Fic: Fly
Title: Fly
Rating: T
Warnings: Major character death
Summery: It was a routine trap, this wasn't meant to happen.
Fly
It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It was a routine kind of trap, the type they had done a million times. The idiot witness had gone and called her best friend back home, who had told her boyfriend, who had told his buddy, who had told the counterfeiters that were currently out on bail and awaiting trial. They put the witness into protective custody and set a trap for the bad guys.
Guns were expected. What was not expected was for there to be fire and explosives. Everything that the justice department had on the counterfeiters said that they should have come into that house guns blazing, there was no indication that they had been dabbling in bomb making.
Mary inside when it happened. She had the same hair and build as the witness. She was the bate, and she loved the thought of being able to kick some bad guy ass. When the explosion happened it was strong enough to almost knock Marshall out, to disorient him at the least, even though he was across the street and half way down the block. Stan was behind the house, and Delia was inside with Mary, hiding in a hallway, waiting for Mary to give the go signal.
And even though he ran from the van the second he had his senses back around him, even a few seconds before, the house was already in flames. He tried to get in the house, but someone was holding him back. It was only later that he found out it was Abby. She had been close by, working on a case of her own when the explosion happened.
When it’s someone you love the fire trucks don’t get there soon enough. The rescue effort doesn’t start quick enough and every second that passes is like an hour. They found the first body in the living room, the second in the hallway, the third on the back porch.
Marshall didn’t know what was happening really, an ambulance was there, insisting that he needed help, there was blood-but he didn’t know who’s or where it was coming from-and a ringing and roaring in his ears. He must have passed out at some point because when he woke up he was in a hospital bed and the ringing had stopped.
Abby was there, tears in her eyes, running down her checks as she looked at him and he knew. He couldn’t ask who had died, who had made it. He knew that no one had. But he was wrong. Stan, he found out only latter, was going to be ok. Broken arm, nasty bump on his head and smoke inhalation, it was the bump on his head that stopped him from getting into the house after the explosion. He had passed out on the back porch.
They waited on the funerals until after Stan was out of the hospital, though the wait almost killed Marshall. Delia’s was first, her family loud and boisterous and sad, but happy that their daughter, sister, niece, had died doing something she loved. They were religious, that seemed to help.
Mary’s funeral was last. People Marshall didn’t even know came out of the woodwork to pay their respects. The service was graveside, with full honors. Norah had started walking, and didn’t seem to know what was going on, but Marshall noted that she kept looking around, as if looking for her mother in the sea of unfamiliar faces and family that she barely knew.
And Marshall sat there, with Stan at his side. Both men wishing that they had done something more, that they had been able to save her. There was a whole in both of them that would never be filled. It was bigger in Marshall though.
And Abby didn’t understand, not really. But she tried. She gave him time, didn’t push, insisted that he see someone, someone who could help him heal.
Shelly Finkle didn’t try to talk him out of his grief and guilt. Didn’t try to tell him that Mary was in a better place, or that he would get over his loss and pain. She seemed to know that more than just missing Mary, he was morning for all the last chances, all the times that would never be.
Witsec and Albuquerque weren’t the same after that. Even his weekly visits with Norah and Jinx couldn’t bring him out of his funk. He couldn’t help but think that if he’d been a little closer, been playing a little bit more attention to the things going on around the neighborhood he would have been able to save Mary.
Everything reminded him of her, of them, witness always asked about her. They knew she had died, but the real circumstances of her and Delia’s deaths had been covered up. A faulty gas line in a house that Mary and Delia were touring was the “official” cause of the explosion.
And one day he just couldn’t take the loss and the pain anymore. Couldn’t take the guilt that he had escaped with little more than short term hearing loss and a mild concussion and they had died. Mary had died. He stood on the roof of the Sunshine building looking out over the city, thinking about a witness that had jumped and survived, and thought it would be fine to fly into the sky. So, standing on the ledge, he did just that.
