AN: Season four won... and while this wasn't the song I was thinking of when i extended the option, I love what's happened. This song wasn't even in the outline, wasn't on my radar, until a chance iTunes shuffle.
This chapter is complex and layered, even moreso than Madness. For three squares, this will provide a hint of something she once wished we could see (M., we'll see more of what you crave in depth in a later chapter, I promise); for razztastic, one of her faves makes a brief cameo. Covalent Bond, my lovely friend: do tell me if the end result is anything like you imagined.
Speaking of Covalent Bond, I'm about to quote a review from Madness that I think sums up the story and this chapter in particular: "If anyone else is reading this review and wondering what I meant about learning my lesson, here is a brief explanation of what I meant. When reading these, if you don't know the song Casket is referencing, go listen to it first. Even if you think you know it (I thought I did), listen to it first, then come back and read.
Trust her, she always chooses the most incredible songs for these one-shots. Each one is amazing."
More than any other chapter, listen to this song first before reading. Not only do the lyrics resonate, but the instrumental work mirrors the rises and falls of action/emotion. To help everyone out, I've created a playlist for the story, which you can find at Grooveshark (my username: opentilmidnight)
Tag To: The Critic In The Cabernet; The End In The Beginning; also references The Parts In The Sum Of The Whole; The Hero In The Hold; Aliens In A Spaceship.
Disclaimer: I continue to not own Bones, nor do I own the gorgeous and confessional lyrics of "Caves" by Jack's Mannequin. Dialogue borrowed from episodes noted above is used for context; no infringement intended.
Caves (Jack's Mannequin)
2013
"Brennan."
"Hey Bones, it's me."
She pushed back from her computer and smiled at the sound of her mate's voice. "I've missed you today. Did you want to meet for a late lunch? I admit that I've been lost in this report for the Royal Ontario Museum and forgotten to eat."
"Babe, you gotta eat. You know that. Unfortunately, it'll have to be without me. There's been a break on a cold case I was working on several years back with Charlie and we have to pull the evidence and prepare the files for the new lead agent."
Brennan frowned. "This is the 'I'm going to be late for dinner' call, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is. I'm going to do my damn best to make it home before Christine's bedtime. Max will give you two a lift home tonight."
"I'll try and keep her awake for you," she assured him.
"I love you."
"I love you too, Booth."
Hanging up the phone, her eyes drifted immediately to the photo on her desk, the one of their family. She traced each face lovingly: Parker's proud smile, directed at a laughing Christine; her warm, relaxed look tilted to meet Booth's grin. Most days, she was content to work hard, knowing she would see Booth later in the day. On others, for reasons she had yet to determine, she longed for every minute to be one spent at his side.
Today was one such day, which meant it was time to find out what he'd chosen as track four.
Reaching into her desk drawer, she pulled the CD case from beneath an innocent-looking stack of papers and slid it into the computer's open tray. It had been only a few weeks since Booth had surprised her with her "mix tape", but she was already certain it would be her favourite material gift he'd ever bestow upon her. This was truthful, even if she had yet to hear most of it.
It had dawned on her, as the first song ("Hot Blooded" – their song) had finished and shifted into a song by Angela's father from the not-wedding they'd attended, that each track was carefully chosen for her. Each was a message from Booth to her, a memory treasured. Although she knew each song would be one chosen out of love for her, she also knew that her reaction could be powerful enough to unsettle her. Her solution had been to suggest he not play the rest that night, but instead allow her to listen to it slowly, drawn out over time.
"When I miss your presence, I can be reminded of your love by playing a new song," she'd explained.
In a rare instance, Booth hadn't fought her on this choice. He had, however, insisted on each song being a surprise. A CD had been burned, with no tracklisting provided. He'd also made her promise to listen very carefully, and allow him to explain each track afterwards.
Last week, after a long night at the lab, she'd discovered what came after: Poco. She'd shed a few tears while driving, remembering his warmth and support on that difficult night, arriving home and throwing herself into Booth's waiting arms. And now, as she skipped ahead, she wondered what memories awaited her.
The opening notes left her gasping for air and reaching out for the phone. Punching in Angela's extension frantically, she felt herself begin to shake.
"Bren, you could just walk over."
"He remembers. I don't know how he does, but he remembers."
"Remembers what? And who?"
