A/N: This just in: A new study has confirmed that the readers of 'The Forensic Anthropologist in the Warehouse' are totally awesome. According to Dr. XedwardismyromeoX, who conducted the study, it was found that readers "reviewed like the wind" and "were extremely flattering." In an interview she said, "We expected these results at the beginning of our study, because readers have been found to be fantastic in the past, but frankly, we were astonished by the advanced levels of awesomeness exhibited by the test subjects. We had to build a new awesometer." All of the participants in the study received a David Boreanaz clone as compensation. Anyone who would like to participate in the ongoing study can simply review the following chapter and they will be automatically entered.
A/N regarding the A/N: Sadly, I did not make that up. But, it is mildly amusing, and I know you all want one of those David Boreanaz clones...
CLAIMER of the DIS variety: I do not own the characters, just my slightly evil plot developments :D enjoy *evil smile*
Booth took a deep breath as the doctor finished his speech, trying to rein in his reeling mind. Amid the physician's medical jargon, he had gathered that Brennan was in a serious yet stable condition, but they weren't quite sure how the situation was going to develop. She was currently being pumped with every antibiotic known to man, to prevent any wound from going septic, which would be almost catastrophic at this stage. He mentioned that her body had been extremely dehydrated when she arrived at the hospital, and she had lost a lot of blood during her ordeal. There was some mention of infection, of stitches and of bandaging, but Booth hardly absorbed any of that. Having heard that she was stable was a great relief, but the ominous words that had accompanied the statement were driving him to distraction.
There was a moment of silence when the doctor finished his explanation, before Booth realised that he was obliged to speak.
'I...' Booth sighed, his exhausted brain refusing to think of a sociable phrase and begging him to ask the one question he really cared about.
'Can we see her now?' His dejection tainted his voice, and he saw the doctor's firm expression soften slightly.
'I can take the three of you in momentarily, but I am afraid only one of you will be able to stay in the room with her overnight. Policy doesn't even really allow that, but I'll make sure you are left alone.'
Booth heard Angela's voice responding, organising, working out what he could not. He saw Hodgins hovering beside her, acting as the second pair of ears and eyes that he himself would normally be. Gratitude flooded his exhausted soul, at knowing that -for once- he could let someone else take the reins. Conversation sluggishly snaked around his mind, the words curling through his subconscious aimlessly until he heard the phrase 'Quickly now, let's get moving'.
The doctor ushered them down a hallway, through a small white door and down a skinny white passage. Medical machinery lined the walls in an oxymoronic tidy yet dishevelled manner, and the stark walls were broken up by doors marked 'Storeroom' or 'Janitor'. Through a door and around a bend, the doctor gave a reassuring smile, saying they were nearly there. The end of the corridor was in sight, with large doors leading out to what seemed to be the main ward invitingly awaiting their arrival. Noise from the corridor outside leaked through, and a man dressed in janitor's clothes appeared from a room to their left, following them down the remainder of the passageway. The doctor surreptitiously glanced out the exit, before sweeping the trio out into the wider space beyond the door. Private rooms extended from this corridor, filled with bed-ridden patients with individual names inscribed upon the doors. Little scenes flew past as they slipped down the hallway; an elderly gentleman watching a slow tennis match on his television, a middle aged woman murmuring to a nurse who was holding her wrist, a youthful man asphyxiated with bandages, his beautiful young wife silently weeping at his side.
A few paces further and the doctor slowed, and Booth saw a nameplate resting on a slightly ajar door, bearing the title 'Ms Temperance Brennan.' As the janitor, who had trailed slowly behind them, rattled past with his trolley, Booth felt anxiety flood his veins. Even from his place outside the room, Booth could hear the steady bleeping of the heart monitor, a sound which he somehow despised and loved at the same time. The sound was always associated with the worst experiences of his life, the ones where he or someone he cared for dearly had been pushed that bit too far; that same bleeping was omnipresent in every memory of those difficult times. But the sound also symbolised that, somehow, the soul inside the room was still struggling to survive, holding on to the threads of life with all its might.
Regardless, the steady mechanical noise was far from comforting as the door was slowly swung open.
Brennan was dwarfed by the bed, the gown, the room. Everything looked oversized compared to her drained and diminished body. Her skin was translucent, and the intravenous drip looked like a horrifying mutation extending from her frail arm. Her eyes were closed, but beneath the lids they frantically darted, oblivious to the outside world but obviously ensnared in some subconscious nightmare. Her hair contrasted darkly with her skin, highlighting the blemishes and cuts and bruises against the pale canvas of her face.
