Chapter 25: Not Quite The End
The name was whispered on dry and cracked lips again and again, so softly that the first time she heard it she wasn't sure that it actually came from the man in the bed. Curled on the stiff and scratchy couch in the corner of the room, she craned her neck to see him. His lips were moving and her name was slipping from his tongue effortlessly. She shifted on the couch, feeling the cool sheet fall to the wayside as she pushed it off her legs and stood slowly.
He was crying again.
Tears rolled down his cheek, one after another, though he remained asleep.
More than anything she wanted to reach out and assure him that he was safe and secure. That he was no longer a prisoner. The sedatives combined with his physical condition, however, kept him trapped in whatever nightmare was causing the tears and she could play no other role than helpless onlooker.
The rational part of her brain knew this was a rather lopsided and overly dramatic view of the situation. Since staging his rescue twenty-four hours ago she had done everything possible to make sure that he saw the best doctors, received the best treatment, all while keeping his superiors at the FBI along with members of the press at bay. She'd seen to it that Rebecca, Hank, and Jared were apprised of the situation and assured them each that she would continue to update them on Booth's progress. Hodgins and Angela had helped her where they could and offered her emotional support when she'd admitted to needing it. Which hadn't been often.
A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she mentally made a list of everything that needed to be accomplished still. Her voicemail was laden with messages from Cam, Sweets, Caroline, and others who were only now realizing what had been done on Booth's behalf. Even more emails from coworkers and acquaintances were in her inbox awaiting her reply. And then there were the law enforcement officers waiting just down the hallway waiting none too patiently for her to give her statement, but giving her space out of deference to Booth and the rumor that Brennan alone could chew them up and spit them out without a second thought if they pushed too hard.
She didn't know where to begin.
Knuckles rapped softly on the door even as the handle turned and swung it open quietly. The man put one cautious sneaker across the threshold until he received the brief nod to proceed. No words were exchanged between them but none were necessary. His eyes flicked to Booth's unconscious form as he forked over the no-fat, low-carb soy latte he'd picked up from some hoity-toity coffee place on his way in.
"Any change?"
She shook her head and sipped at the liquid, ignoring the fact that it was scalding her throat on the way down.
"Well, no news is good news, right?"
She'd never subscribed to that notion before, nor did she ever think too highly of people who employed it and she glared at the man until he raised his hands in silent surrender, offering a paper sack as penance.
Her nostrils flared at the scent of warm cinnamon and sugar.
"Breakfast of champions," her father quipped before settling onto the couch she'd recently abandoned. "Go on and eat 'em while they're fresh. Then you can head home for a bit."
She was glaring daggers at him again even as she broke a small piece of the treat off and chewed it. Home had not been her apartment since Booth had gone missing and her father knew that as much as he knew there was no way in hell she was leaving the hospital until Booth woke up.
To his credit, Max said nothing until she'd finished eating. He then proceeded to make a quiet, but fully logical argument for her going home at least to shower and change. As they had so often over the last day her eyes moved to Booth as she weighed her options. His face was a mask of serenity now, with no signs of the distress he'd recently been in, while the heart monitor beeped steady and strong. He was in the capable hands of the doctors and nurses and she knew that time was the only thing he needed to recover fully; time in which he would be unconscious and unaware of whether she was present or not.
"Go," Max ordered her gently, herding her toward the door. "I'll keep an eye on your G-man for you."
-
Darkness surrounded him. Darkness and a cloud of mist that seemed to swallow him into its nothingness. He was aware, but unaware, floating in a place that had no cause for alarm, but no hope for reconciliation. Pain was a distant memory, though somewhere in his drug addled mind, he knew that it wasn't far from the surface.
Sounds faded in and out, voices, noises, an odd pulsing sound could also be heard, though it had no place in his memory or mind at that particular moment. The soft blur of dream and sound melded together in an integration of sounds and light, mental pictures that both frightened him and angered him as he tried to break through the thick, smokeless fire that penetrated each and every thought and movement.
His lack of focus was broken by the incessant beeping, the drone of the something keeping pace with his breaths as each second passed. His mind was still in another place, though was rapidly becoming aware of the sound. His heart began to race, his mind began to chase it. Recognition snapped.
Heart monitor. He was attached to a heart monitor.
A vision flashed in his mind of the box in the corner of the trailer, and the monitor began to race. He wanted to scream out, but found his voice was lost, he tried to fight, tried to break free of the bonds that held him, feeling nothing but resistance.
He struggled, remembering the darkness of the trailer, the moment it all went black, the moment he watched his partner lean out of that window as if she was sacrificing herself for him.
"No!" He screamed in his mind, listening to the monitor squeal angrily in reply. "Bones, No!"
He counted down the seconds, trying to calm himself, but finding the bonds on his wrists had increased only caused the panic in his chest to squeeze at his chest. The sharp, ever increasing pain spread from his chest to his arms, his muscles stiffening as he fought against the bonds of his restraint.
Twisting and pulling at the restraint on his arms, he screamed her name over and over. The sound of her voice pushed through the growing panic, pushed through the physical upheaval.
Her voice.
One.
She was there.
Two.
Right there.
Three.
Dream, it was a dream, a nightmare. She was dead. Broadsky took her.
Four.
Still, her voice pushed through the cloud, and his heart rate began to calm.
Five.
Like a brittle stick with too much pressure, his panic was snapped.
Six.
She was gone, this wasn't her voice. He was dead, floating in a dark and pain filled limbo.
Seven.
He mourned her loss, but her voice continued. It continued counting, higher and higher it counted and with each rising number, his body relaxed just a little more, listening to the gentle rhythm of her voice until the sound of the monitor disappeared. The delicate recitation of a count that ended at fifteen. He was drifting now, back into the darkness, when he heard her whisper, clearly and so close to him that he could feel her warm breath whisk across his cheek.
"I can't lose you, Booth."
The dark clouds parted slightly, enough to let just a sliver of light in. He could hear his breathing now, something that he hadn't heard for days. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, pounding with a vigor that seemed different from earlier, less desperate. He felt a warmth on his brow, soft and tender lips against his skin, and a soft hand on his cheek.
He could feel that, and it was not filled with pain or regret. It was real.