"Booth. The coma. He heard it... Ange, he heard the song."
2009
Her fingers flew across the keys, oblivious to the weariness holding court in each and every inch of muscle and sinew. The screen's flicker rate was working in concert with the steady stream of caffeine to force her eyes to remain open, although alert was hardly the word she'd use for her state of consciousness at this point.
Thirty-five hours.
Thirty-five hours since, for one horrifying minute, Booth's respiration drew to a sudden halt as they wheeled him into recovery. Thirty-five hours since she'd been pushed aside by nurses and doctors baffled by the sudden drop-off in vital signs after what was, only moments prior, being heralded as a complete success. Although biopsy would confirm their prognosis, both doctors had concurred that his tumor was benign in nature by the architecture of the tissue removed. Thirty-four hours, twenty minutes since the doctors had explained that Booth had fallen victim to a somewhat rare but serious adverse reaction to the anesthetics utilized and was now in a coma.
Thirty-five hours of worry, tightening its grip around her throat until it was exerting to simply draw a deep breath.
Brennan sat the laptop computer aside, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to take a break from her task. Not only were the sentences fast becoming garbled and loaded with typographical errors, but her voice was hoarse from reading aloud as she worked. What should be an effortless multitasking exercise for someone of her intelligence was becoming as taxing as her dissertation at Northwestern, under the tutelage of an unfortunately sexist and surprisingly incompetent supervisor. She was also vaguely aware that her clothes had begun to emit a faint odor of perspiration, a testament to her adrenal glands working unusually hard.
"Hey honey, how is he?"
Brennan glanced up slowly, blinking hard to clear her vision. "Dad? I thought you were in North Carolina."
"Angela called me and I came," Max replied. "Is he any better?"
"The doctors assure me that he isn't any worse, although I'm mulling a phone call to a colleague in Glasgow for a third opinion," she replied softly. Her eyes drifted to the unnaturally still body of her partner. "He should be awake by now. Hodgins says – "
"People don't always behave like statistics predict, Tempe. It's why Psychology is bullshit." He leaned on the armrest of her chair, his hand smoothing her tangled hair. "You haven't left at all, have you?"
"I promised I'd be right here with him. I won't break my word to Booth."
"You need to eat, Tempe."
"I had an apple."
Max groaned. "That's not a meal. It's barely a snack! You know, for someone with such a big brain, you forget to think a lot."
"Dad," she cautioned angrily.
"Alright, alright. It's my job to worry. What can I do to help?"
Brennan thought for a moment, studying the room. She had plenty of access to water and coffee, and apples were perfectly fine in her mind as sustenance. Angela had brought her laptop from the car. Glancing down at her rumpled jacket, she nodded.
"Would you mind going to my place and bringing back some clothing and my toiletry bag from beneath the bathroom sink?" she asked softly.
Her father smiled. "Sure, honey, although you know, you could go yourself and freshen up. I'd stay here with him for you."
"No, I have to remain here. Please understand."
He extended his open palm, into which she placed her keys. "Alright, but I'm bringing back real food for you. You need to keep your strength up. For Booth."
For Booth. Yes. She could do it for Booth. With a squeeze to her shoulder, he was gone and the partners were alone once more. Her eyes fixed upon his, willing the lids to flutter open and reveal the warm chocolate irises that steadied her when the world seemed to turn violently upon its axis.
Wake up. Please, Booth. Please...
"Sweetie?"
Brennan blinked and Angela was now there, standing beside her in equally rumpled clothing. Of their team, only she and Angela had remained for the entire stretch of time, the others fading in and out of the scenery. Sisterly devotion, as Brennan understood Angela's explanation. Angela clutched a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, her purse in the other.
"Hi, Ange. He hasn't woken up yet."
"And how are you?"
"I'm healthy, Angela, but Booth's condition is what matters right now."
Angela sighed. "Sweetie, it's okay to be upset. You're worried. We all are. And your emotions are most definitely my concern."
Brennan watched her friend drag a second chair towards her with a yawn. "They told me it was family only, that only our documents allowed me to be here. How did you get in?"
"Same way your father did: I sweet-talked a nurse and refused to take no for an answer," Angela replied with a wink.