Somehow, this sight was almost as heart-wrenching as seeing her chained in the warehouse. At least she had been awake, mind whirring and defiant, despite being so helplessly bound. Now, however, she looked broken. What had happened to the lucid Brennan, the one that had conversed with him, the one that hugged his chest and held his hand? The one that had, despite her horrific state, appeared alive? For this Brennan did not look at all alive. Drowning in a sea of cotton sheets, she looked just as defenceless as she had before.
'Oh God...' Booth dropped to his knees beside the bed, clasping Brennan's chilled fingers in his own, and bowed his head until it drooped against her rough sheets. It was only since arriving at the hospital did the gravity of his partner's condition register in his mind. Adrenalin had fuelled them both through the rescue and their arrival at the hospital, almost convincing him that after a bit of cleaning up his Brennan might be on her way home in a couple of days. One glance at her now told him he was gravely mistaken. How could he have been so stupid? He had seen the extent of her injuries, heard her screaming in agony as they were inflicted, but he had somehow fooled his mind into believing the facade raised by her body's immune system.
He ran a trembling thumb over her bruised wrist, tears prickling at his eyes. Her cries had haunted him for the entirety of her surgery. The heartbreaking, piercing sound echoed in his ears, just as the shatteringly painful image of her beautiful face twisting in suffering haunted his mind the moment his eyes closed.
He brought his other hand up to the bed, clasping Brennan's between his own. He clamped his eyes shut, and quietly, almost inaudibly, began to pray.
When Booth looked up next, he could hear people quietly walking, and vulnerable confusion widened his eyes as he saw Angela and Hodgins heading for the door.
'Where are you going? Don't you want to stay...?' Angela gave a sympathetic smile, her hand resting on the door handle.
'Anyone can see that you need some time together, Booth. We'll come back in the morning with some breakfast for you. Just try to get some rest, if you can.' She opened the door and slipped back out into the corridor, and Hodgins followed after throwing Booth an empathetic smile.
Empty silence pressed against Booth's ears as he knelt beside the bed, his red-rimmed eyes resting solemnly upon his partner's injury-riddled face. Her hair fell across her brow and drooped across one eye; Booth lifted a hand to brush the curls aside. His hand was feather light, he was so afraid of hurting her. She looked so fragile, so breakable. A wave of sadness washed over him; of all the people for this to happen to, the universe had to select Brennan. This would be such a blow to her. Some people could cope with resting for months on end, and find ways to feel productive during that time. But not Brennan. She yearned to be out in the field, working hands on and experiencing everything for herself. While there were aspects of her job that required desk work, but Booth knew it was the days when she would be going out to investigate that were her favourite. He had seen the way her eyes always lit up whenever he came to her door, speaking of suspects and evidence and questioning that just could not be done from inside the Jeffersonian. And now he had taken that away from her.
In the hours of waiting for news of the surgery, the small sliver of self confidence that he had gained had quickly diminished. Dark thoughts of self blame had come to continue their barraging attack on his guilty heart, and all those hours of bleak uncertainty left much time for anguished contemplation of just how many failings Booth had tallied against his name. He had failed as a son, letting his father abuse both his mother and brother as well as himself; he had failed in the army, letting his youngest recruit come fatally into the line of fire; he had failed in providing a family for his son, following his estrangement from Rebecca; and now he had, through carelessness, failed his partner, the only woman he had ever...
Eyes brimming with sorrow, Booth leant forward and brushed his hand against Brennan's cheek, quietly murmuring.
'I'm sorry.'
Her response was so quiet he almost missed it. Hardly articulate, it was more of a mumble than a word, but to Booth's well trained ear he knew exactly what it was.
'Booth?' At the sound of his name Booth's heart skipped a beat; his hands flew to Brennan's and gripped them tightly.
'Bones? Bones, can you hear me?' She gave a low moan, crunching her eyes together before slowly letting them creep open.
'Booth...' He cringed at her voice; it sounded so weak, as though she was on the verge of tears.
'Bones, I'm here, I'm right here.' His voice wavered slightly at the end of the sentence, and he furiously swallowed to quash the sound. Her fingers gently squeezed back at his grip, her eyes slowly blinking to focus on his.
'W...where...' the word whooshed out in a tiny gasp of air, but once again Booth almost instinctively knew what she wanted to know.
'You're in St. Catherine's, in one of the private suites. Do you remember coming here?'
