AN: This plot bunny attacked me while I was reading bluemuriel's "Surgery." It's just a short drabble that takes place immediately after The Critic in the Cabernet.
Countdown
"Okay, Mr. Booth. I want you to take a deep breath and start counting backwards from ten." The rubber mask is slipped over his mouth and pushed down uncomfortably hard, pressing his lips and cheeks into his teeth. He inhales obediently, panic flaring slightly because the air flooding his lungs feels wrong somehow.
"Ten."
A hand grips his, he squeezes it reflexively, gaze turning to his partner who stands silently by his side, who's been silent since they entered the operating room. He wishes he could see her face, but a green face mask and hair cap conceal everything from him but her eyes. I can see your soul.
"Nine."
She's frightened, he can tell, but also calm and resolute. The expression in her eyes is not unlike the one she wears when examining remains, or helping him apprehend a suspect, or explaining cause of death. You can do this.
"Eight."
He's scared too. But he knows that this time she'll be standing right beside him, even as he loses himself to oblivion and time slips through his grasp. She'll be watching over him, his Bones, his guardian angel. His partner in the search for absolution, for justice, for order, for peace.
"Seven"
Her grip on him tightens as he blinks and then struggles to keep his eyes open, to keep them connected with hers. It'll be alright.
"Six."
His voice sounds odd, sounds stretched, like he's been drawing out this word for centuries and only now just remembered to end it. I'm not going to leave you.
"Five."
He's so tired. His eyes slip shut, and stay that way. He just wants to go to sleep. But he can't- can't leave her, has to stay with her, always, because he is all she has, and she is all he wants.
"Four."
Please, God. He'll do anything just to come back to her.
"Th..."
Everything becomes static.