Chapter Text
There was no such thing as sleep, not for Boone.
There were the hours where his body went still, where breath became even and the desert air settled on his skin like dust on old bones, but sleep? No. That was for people with clean hands. That was for people who didn't wake up with the taste of iron on their tongue.
And when the dark took him, it took him mercilessly.
He was back in Bitter Springs. The smell of blood and cordite thick in his throat. The sky had been the color of bruises that night, rolling clouds reflecting the smoke that rose from the canyon. It was always the same - his rifle was in his hands, and he was a good solider. He was a good soldier, and that meant he followed orders.
The wind shifted, carrying voices from below. Women clutching their children, men pressing themselves against the rocks, all of them with the same fear carved into their faces. They hadn't been armed. They hadn't fought. They'd just run, cornered like geckos against the cliffside.
We have to finish this.
God, his trigger finger had been so steady.
Then the first shot rang out, and Boone's stomach curled in on itself, a snake eating its own tail. One shot, then two, then an entire squadron of sharpshooters firing as if they were picking off targets at Sloan. Bodies crumpling, falling, screaming.
A woman turned, and he saw her face. Young, younger than Carla had been. She was holding a child, whispering something soft, something desperate. Then her head snapped back. A red mist bloomed in the air.
His rifle was hot.
His rifle was empty.
The child was still standing. The mother was not.
Boone jolted awake with a sharp breath. hands clawing at the sheets as if they were the canyon walls, as if he could drag himself out of it. His chest heaved. Sweat dripped from his brow. He was in Novac, in the motel, not Bitter Springs, but it didn't matter. The blood never stayed in the past.
A voice stirred from the chair in the corner. "Christ, man. Again?"
Manny.
Boone exhaled hard, pressing his palms against his eyes. It didn't make the images go away, but it kept him from seeing them on the insides of his eyelids.
The chair creaked as Manny sat forward. "That's. what? Three times this week?"
Boone didn't answer. He was still trying to get his breathing under control, still trying to remind himself that he wasn't there, that was no smell of burning flesh, no screaming no-
Manny sighed. "Yeah, alright. Stupid question."
There was a clink, the quiet slosh of liquid in a bottle. A second later, something tapped against Boones knee. He blinked against the sweat stinging his eyes and glanced down.
Whiskey.
He took it without a word. resting his elbows on his knees. His rifle was propped against the wall, always within reach. "I ever tell you about that time we got stationed outside Camp Golf for a week? No cover, no shade - just sand, sunburn, and a whole lotta bad decisions?"
Boone let the words settle over him like a thin blanket. He still saw the blood. Still tasted it.
The whiskey didn't help, not really. It burned going down, left warmth pooling in his stomach, but it couldn't wash out the iron that clung to his tongue like rust on old metal.
Manny leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs, his boots scuffling against the floor. He looked tired, like he'd been through his kind of hell, but they both knew whose nightmares kept them up at night.
Boone didn't respond to Manny's question, but Manny continued anyway.
"Remember Sergeant Willis? Dumbass thought he could make a still out of spare parts and bootleg some hooch out of god knows what. Ended up poisoning half the squad."
Boone took another drink, letting the warmth seep into his bones. It was a useless attempt at comfort, but what else was there?
Manny sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, man. You gotta do something about this. You can't keep going like this."
Boone tensed. "Like what?"
"You know what."
Silence stretched between them, thick as the heat outside. Boone sat the whiskey down on the nightstand with a dull thud. He didn't look at Manny, but he could feel the weight of his stare.
"You think I don't get it?" Manny asked softer this time. "You think I don't wake up some nights hearing it? Seeing it?"
Boone clenched his jaw.
"I was there too, Boone."
Manny's voice wasn't accusing, but it wasn't gentle either. It was raw. Honest.
Boone let out a slow breath. "Not like I do. "
Manny was quiet for a long moment. "No," he admitted. "Not like you do."
That was the difference. That was why Manny could still sleep through the night, why he could still laugh at stupid shit, why he could still talk about Bitter Springs without choking on the words.
Because he hadn't pulled the trigger.
Not like Boone had.
Manny shifted in his chair, adjusting his rifle against the wall. "Look, man. I know you don't want to hear it. But I'm saying it anyway." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You don't have to carry this alone."
Boone swallowed; throat dry despite the whiskey.
Manny sighed, shaking his head. "Whatever. Just - try to get some sleep."
Boone didn't respond. Didn't move.
After a while, Manny stood, muttering something under his breath as he made his way to the door.
He paused.
"...You need anything, you know where to find me."
Then he was gone, leaving Boone alone.
Boone sat there for a long time, staring at nothing. The echoes of Bitter Springs lingered at the edges of his visions, waiting for him to close his eyes again.
Eventually, he picked up the whiskey and took another drink.