'I remember...the radio...' Booth cringed; of all the things to remember, did her tortured mind really have to pick that one incident?
'I'm so sorry, Bones. I'm so sorry.'
'You can't...be blamed...for the radio presenter...' she spluttered out the last word, before a rattling cough erupted from her lips. Booth squeezed her hands tighter, hoping desperately that the sudden movement wouldn't do any damage. But when her body curved forward with the strain, and she gave a sharp yelp of pain he could not restrain himself any longer. Sliding onto the bed beside her, Booth held her steady as she heaved, and felt his eyes prickle with emotion at the unstoppable force barraging his partner's already exhausted body. The horrible choking sound gradually lessened, to be replaced with a strong gasping as Brennan tried to regain control. Booth ran his hand ever so lightly, ever so carefully across her shoulders and neck. A weak whimper slipped through Brennan's lips and Booth, thinking he had pushed her fatigued body too far, made to get off the bed.
'No!' Brennan rasped, her hand flying to Booth's toned arm. He froze when she made contact, his eyes locked on hers. The only sound filling the silence was the throbbing of the heart monitor. Brennan swallowed, trying to relieve her dry throat, before she spoke again.
'Stay.'
Booth held the eye contact, his eyes anxiously searching hers, making sure he understood and didn't do anything rash. Seeing the complete honesty and trust there, however, Booth gently kicked off his shoes. Shedding his coat and draping it over a chair, Booth climbed back onto the stiff cotton sheets. Lithely Booth slipped in behind Brennan, one leg on either side of her unnaturally frail body, and pulled her back to lean against his chest. A contented sigh blew through her lips, and she rested her head in the crook of his neck. He could almost feel her energy draining, as she seemed to melt against his body, her eyes drooping from sudden exhaustion.
'Booth?'
'Mmm?' Brennan felt his chest vibrate as he responded, and snuggled slightly closer.
'It's not your fault.' Booth didn't say anything for some time, his chest rhythmically rising and falling with each breath.
'What do you mean?' He eventually asked, trying to keep his voice light and soothing.
'None of it. Anything that's happened... I don't blame you.'
Booth ran a hand over his face, the all-consuming guilt he had been experiencing attacking him again with full force.
'How can you possibly not blame me, Bones? If I had only got there sooner...'
'You could never have got there in time.'
'And once you were...' Booth swallowed uncomfortably, 'taken...we still didn't find you. You were relying on us- relying on me, and I let you down. It's something I will never be able to atone for.'
Brennan turned her face to Booth's, seeing his eyes dulled with sadness at his perceived failure. To her horror, she saw a single tear overflow from his usually bright brown eyes. She longed to reach up, brush it away, but the mere thought of moving that much made her flinch. She settled, however, for grasping Booth's hand in her own. His large palm and fingers dwarfed her own, their tan highlighting her pale skin tone. She felt Booth turn his head, could almost feel his eyes upon their intertwined fingers.
'I can never forgive myself, Bones, for the things he has done to you.'
' It wasn't your fault, Booth. If anything...it was my fault. I am supposed to be smarter than that. I fell into his trap, ran straight where he wanted me like some simple-minded sheep...' Brennan saw Booth open his mouth to protest, and she quickly cut him off.
'No, Booth. I was unintelligent. You always taught me vigilance, something that I allowed to escape me that night. You always warned me about this, and I always brushed it off as a figment of your alpha-male, protective imagination. And, most importantly, you always told me, begged me, not to provoke my captor if this ever happened. I...' Brennan's sentence was cut off by a choking sob, and she quickly turned and buried her face in Booth's neck. A wave of stark realisation washed over Brennan, obscuring her logic and rationality: she was to blame entirely for what had happened.
'Oh, Booth, this was all my fault...' her hoarse voice whispered into his collar.
Booth looked down at his gently crying partner, aghast and incredulous at what he was seeing. He raised a hand and placed a finger under Brennan's chin, slowly lifting it until her eyes reluctantly met his.
'Bones, you are the last person at fault in this situation. You are a victim of an atrocious crime, and you did nothing to bring this upon yourself.' He traced a thumb along her jaw tenderly, 'no one but the man that did this to you is to blame.' Brennan dropped her eyes, breaking Booth's intense gaze. The words wound around her sluggish mind, and she somehow found herself to be believing them. While something in the back of her mind persisted in believing her guilt, once glance at Booth's earnest face ignited her immense trust for him. Her exhausted mind was content accepting his words, for now at least, and she relaxed against his chest once more.