After the previous year, when Booth had been shot and she'd discovered that their emergency contact forms were limited in power, they'd had Caroline Julian draw up a series of documents that ensured they would never be denied access to each other in a medical emergency in the future. Brennan knew it was a gesture of apology from Booth for the two weeks she'd endured, believing him dead, and she had expressed her appreciation of that gesture with a premium bottle of scotch and a promise to never bring the matter up again.
She only wished that they hadn't needed the power of the jargon-loaded documents so quickly.
"Bren, why don't you grab a nap? I can tell you haven't slept a wink."
She shook her head. "I need to monitor Booth's care. He counts on me to ensure his physicians are prevented from making errors."
"Yeah, and Booth would be furious if he knew you weren't looking after yourself," Angela countered. "Look, I'm here. I can stay awake and if anything happens, I'll wake you back up. Besides, I had an idea to help Booth."
"Idea?"
Angela's offer sounded tempting. Her body needed rest and she understood that it was only a matter of time before it ignored her will and shut her down for sleep. At least Angela would be here, should Booth... worsen.
Her friend was standing beside Booth now, a pair of ear buds in her hand. She carefully nudged each one into its corresponding ear and connected it to her iPod as she explained, "Booth is a fighter, but right now, he's pretty tired. I've read plenty of studies that suggest comatose people can hear us, so I thought, 'Why not give him the soundtrack of survival?'"
"A film score?" Brennan asked, confused.
"No sweetie, it's a saying. Anyway, this album I bought recently was written partially as a response to the singer's battle back from nearly dying of leukemia. It's a really positive, uplifting album in so many ways, so I thought it would be good for Booth to hear. Better than the hospital sounds, right?"
"Booth hates hospitals," Brennan mumbled.
With a few taps, Angela smiled and tucked the iPod in beside Booth's left arm. "There we go: art therapy from Angela Montenegro."
It was so sudden: one moment, she was observing her friend; the next, she'd begun weeping.
"Sweetie!" Angela was a blur, moving to embrace her tightly. "He's going to be okay."
"I should have seen this coming sooner," Brennan sobbed. "I knew about the other visual hallucinations and I should have insisted upon CAT scans sooner. I should have known... I..."
"Bren, you've always said that there's a rational explanation for everything to be found, right? Well, Booth was psychologically tortured on a naval vessel. The injuries and trauma made perfect sense for explaining the dead soldier he saw. Ditto the ice incident. No one would have jumped to a brain tumor. No one." Angela's lips grazed her forehead. "This is no one's fault."
"But what if the stress of my seeking Booth's progeny aggravated the cerebellar pilocytic astrocytoma?"
Angela pulled back, meeting her eyes dead-on. "What if your confronting him created stress because the man is in love with you?"
"Ange, don't be absurd – "
"Bren, don't be deliberately obtuse."
"We're not having this discussion. Booth needs me. Booth... He..."
It was increasingly difficult to process stimuli in a timely fashion, and language seemed to be failing her. Her brain was now making demands, seeking restorative attention.
"Sleep, Bren. I'll stand guard."
"Why... wouldn't you... sit? I..."
When Max Keenan arrived forty-five minutes later, Angela shushed him with a finger to her lips and a soft smile of reassurance. Slumped in a chair, Temperance Brennan was out cold, snoring softly.
Thirty-five hours ago
Something was wrong.
Booth couldn't explain it, nor could he pretend to know what he was fighting or why, but something was wrong. Something was pursuing him and its hot breath upon his neck sent him running down an endless corridor of darkness, hands stretched out to skim along the walls to keep his course steady.
It was difficult to recall his full name, let alone memories. Fantasy, reality – it was all absorbed into the shadows of this foreboding world. Was he even awake? Was this a dream? Nightmare? Did it matter? He'd always heard that dying in a dream meant death in the waking world and it was that thought, no matter how irrational, that kept him running blindly into this artificial night.
"Booth! Booth!"
"Bones?"
He was blind, but his ears remained true. Her melodic voice called out, shattering the silence, and he ran towards her. The something growled, displeased by her interference. It was hungry, a predator poised for a kill.
Kill...
"Booth, come on!"
Distantly ahead, he saw a hint of luminescence, and suddenly, Booth knew the monster breathing down his neck. Death.
"I'm coming, Bones!" he screamed.
The light drew nearer, but so did his foe. His chest seized, the sensation of a knife wedging between his ribs sending him to the ground. In the distance, he swore he heard her begin to weep. No, no he had to get back up. He had to reach her. He couldn't let her down, not now... Not again.
