ls][ Five times you fell and one time someone caught you.
(Spoilers for 4x12 - Guilty As Charged. Not binding on any BN muses. He's keeps finding the need to break my heart.)
i.
He was free-falling. The air whistled through his ears, and all logic was behind him in that helicopter. His heart pounded harder and harder as he got closer to the water. He was doing the right thing. He wanted his life back and the only way to do that was to risk everything. He couldn't imagine what was coming next, but as he sliced through the water he had no regrets. He struggled to the top and gulped the air into his lungs. This was what he had to do.
ii.
Normally he was more careful. Normally any small sign would have tipped him off. But not this time. The realization hit him only moments before his front door exploded, and he went flying. The landing hurt. It hurt everywhere. He didn't have much time for thoughts before he drifted out of consciousness, but the one thing that surfaced first was a beg. A beg that this not be it, that he have more time for it all. For her. He begged, because there was so much left that he had to do.
iii.
Eight years old. He was only eight years old as his small body pitched forward off of the edge of the boat, still feeling the hand on his back. Pansy. It was all he heard before the water pulled him down into it's embrace. He was gasping and flailing, trying to get back to the top. Water went down his throat and landed harshly in his stomach. His nose burned, his eyes burned, and fear hammered at his heart. He broke the surface with a cry, but he couldn't hear his father telling him to save himself. Self-preservation kicked in. He found a way to tread the water and keep his head up, and he looked up towards his father. The sun glared down, blinding him from seeing his father's face. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to cry. He wanted his dad to pull him from the water and hold him close. Instead he treaded water until he was beside the boat and he struggled his way back on board. He would be given no help, it was just something he had to do.
vi.
He had no choice. It was get caught and certainly die, or jump and probably die. He jumped. He knew he was doing the right thing. All in the name of the job, of being a spy. Stay out of sight and stay alive. And even though he was tumbling out of a window with no idea what would come of it, he was happy. Screwed up, maybe, but he was. He was doing what he was made for. What every little thing in his life had led him to. Every fall prepared him for this one, and if he lived through it he'd be grateful once again. If he didn't then he'd die without shame. He'd die doing what he had to do.
v.
The bullet itself hurt. That went without saying. It hurt and all he wanted to do was curl up on the ground and wait for the pain to go away, but he couldn't. He could hardly see straight from that point. His body acted almost on reflex. To save himself. To save the others. Self-preservation just as his father had taught him. How many times had he done this that he could do it without sight of anything? No. With only sight of getting to the end. The end of the line that he had been racing for since the moment he was burned. The end line that he would never stop grasping for. As the smell of rubber on pavement assaulted his senses, and the car crushed around him, and his shoulder hit the ground, and his forehead scraped itself open; he was still going. Still seeing the end of the line though he had no idea where it was or when he'd get there. Pain coursed through him as he pulled himself from the wreckage. He couldn't get any further and he fell onto his back. He wanted to get up. He wanted to get up and run and stay alive. He had to. He had to stay alive. He had to stay awake and move from the crash, but he couldn't. His eyes closed. He had to rest.
i.
Her face was in his dream. Or his subconscious. Wherever he was at that moment her face was there. It was so soft that he had to reach out to touch her. His fingers caressed her cheek and warmth flowed from her through his arm and into his chest. It was the warmth that came over him any time she was around, and even when she wasn't. He touched her lips and her hair and the closed lids of her eyes. Everything he did for her was about keeping her safe. Alive. Breaking himself, his own heart, if it meant keeping her safe. God he loved her. When had he last told her? Did she know? Her eyes met his and her hand came down to cover his wound. Hold on to me she whispered. I am. I am. He wanted to scream it. He was holding on to her. He was holding on to her so tightly so that she could pull him back to her. She was what his race to the line was for. She was everything. He gripped on and gave her his trust to save him, to pull him through, because he needed to go back to her. He had to go back to her.
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i.
He was free-falling. The air whistled through his ears, and all logic was behind him in that helicopter. His heart pounded harder and harder as he got closer to the water. He was doing the right thing. He wanted his life back and the only way to do that was to risk everything. He couldn't imagine what was coming next, but as he sliced through the water he had no regrets. He struggled to the top and gulped the air into his lungs. This was what he had to do.
ii.
Normally he was more careful. Normally any small sign would have tipped him off. But not this time. The realization hit him only moments before his front door exploded, and he went flying. The landing hurt. It hurt everywhere. He didn't have much time for thoughts before he drifted out of consciousness, but the one thing that surfaced first was a beg. A beg that this not be it, that he have more time for it all. For her. He begged, because there was so much left that he had to do.
iii.
Eight years old. He was only eight years old as his small body pitched forward off of the edge of the boat, still feeling the hand on his back. Pansy. It was all he heard before the water pulled him down into it's embrace. He was gasping and flailing, trying to get back to the top. Water went down his throat and landed harshly in his stomach. His nose burned, his eyes burned, and fear hammered at his heart. He broke the surface with a cry, but he couldn't hear his father telling him to save himself. Self-preservation kicked in. He found a way to tread the water and keep his head up, and he looked up towards his father. The sun glared down, blinding him from seeing his father's face. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to cry. He wanted his dad to pull him from the water and hold him close. Instead he treaded water until he was beside the boat and he struggled his way back on board. He would be given no help, it was just something he had to do.
vi.
He had no choice. It was get caught and certainly die, or jump and probably die. He jumped. He knew he was doing the right thing. All in the name of the job, of being a spy. Stay out of sight and stay alive. And even though he was tumbling out of a window with no idea what would come of it, he was happy. Screwed up, maybe, but he was. He was doing what he was made for. What every little thing in his life had led him to. Every fall prepared him for this one, and if he lived through it he'd be grateful once again. If he didn't then he'd die without shame. He'd die doing what he had to do.
v.
The bullet itself hurt. That went without saying. It hurt and all he wanted to do was curl up on the ground and wait for the pain to go away, but he couldn't. He could hardly see straight from that point. His body acted almost on reflex. To save himself. To save the others. Self-preservation just as his father had taught him. How many times had he done this that he could do it without sight of anything? No. With only sight of getting to the end. The end of the line that he had been racing for since the moment he was burned. The end line that he would never stop grasping for. As the smell of rubber on pavement assaulted his senses, and the car crushed around him, and his shoulder hit the ground, and his forehead scraped itself open; he was still going. Still seeing the end of the line though he had no idea where it was or when he'd get there. Pain coursed through him as he pulled himself from the wreckage. He couldn't get any further and he fell onto his back. He wanted to get up. He wanted to get up and run and stay alive. He had to. He had to stay alive. He had to stay awake and move from the crash, but he couldn't. His eyes closed. He had to rest.
i.
Her face was in his dream. Or his subconscious. Wherever he was at that moment her face was there. It was so soft that he had to reach out to touch her. His fingers caressed her cheek and warmth flowed from her through his arm and into his chest. It was the warmth that came over him any time she was around, and even when she wasn't. He touched her lips and her hair and the closed lids of her eyes. Everything he did for her was about keeping her safe. Alive. Breaking himself, his own heart, if it meant keeping her safe. God he loved her. When had he last told her? Did she know? Her eyes met his and her hand came down to cover his wound. Hold on to me she whispered. I am. I am. He wanted to scream it. He was holding on to her. He was holding on to her so tightly so that she could pull him back to her. She was what his race to the line was for. She was everything. He gripped on and gave her his trust to save him, to pull him through, because he needed to go back to her. He had to go back to her.
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