'M'kay Booth,' she mumbled, the heavy weight of the anaesthesia placating her normally sharp and active mind, 'I trust you...' her voice trailed off to a inarticulate whisper, as her eyes fluttered shut and sleep pulled her back into unconsciousness.
Booth smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, content to see Brennan slipping back into sleep. He relaxed against the pillows, going over their conversation again in his mind. He still could not believe that Brennan held herself responsible in any way for what had happened and, although happy that she was compliant, was slightly concerned at how quickly she changed her mind away from self blame. Did she really trust him that much? Or was the medication making her drowsy and hence easily swayed?
Or maybe, a small voice in the back of his mind added, maybe you were right. Maybe Gregory is the only one whose fault this is; maybe you shouldn't hold yourself responsible. No one but the man that did this to you is to blame. He had said those very words, with so much conviction, enough to bend the strong and opinionated mind of Doctor Temperance Brennan. Maybe, if she believed them, so should he.
With mild surprise, he found his mind wanting to hold on to the blame. It was easier, somehow, if this was all his fault. He could blame himself, punish himself. Brennan could hold him responsible too, shun him, and use him as an outlet for her inevitable sorrow. It was probably the easiest way out for his partner; she wouldn't have to initially deal with her ordeal, and could simply continue blaming him until she was ready. And he would take it. He would happily take her detestation, if it helped, especially since he felt he deserved it. It was an all-round winning option, providing Brennan with an outlet for her emotions, and providing him with some small way to begin atoning for this whole ordeal.
There was only one flaw in his perfectly reasoned plan: Brennan didn't blame him in the slightest. It must have crossed her vastly intelligent mind, the idea of blaming Booth for the complete destruction of her emotional and physical wellbeing. But somehow, she seemed to trust him more. That superior intellect of hers had decided that his virtues had outweighed his mistakes. He looked down at Brennan's now sleeping face, hardly knowing what to think. He hated to think of letting go of his guilt, or his self-blame, without doing anything to deserve forgiveness. But it would be irrational for him to hold so much self loathing if Brennan did not feel the same. Especially since she had already told him that she did not find him at fault.
A tiny smile twitched his lips. They all knew how much Brennan hated irrationality. He felt his resilience waning, as the power of Brennan's precious logic washed over his increasingly exhausted mind. With a small groan his dropped his head back against the pillow. He was too tired for this. He felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, teasing his eyelids down. Tightening his embrace around Brennan ever so slightly, Booth gave in to the needs of his body and allowed himself to slip from consciousness.
*
Booth's eyes blearily slid open, into the near-darkness of the hospital room. The sterilised scent hit his nostrils, reminding him exactly where he was, and why he was there. Brennan was still pressed against his chest, her fingers clinging loosely to a handful of his shirt. But Booth's eyes only lingered upon Brennan for a moment. Something was not right.
Something had stirred him from his sleep and, relatively deep sleeper as he was, this was not a regular occurrence. The last time this had happened... his heart stumbled over a couple of beats as he recalled. The last time this had happened, he had been in a warzone. The last time this had happened, an enemy faction was infiltrating his camp.
Forcing his mind to shed the shroud of sleepy disorientation, he slid himself further upright. There was sound coming from near the door. Glancing down at Brennan's sleeping face, and then once more at the door, Booth slowly began to slide out from beneath his partner. An inarticulate mumble bubbled from her lips, and he quickly lowered her back to the pillows. In his sock-clad feet he took one padded step towards the door. A figure was silhouetted by the stark white hall lights leaking in through the doorframe. There was something else, something rattling, that they were pulling in behind them. Both the person and the object were illuminated a moment later when the door was nudged further open: the cleaner, who had followed them down the hidden halls when they were being led to Brennan, was dragging his trolley into the room.
Booth ran a hand through his hair as his heart fluttered with relief when he recognised the uniform. Clearing his throat, he waited for the man to react to him. When he did not turn, Booth coughed again, waiting. His brow tweaking with annoyance, Booth raised his hand to the bedside light switch, flicking it on.
'Excuse me, would you mind coming back at another time?'
The man froze in place, his back still to Booth. Something in Booth's gut tautened once more. This isn't right...He then heard the man begin to speak.
'This was going to be so simple.' He stated. Something in his voice sounded familiar, but Booth couldn't place where from.
'But then you had to go ruin everything. You weren't supposed to know about me, no one was supposed to know about me. Everything was going perfectly, until you showed up with that dim-witted artist at my door.'
