his shoulders hit the ground, and he knows what it feels like to die.

A bullet in the chest; warped justice for what he's done: in medieval times they'd burned arsonists at the stake, gouged the eyes of those who laid eyes on someone they shouldn't, amputated the limbs of those who stole—a case of finding punishment that fit the crime. And his ending—he'd laugh bitterly if he could—was just that. (He'd been a sniper; it was only inevitable that he got the bullet.)

He just wishes she didn't have to watch, be the one applying pressure to his wound, effectively staining her palms a dark rust-red. She shouldn't have to live with that, he thinks, his blood (more than metaphorically) on her hands. She's looking down at him, now, and he can feel the blood, warm and thick from the small hole in his undershirt—he gazes at the rapid movement of her lips; come on, Booth, they're saying, but he can't seem to conjure it.

his eyes are wide and his chest rises and falls erratically as he brings his hand, heavy by his side, to hers.

He doesn't fight the mist when it comes, slowly; predictably.