Staggering gait, heaving chest, he slumped against the wall unseen and shuffled forward. Pressed against it now like a lover, he could make out the cool stone of the surface. This was no building; it was a tunnel. A light at the end of a tunnel. Could this be any more of a catechism cliché?
The something howled in pain as a hand took his, soft and warm. He knew that hand anywhere and nearly wept in relief. Bones. The invisible knife withdrew from his chest and he ran with the hand, ran into the warmth of her sun, unafraid to burst into flames.
Thirty-four hours, fifteen minutes ago
"I'm caught
Somewhere in between
Alive
And living a dream
No peace
Just clicking machines
The quiet of Compazine
The walls caved in on me.
And she sings
My bird dressed in white
And she stings
My arm in the night
I lay still
Still I'm ready to fight
Have my lungs
But you can't take my sight
The walls caved in tonight..."
He was in a room. At least, Booth believed it was a room.
He could see no ceiling, although the lack of sky and fresh air suggested that one existed. The walls, too, suggested themselves by expectation, revealed by a palm slapping the shimmering white concrete. She wasn't here. He sensed she ought to be. Time was... gone. There was blackness, ravenous, and then this whiteness, but where was the grey? Vaguely, he could recall escape, but already, the memories were eroding.
The faint click of some sort of metronome beyond the walls was driving him insane.
There was something he needed to remember. He had somewhere to go, somewhere he needed to be. But where? Where was he?
A sharp pain in his left hip drove him to his hands and knees and he fell, fell into a ball and recoiled from the unseen voices.
"This is to prevent any concerns with circulation later after prolonged inactivity."
"Of course."
A whistling and a humming. A familiar church hymn.
"Fuck," he muttered, gritting his teeth.
Circulation... Hospital. He was in a hospital. And Bones... Oh God, Bones! If he was here, in this white place, was he... He couldn't be in heaven, could he? After all of the lives he'd taken, there was no way he'd ever...
Had he left her again – for real, this time?
"And out here
I watch the sun circle the earth
The marrows collide in rebirth
In God's glory praise
The spirit calls out from the caves.
The walls fell and there I lay
Saved..."
Thirty-eight hours, eleven minutes ago
"The surgery should take about two hours."
"I was getting used to hallucinating. I get lonely."
They both chuckled briefly, although each knew that the situation was hardly funny. A brain tumor. Booth was still in shock, he assumed. He knew he ought to be terrified, but the feelings were muted and muffled, as if hearing beneath water.
"You're gonna be fine, Booth. Dr. Jurzik is one of the best."
And she meant that. Bones was honest. She was also scared. He exhaled loudly, gathering his courage to make a demand of her that he knew would be enormous, particularly if he... didn't come out of this.
"Would you come in there with me, to the operating room?"
"No, I'll see you in Recovery."
He tried to keep his tone light, for her sake. "Oh come on, what are you gonna do, sit in the waiting room and read all those old magazines for hours?"
"I'm not a neurologist, Booth, or a surgeon," she replied.
"Yeah, but you're a genius. That's good enough for me."
She looked pained, yet moved by this. Perhaps a little reassured.
"Plus, you'll know if they're screwing up."
She couldn't deny that, nor did she try to. Ten minutes later, she returned in scrubs, helping to steer his gurney towards the operating room. They were almost there – perhaps two sets of doors away – when he pleaded for a minute alone with her. Stewie's hallucinated words rang in his skull, but beneath them, his heart had a lot to say as well.
"Listen, Bones, if I don't make it – "
"Booth, you're gonna be fine," she interrupted.
"Yeah, but if I'm not... I want you to have my stuff. You know, for our kid."
"Booth – "
"I want you to," he stressed. "You're gonna be a really good mom," he added warmly.
And she would be. God, she would be. He only wished he could be there to witness it, to be a part of it.
"You're gonna be fine, Booth. I'll be right here."
It was more than an assurance, more than a mere statement of fact. It was a vow. He believed in it as they continued into the operating room. He trusted in it as the anesthesiologist plunked the mask on his face and urged him to count backwards by threes. He made it to 67, his eyes locked on her beautiful blues, memorizing the precise shade, just in case...
And then, the darkness claimed him.
