author: ElocinMuse PM
Wounded, grieved, Booth delivers that killing blow to his partner's father. ONESHOT.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst/Hurt/Comfort - & S. Booth - Words: 573 - Reviews: 23 - Favs: 19 - Follows: 1 - Published: 01-22-09 - Status: Complete - id: 4810512
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Author's Note: I suck. But the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone.
You don't want to hurt me
But see how deep the bullet lies
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder
So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?
And if I only could make a deal with God.
Blinking blearily at the clock on his nightstand, he can hardly register the specific time.
Ungodly, for sure. No one should be conscious at such a ridiculous hour.
As he pulls himself from the warm covers, a strange sensation settles in his gut. Almost immediately, he's on alert. He hasn't quite felt this before. Hasn't had the opportunity. He knows the feeling of danger, but this is… different.
Approaching the door, he listens for the second knock that doesn't come.
Steeling himself, ready for a fight if he must, he slides away the deadbolt and tugs open the door. Instantly, those old coiled muscles slacken at the sight of the visitor.
Tall and corporeal, but not. He's hunched over, head bowed, but when he looks up at the opening of the door, Max can see the flood of tears brimming behind the brown. His face is hollow, drawn.
He feels that sensation again. Wrong, wrong, wrong…
His voice is weak, the attempt at speech even more so. A tear spills down his cheek. Followed by another, and another. He's quickly losing the battle.
And he knows.
A choked sob. The lumbering agent, strong and confident, suddenly looks so very small. Glancing down, Max can see the nasty wound on his side is still bleeding, for God's sake – why hadn't he gotten himself admitted into a hospital?
"I tried," he cries. Those eyes are begging him, not seeking forgiveness but something else. Something unknown. Helpless. "I'm sorry. I tried."
And now Max is crying.
This is wrong. This is… unfair, and it hurts.
It defies logic, reason. It defies everything decent. Parents aren't supposed to outlive their children. This isn't how it's supposed to be…
The FBI agent is still sobbing in the doorway, absolutely torn. Looking so lost, so disoriented…
The feeling of loss is the only real tangible force. They feel like passing specters, weightless and all the same burdened down. Hearts belong in chests, not the pit of the stomach.
"Come here, kid," Max orders weakly, seizing the younger man in a tight embrace. He wonders how much blood is really his… how much belongs to his daughter.
Streaming incoherent apologies, his arresting officer and the closest thing he'll ever have to a son-in-law clings to him. Expelling wretched grief, chest heaving at the force of his weeping.
Hot pain steals through his heart, and he tries to be strong for this man. Tries to be the anchor he'll desperately need in the coming months. Hell, the coming days, hours.
"It's gonna be okay," he offers feebly.
But it won't.
He'll find out later that she hadn't even made it to the ambulance. Her partner had held her, cradled her, and she'd died.
Years later, decades even, when he'll need Russ' help to visit the gravesite, he'll keeping seeing those fresh daffodils.
Unfailing. Still grieving her loss.
Continuing to love.