Hoot frowned, scratched his forehead as he looked at Schmid's bowed head. "How do you figure? You're not the one shot him, right?" "No, but I --" "That's like saying it was Matt's fault for leading you to the crash site or mine for not getting there sooner or General Garrison's for sending us out there without adequate back up. Hell, it'd be like blaming President Clinton for giving us the order to go to Somalia." Schmid lifted his head, stared at Hoot through red-rimmed eyes. "That's fucked up. None of you held, fucking held, his artery in your hands and had it slip away." "Kurt, man, you may as well blame the true culprit here," Hoot said gently, laid a comforting hand over Schmid's. "Who?" "Your mom." "The fuck?" Schmid recoiled back like he'd been struck. "My mom never killed anybody." "And neither did you. At least, not Jamie. So stop it." Schmid shook his head. "Doesn't help." "Look." Hoot sighed, looked at some point beyond Schmid's shoulder. "Smith did what he was trained to do. And you did what you were trained to do. And that's look out for each other." He tilted his head, rested his gaze back on Schmid. "You follow?" "Yeah. Yeah, I guess," Schmid answered, voice hoarse. His eyes never left Hoot's. "You feel like sleeping?" Hoot smiled softly. "Not really. Feel up to shooting a few hoops?" "Okay," Schmid said, returned the smile. "Yeah, man. I could be persuaded."
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