"The walls are caving in
As far as I can see
The walls are caving in
The doors got locked for sure
There's no one here but me
Beat my body like a rag doll
you stuck the needles in my hip
Said 'we're not gonna lie
Son, you just might die
Get you on that morphine drip, drip' ..."
Thirty-four hours, twenty minutes ago
Booth rolled onto his back, squinting up at the ceiling beyond the blinding white of his surroundings. Faintly, if he focused long enough, he could discern the reason for his faltering vision: the ceiling was glass. The sun cascaded through the panes into the room, unfiltered by ozone layer, distance or any sort of normal measures. Shielding his eyes, he forced himself to take several long, cleansing breaths.
Reality: a) he was dead; or b) he was having a very screwed up dream. But which one was it? How could he know? It wasn't like people came back from the dead to explain the afterlife in detail – well, no one Booth considered credible, anyway.
The silence was shattered suddenly by a droning sound. Voices, maybe. The words were incoherent, possibly not even in English. Oh fuck... Had he been captured? Was he back overseas? Had all of this... had Bones been a dream? No, he couldn't have possibly invented five years of life...
"I need to get out of here," he mumbled.
He rolled to his side, pressing slowly up to his hands and knees, then his feet. There had to be a way out of this... whatever it was. He'd entered somehow.
"I promised I'd be right here with him. I won't break my word to Booth."
"Bones?"
He'd heard her, but couldn't see her. Distinctly, he felt drawn to his right and so he walked off in that direction, hands searching the walls for a crack, a break that suggested some sort of hidden entrance. In this direction, the room seemed to lose some of its sheen, but this didn't frighten him. If this was a place between death and life, it only served to figure that death would be unnaturally bright or loud. Reality was somewhat muted in comparison, but more meaningful with its shades and contrast.
"Bones, where are you?"
"Talking to yourself again? Man, that can't be good, Sarge!"
A chill ran down Booth's spine as he spun around to find the battered and bloodied frame of Corporal Teddy Parker. The soldier saluted him with a wink, leaning against the now vaguely discernible walls.
"Teddy? But they... The tumor..."
"Consider me a memory this time, Sarge. You're choosing to see me this time," Teddy explained.
"Why would I do that?" Booth glanced around, palm slapping against the wall. "I need to get back. I have to get out of here and get back."
"And that's why I'm here, Sarge," Teddy replied, smirking.
A vicious pain shot across Booth's forehead and he cried out, leaning against the wall. A blink and suddenly, he was back in the dank hell he'd nearly called his grave.
"What, you've never loved somebody and didn't say it to them?"
He told himself it wasn't true. It wasn't safe to consider the alternative.
"See maybe that's why I'm here. To get you to say 'I love you' to somebody," the non-corporeal corporal prodded.
"Oh God," Booth mumbled. "No, I... I mean, I've always felt something, but love?"
"Please. Everyone knows you two are in love with each other. Even that shrink guy thinks it. That's what he really enjoys studying about you two," Teddy replied.
"Everything is just so clear to you," Booth snapped.
Teddy shrugged. "It is this time."
"Bones doesn't believe in love. Even if I did..." Booth shook his head.
Teddy sighed deeply. "You know what? You piss me off! How many second chances did I get to tell Claire how I felt about her? Zero. How many second chances have the two of you had? What if this isn't one of them?"
"You think I didn't consider that?" Booth snapped.
She left to update their friends in the waiting room and Booth knew that this was his only chance to confront the doctors and perhaps hear the absolute truth. Swallowing hard, he sat upright.
"Alright, Doc. My partner is gone. What are my actual chances?"
The doctor hesitated. "Mr. Booth, we have told you that we expect this procedure to be a complete success and – "
"Look, I've served overseas. I've been tortured. I've been shot. I don't need things sugarcoated," Booth snapped.
"There's a ten percent chance this procedure will fail, one way or another," the doctor admitted.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that should the tumor be inoperable or malignant, or should the surgery encounter complications, it will be fatal, either now or in the short-term future."
"Then maybe you should stop lying to yourself," Teddy said. "Doesn't she deserve to know she's loved?"
Beside him, the walls began to crack, spider lines marring the pristine paint. It was all falling apart. The instability of lingering in limbo came with risks. Booth was going to have to find a way back quickly, or risk never seeing his loved ones again.
