Echoes True and False

By: Lesera128 & dharmamonkey

Rated: M

Disclaimer: Here we posit our normal rigmarole. No, we don't own anything from Bones or Angel... or anything else. Yes, we're wreaking what havoc we can with these characters that we don't own to create an awesome story. But, since it's only for the purposes of creative enjoyment and amusing distraction, we think we're okay. Are there any other questions? No? ::blinks:: Good. Then moving on―

A/N: We didn't get this up quite as quickly as we'd hoped, but within ten days (we think) it's too bad. This story (like Angel(us)-Booth and Bren's lives) just meanders at its own pace. In any case, without further adieu...

Unf Alert: We are beginning to think we spoil you. By the time this story is done, an UNF alert will have been needed for almost every damn chapter. No, we didn't do that on purpose because we know sex sells, it's just that in 150 years, Bren and Angel(us) had a lot of sex...and errrm, well, yeah, don't get used to it, but for now...if you are of a consenting age and mind to enjoy that sort of thing, be fairly warned ye proceed at your own risk.

Part IVA: Picking Up the Pieces, Part I

It didn't make any sense to him. None of it. Nothing whatsoever. Not a bit.

Booth's breaths came in burning heaves as he felt his pulse racing. He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head vehemently, the only sound he could utter a throaty growl as he struggled to make sense of the flood of images, conversations, encounters, thoughts, feelings, and other memories that inundated him. His heart pounded amid the rapid rise and fall of his broad chest, his temples throbbing with each beat as his head began to ache from the way his jaw had tensed, the muscles drawn hard and tight over his scalp as a sickening panic crashed over him.

"No," he grunted with a repeated sharp shake of his head. Booth looked down at his trembling hands, turning them over and staring at his palms in curiosity before turning them over again and staring at the tops of his hands. These were his hands, and he knew them—the olive color of his skin, the pattern and contour of the veins, the thickness of his fingers and all the scars, wrinkles, and callouses he'd accumulated over the years—yet there was something puzzlingly alien about them all of a sudden. It seemed now that his own hands had done things and been places that he had never imagined.

He flexed his fingers as he vaguely wondered why it didn't feel strange not to be wearing the silver claddagh and Celtic knot rings he now remembered as having worn for years. Booth remembered standing in a dark alley holding the twisted, limp body of a dead cat in his hands after having made his supper sucking the lifeblood out of the stray. He blinked and recalled standing in a dark tunnel, holding detonating cord in his hands, stringing the wire between massive mines by candlelight. He remembered distinctly seeing those hands pressing into a mattress with cream-colored flannel sheets as he rocked his hips back and made love to a porcelain-skinned, auburn-haired beauty. He closed his right hand into a fist and remembered all the times that hand had held a sniper rifle flush against his right shoulder as he poised a calloused forefinger over the trigger, waiting for his breath to still enough to allow the crosshairs to settle over his target.

He turned his hands over again and stared at his palms. In all the memories that had bombarded him in the minutes since he'd felt himself melting into Brennan's passionate kiss, the hands that had done all those things, he knew, had been his own. It was unmistakable. But it also didn't make any sense. Yet there was no doubt in his mind that the man in all of these scenes and memories was the same man Booth met every morning when he stood in front of the mirror to shave. It was him. He'd done these things. Somehow, someway...he was the man who'd lived that other life.

He wasthat man...

Or...was he?

Booth wasn't sure. And just when he thought he was, the thought of it all—the places he'd been, the people he'd known, the women he'd loved, the things he'd done—overwhelmed him and he wasn't sure anymore.

"God, no. Please, I can't...make it stop. Stop—it has to stop. Make it stop!"

He stood there, hunched over, cradling his head in his hands as his strong fingers curled, almost clawlike, as he gripped his thick brown hair, scraping and rending his scalp as if he could somehow tear through his skull and rip away the web of thoughts that choked his mind with every passing breath.

"God," he cried out, his normally full, deep voice strangulated as he uttered a pained growl. "God, please...just make it stop. Holy Mother, help me. Please...oh, God. Please—"

His eyes snapped open and his vision began to clear with each fluttering blink. His mind still roiled but the sudden gush of memories seemed to have eased to a trickle.