Booth's hand slowly crept to his holstered gun. He didn't like where this conversation was going. The familiarity was growing, along with a creeping sense of dread. His sleep-ridden brain, however, could not connect the dots.
'And then,' the man added, 'you came along and killed Mr Clarke! Mr Clarke, whose idea this all was, whose planning we were meticulously following...' the voice broke off with an agitated gasp, the man transferring his weight between his feet restlessly. He raised a grappling hand to his head, ripping it through his hair ruthlessly. Then the movement suddenly stopped. He became deadly still, like a tiger before it pounces upon its cornered prey. Booth felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and his hand wrapped around the handle of his gun in its holster, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.
'But the plan must go ahead. The objective must be obtained,' the man's voice began to show a steely edge of crazed anger, 'I must kill Temperance Brennan!'
Suddenly the uniformed man whirled around, a shotgun in his hands, pointed at Brennan's slumbering form, directly at her heart.
Booth drew a split second later, throwing his body to the side as he pulled the gun from its holster with lightning speed. Two shots were fired, so close together that patients in the rooms nearby would swear that only one bullet had been shot. The men's eyes met in the infinitesimal fraction of a moment after the shots were fired. Booth finally knew his assailant's identity, as he flung himself in the line of the shot. Freedman's face had been filled with triumph, but in that fractional moment he saw the gun in Booth's hand, saw him moving to intercept his perfect and deadly shot, and blatant horror melted his confident expression as he realised what it meant.
Booth's bullet hit where it was aimed with lethal accuracy. Freedman crumpled to the ground, his lifeless form slumping down the pasty white walls. His face was frozen in complete distraught horror; a picture of his final thoughts, of having failed his mission, etched upon his face forevermore.
Booth set his face, his jaw, steeling himself as he hurled himself across to protect Brennan. No thought of his own mortality crossed his mind, not once did he consider the implications of his actions. The one thing filling his mind was his Bones. His eyes locked on her sleeping face as he fell, seemingly in slow motion, into the path of the bullet. She's safe. His heart flooded with relief, temporarily blocking from his mind the fate that he had assigned himself.
He gave a strangled cry, when the metal bullet ripped into his chest, tearing his flesh as it buried itself deep inside his body. His hand clawed at the wound, blood rapidly oozing between his clutching fingers and splattering to the ground and across Brennan's pristine white sheets. He gasped for breath, the excruciating pain shocking the oxygen out of his lungs. His legs trembled beneath him, giving way as he tumbled forward across Brennan's lap. His vision was blurring, darkening at the edges. He reached a violently shaking hand out, grasping Brennan's fingers in his own. A wave of heart-wrenching pain shattered over him, and with a moan he squeezed Brennan's hand tighter.
Through his rapidly decaying vision he fought to keep Brennan's face in focus. He felt his heart was breaking; there was so much left unsaid between them. He had never told her how enchanting he found her laugh, how astounding he found the vastness of her knowledge. He had never said how prettily the light highlighted the copper in her hair, how refreshingly beautiful her creamy skin was to him, or how her eyes sparkled like sapphires with such fervour as to ensnare his heart. But, there was one thing, which outstripped her physical attractiveness or simple attractive traits. Her beautiful, incredible soul, so rich and strong and exquisitely warm, had captured him wholeheartedly. What had started as misunderstanding had grown, developing through friendship, to best friends, to deepest caring, to love. His throat choked as he realised it; he had been in love with Brennan, for so long, and had never done anything about it. And now it was too late.
With excruciating effort, he tilted his face to look up at hers, longing to see her eyes one last time. To his surprise, he saw them flutter open, brimming with horror at the sight before her. He fought his weakening muscles to grip her hand once more, and forced his lips to obey his will.
'I...' he rasped, as his vision blackened even further, 'love...you'
He heard her gasp, felt her grasping his hand in return. She was shaking her head, her lips forming words he could no longer comprehend. He felt himself slipping, losing his hold on this world.
'I...love...' his breath ran out, leaving his lungs empty. With one final, exceptionally clear vision of Brennan's beautiful face stamped upon his mind, his vision finally gave out. His body slumped down, losing its battle, finally unfeeling, and he knew no more.
I hope you all enjoy cliff hangers, because they just seem to keep overtaking the ends of my chapters :\
So yeah...remember your aforementioned David Boreanaz clones, promised if you review :)
oh, and a shout out to all those from the fox forum, who helped a lost reader find their way back to the story ;)
Thanks for the read :D