"The walls are caving in
As far as I can see
The walls are caving in
The doors got locked for sure
There's no one here but me
I fought a war to walk a gang plank
Into a life I left behind
Windows leading to the past
Think it's time I broke some glass
Get this history off my mind..."
"Look Teddy, no offense, but your presence is freaking me the fuck out."
The young man shrugged. "Like I said, Sarge: you conjured me up from memory. But tell her. Don't end up like me."
Within the blink of the eyes, Teddy was gone, but the walls remained dingy, which Booth was grateful for. Dead ahead a good twenty feet, he could see a door. Escape.
Force of habit, panic – whatever the cause, the effect was Booth yanking on the gleaming knob and pounding on the door, screaming for help. Nobody home? Oh, that was it: Booth's mental lights were on, but too many people were at home. He'd gone under the knife and now, he was Alice In Clusterfuck, stuck down a goddamn rabbit hole with no key, no potions, no miracles to speak of.
"Bones," he whispered, slumping to the ground with his back pressed against the door.
Love, lust, friendship – he could decipher his emotions later. The one thing he knew to be sincere was his desire to live, to see her and Parker again. In the distance, the walls began to fold inward, crumbling into rubble.
I'm running out of time.
This was a test: he saw it now. How badly did he want to live? It was time to prove himself worthy of another chance. Teddy was right: second chances were incredibly lucky. He and Bones were on their, what, fourth chance? God might be merciful and loving, but he likely didn't suffer fools gladly, particularly when one was an atheist who'd happily denounce the Man Upstairs in a house of worship.
"Yeah, what if we were married forever?
Like the past never happened
And time did not exist for us at all?
I think we'd still be traveling together
Through all kinds of weather
Everything's a piece of everyone..."
Scrambling to his feet, Booth examined the door carefully, but it was shut tightly. Without a battering ram, it was a hopeless venture. Even a few swift kicks weren't doing the trick. Think, Booth! You're in a box. Get out of it. Twenty feet away, a shattering sound heralded the collapse of the glass ceiling. Tiny shards fell to the floor, as if the sun were weeping at the years he'd wasted drawing lines and denying that she gave him faith in himself as a good man.
Only they didn't hit the floor; instead, they hit an increasingly large pile of rubble...
"Up and out," he murmured.
It was a difficult climb, the terrain unforgiving, but he managed to scramble up the debris with minimal cuts to his palms. Finding a gap in the glass ceiling tiles nearly large enough for his frame, Booth ducked his head and punched his fist through the glass, wincing as fragments pelted his scalp and shoulders. Sharp edges tore into his biceps like teeth as he pulled himself towards the sun.
Ignore the blood. It's not real.
Just don't die in this dream, his mind cruelly taunted him.
On the subject of dreams... once outside, Booth found himself in a familiar nightmare. Coal country. Endless dust and dirt and car tires careening. Sirens blaring. He pulled at his neck, somehow not surprised that he now wore a suit and tie as he scanned the area of excavated earth.
So many nights, he'd dreamed of failing her. Nights of waking up screaming her name, knowing she'd run out of air because he'd failed to protect her, failed to find her in time. After his own brush with the Taffet bitch, the nightmares grew ever more frequent and exquisitely detailed. Why was he here now? What was his mind trying to tell him?
His eyes searched the ground far below, studying familiar swirls of tire tracks and debris. Within him, echoes of the emotions consuming him kicked to the surface and inhaled sharply. The pain was palpable, the fear unforgiving. They'd run out of time a solid forty minutes prior to their arrival, by the lab clock. Everything logical and rational said to give up, to accept defeat, but Booth was a man of action, of passion.
She would never give up on him; he could never give up on her.
He remembered Camille's hand upon his, remembered shoving it away. Remembered blowing her off after they'd managed to pull Hodgins and Bones from the ground and spending the weekend with his partner. Church, walking The Mall, renting movies and eating Thai... He'd ignored every call, every text, save for Parker's Sunday night routine chat. Hell, he'd slept at her apartment, insisting she not be alone with the Gravedigger out there and likely pissed off.
He understood now: he was always hers. And yeah, maybe he and Camille knew it was more 'friends with benefits' than the promise of a real relationship, but he'd been a jackass to imagine he could be satisfied with anyone else. Hell, after Camille, he'd simply stopped trying.