Rating: T
Warnings: Major character death
Summery: It was a routine trap, this wasn't meant to happen.
Fly
It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It was a routine kind of trap, the type they had done a million times. The idiot witness had gone and called her best friend back home, who had told her boyfriend, who had told his buddy, who had told the counterfeiters that were currently out on bail and awaiting trial. They put the witness into protective custody and set a trap for the bad guys.
Guns were expected. What was not expected was for there to be fire and explosives. Everything that the justice department had on the counterfeiters said that they should have come into that house guns blazing, there was no indication that they had been dabbling in bomb making.
Mary inside when it happened. She had the same hair and build as the witness. She was the bate, and she loved the thought of being able to kick some bad guy ass. When the explosion happened it was strong enough to almost knock Marshall out, to disorient him at the least, even though he was across the street and half way down the block. Stan was behind the house, and Delia was inside with Mary, hiding in a hallway, waiting for Mary to give the go signal.
And even though he ran from the van the second he had his senses back around him, even a few seconds before, the house was already in flames. He tried to get in the house, but someone was holding him back. It was only later that he found out it was Abby. She had been close by, working on a case of her own when the explosion happened.
When it’s someone you love the fire trucks don’t get there soon enough. The rescue effort doesn’t start quick enough and every second that passes is like an hour. They found the first body in the living room, the second in the hallway, the third on the back porch.
Marshall didn’t know what was happening really, an ambulance was there, insisting that he needed help, there was blood-but he didn’t know who’s or where it was coming from-and a ringing and roaring in his ears. He must have passed out at some point because when he woke up he was in a hospital bed and the ringing had stopped.
Abby was there, tears in her eyes, running down her checks as she looked at him and he knew. He couldn’t ask who had died, who had made it. He knew that no one had. But he was wrong. Stan, he found out only latter, was going to be ok. Broken arm, nasty bump on his head and smoke inhalation, it was the bump on his head that stopped him from getting into the house after the explosion. He had passed out on the back porch.
They waited on the funerals until after Stan was out of the hospital, though the wait almost killed Marshall. Delia’s was first, her family loud and boisterous and sad, but happy that their daughter, sister, niece, had died doing something she loved. They were religious, that seemed to help.
Mary’s funeral was last. People Marshall didn’t even know came out of the woodwork to pay their respects. The service was graveside, with full honors. Norah had started walking, and didn’t seem to know what was going on, but Marshall noted that she kept looking around, as if looking for her mother in the sea of unfamiliar faces and family that she barely knew.
And Marshall sat there, with Stan at his side. Both men wishing that they had done something more, that they had been able to save her. There was a whole in both of them that would never be filled. It was bigger in Marshall though.
And Abby didn’t understand, not really. But she tried. She gave him time, didn’t push, insisted that he see someone, someone who could help him heal.
Shelly Finkle didn’t try to talk him out of his grief and guilt. Didn’t try to tell him that Mary was in a better place, or that he would get over his loss and pain. She seemed to know that more than just missing Mary, he was morning for all the last chances, all the times that would never be.
Witsec and Albuquerque weren’t the same after that. Even his weekly visits with Norah and Jinx couldn’t bring him out of his funk. He couldn’t help but think that if he’d been a little closer, been playing a little bit more attention to the things going on around the neighborhood he would have been able to save Mary.
Everything reminded him of her, of them, witness always asked about her. They knew she had died, but the real circumstances of her and Delia’s deaths had been covered up. A faulty gas line in a house that Mary and Delia were touring was the “official” cause of the explosion.
And one day he just couldn’t take the loss and the pain anymore. Couldn’t take the guilt that he had escaped with little more than short term hearing loss and a mild concussion and they had died. Mary had died. He stood on the roof of the Sunshine building looking out over the city, thinking about a witness that had jumped and survived, and thought it would be fine to fly into the sky. So, standing on the ledge, he did just that.