"Do you believe in fate?"
"Absolutely not. Ludicrous."
But he did believe. He believed in Temperance Brennan. He believed he'd spent his life looking for her. Two halves, torn asunder, now seeking to become whole once more. These endless second chances kept coming because they had to get it right. It was destiny: nothing they said or did could alter the future intended for them.
A single pop in the distance. His signal. Down he rushed, slip-sliding along the dirt until he was racing along the ground, eyes fixated on the spot where the dust spiraled into the air with a soft poof. He hit the ground and began to dig, sensing that he would find his way back to her in the gritty sands. Frantic pawing struck at metal, but it was not a car, he quickly determined. It was a hatch of sorts, windowless. Set beneath the handle was a keyhole.
"As far as I can see
Walls are caving in
Doors got locked for sure
But I see these doors have keys..."
"Key... key..."
Teddy's constant admonishments to learn lock-picking aggravated him in retrospect as he continued to toss handfuls of dirt aside, knocking against the metal in search of weakness. For all of the accuracy in his current attire, his service weapon was conspicuously absent. Figures, he thought bitterly.
Wait. To hell with this!
Rising to his feet, Booth kicked the hatch. Stomp after furious stomp rained down upon the metal until a tell-tale rattling sent his hand deep into nearby dirt, where a tiny key had awaited him all along.
"I'm coming, Bones," he whispered, turning the silver key in the lock.
He immediately regretted his position when the door fell inwards, sending him to the ground below with brutality. Booth winced as his elbow collided with wooden floor, while his legs battered against a familiar dresser set.
He was home, only... not.
It was his apartment, structurally. Certain items of furniture, little figurines and random items, were familiar. The presence of shoes in his closet that were distinctly female threw him for a loop and he stumbled backwards, shaking his head to clear it.
Had this all been a dream? The tumor? The operation? What was real?
Maybe if I lie down in bed, I'll wake up in reality... Whatever that is now.
It wasn't a bad idea. His brain had been scrambled somehow. The only way to sort out the chaos in his skull was to re-establish the divide between the waking world and his delirious mind. Rejecting the nonsense here by going to bed seemed a reasonable strategy. Truth be told, he was also exhausted beyond words.
From the ethers, he could hear a woman whisper: "Bren, why don't you grab a nap? I can tell you haven't slept a wink."
A nap sounded wonderful. Stripping off his filthy suit, Booth slid beneath the covers and buried his face in the cool pillowcase. Beside him, the clock blinked. 4:46 a.m.
"There's no one here but me..."
Mere moments later, he heard a key turn in the front door, followed by delicate footsteps edging closer to the bedroom. He recognized the sound and smiled to himself in the dark as a shadowed figure stripped, highlighted by a trickle of moonlight. Soft curls grazed his shoulder, her body pressed against his.
"Do you love me?"
No more second chances. It was time to be honest with her. With himself.
"Yeah. You want me to prove it to you?"
"Mmm, if you're not too sleepy," she demurred.
Inside him, a dam broke, unleashing the force of a love denied for years in every kiss, every touch, as their bodies joined. I love you, he told her with every thrust. I need you, he confessed in every caress.
As he climaxed, he heard her silent reply in the arch of her back and her own surrender to pleasure: I love you, too.
Whew!
For the record, Jack's Mannequin is the band behind the song "The Mixed Tape", wherein the fic gets its title. It was originally in the outline but eventually scrapped for other choices. It's worth a listen as well, as it speaks to Booth's intentions with the mix he's made.
Andrew McMahon's story of his battle with leukemia is incredibly moving, and captured most pointedly in the song "Caves". There is a documentary film of the story, including how his illness reunited him with his love, whom he married once in remission. It's called Dear Jack and I believe is available on iTunes only now.
Fun fact: Tommy Lee (yes, he of Mötley Crüe) narrates the documentary and did drums for the first Jack's Mannequin album... including the song "The Mixed Tape".
Next week: season one beckons. There's a reason that season's been pretty absent... and that's because it's always been a planned multi-episode chapter. :D (Very few of them are intended, but I go where the Muse takes me)
Please leave a review, let me know what you thought of this weird little coma adventure... And remember, we now have a playlist! Head to Grooveshark, username opentilmidnight (I also have others there you may enjoy). Also, FF, give up on censoring links. Seriously.