Booth looked down at his soiled, blood-stained khaki slacks and his long-sleeved blue and red plaid shirt. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd pulled the trigger of Brennan's ludicrous .50 caliber pistol and shot Pete Geller through the steel door, killing him, but in spite of the haze that clung to his thoughts, he realized that only a couple of minutes had passed since Brennan's soft lips had sought his out and kissed him in an act of passion that shattered even the most basic assumptions Booth held about who he was. He swallowed, swinging his head from side to side as he looked for something, anything, to anchor him. His eyes met hers, and as he leveled a terrified, bloodshot, teary stare at his partner, he saw her own eyes rimmed with moisture as a single tear dribbled down her cheek. Her mouth fell open but uttered not a sound, and for reasons he didn't understand, in that singular moment, he suddenly didn't feel so alone in the world.

"Bones," he begged, his voice a weak plea as he looked directly at her for the first time since their kiss and seemed to be in some coherent frame of thought if only for a minute. "Help me," he said to her. "Make it stop. Make it go away. Please. Make it fucking stop."

Brennan wiped the tears from her eyes with the palm of her hand and walked towards him, her footsteps quiet and even as she tried to approach him without startling him in his obviously panicked and disoriented state. She reached out and gently touched her fingertips to the back of his shoulder and whispered his name.

"Booth..." she softly called out to him.

He swung his shoulder away from her with a throaty grunt and backed away from her, his steps falling hard and awkwardly as he stumbled away from her. He squeezed his eyes shut again, once more threading his clawed fingers through his sweat-damp hair, digging his nails into his scalp as he threw his head back and let forth a blood-curdling howl.

"Nooo!" he groaned, his voice echoing off the glass and stainless steel walls of the lab. "Noooooooo! Noooooooooo..."

Brennan could only watch in pained horror as she saw Booth stumble away from her touch. She saw him raise his hands to grasp his head, each palm cradling one side of his face as he leaned forward, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and continuing to mutter to no one in particular, shaking his head violently as he paced across the lab's atrium.

"No," he kept repeating, more to himself than to her. "No, no, no!"

A rush of adrenaline surged through Brennan's veins as she took several deep breaths and tried to grapple with the reality of what was happening to him...happening to him because of her. She felt the piercing spear of pain in her gut as she looked on and saw him struggling with an onslaught of memories that she knew would make absolutely no sense to him.

Brennan wondered what he had remembered. Had it all come back at once, all of the memories he'd accumulated since he was a boy growing up in Galway in the late 1720s? Did he remember the night he met his sire, the beautiful Anglo-American vampiress, Darla? Had he remembered the night he rose from his freshly-dug grave to prey upon his family, killing his mother, his father, even his baby sister, Katie—after she'd invited him back in, only to wreak his destructive, revenge-fueled havoc and given him his name when she called him an angel returned to her—and leaving their cold bodies bleeding on the floor of the family home?

Would he have recalled the night he met her, and the breath-catching moment their eyes first met as he was collecting his prize purse after the bare-knuckled boxing match in Covent Garden? Did he remember the way he fucked her that night on the Oriental carpet in front of her fireplace? And all the other crazy and depraved things they had done to one another over the years?

Did the anguished look in his eyes mean he remembered the tens of thousands of human lives he'd taken over the course of the nearly century and a half he raged across Europe as the most notorious, most sadistic vampire the world had ever seen? Did he remember the convents he'd sacked, snapping the necks of the older sisters and brutally violating the youngest, most innocent of the novice nuns before sinking his fangs into them and draining them dry of all but the last drop of their life's blood? Had he remembered the night he raped and killed a Gypsy girl gifted to him by Darla before he was cursed by a witch of her grieving clan to live an eternity with burden of a human soul and the conscience that came with it?

Twenty-five years he'd wandered the earth after that night, drowning in the mind-rending anguish of the countless atrocities he'd committed—did he remember that, too? Did he recall the night she found him, cold and starving in an alley in Chicago's meatpacking district and saved him from that anguish—exactly eight-four years to the very day before she'd inadvertently plunged him back into it with a single kiss?

Did he remember the way they made love that night, the first time they'd done so when he had a soul and could finally feel the full extent of the emotional connection they shared? Did he remember the deal they'd struck, the promises they made, and the relationship that had grown out of it in the years that followed? Had it all come back to him, so that now he knew what they'd been to each other for almost a century and a half?

Her heart ached for him as she realized the incredible gravity of what she'd done.

Oh, God, she thought as she looked on while Booth's forehead crinkled in the pain he was obviously feeling. What have I done? What have I done to him? God, no―

Unable to help herself, Brennan took a step closer to Booth and lifted her hand as she reached out to him again. "Booth," she whispered, her voice raw from the choked emotions of guilt, fear, and sorrow she felt. "Please," she begged him. "I know...I-I know none of this makes any sense to you right now, but please...let me help you."

It was almost as if Booth hadn't heard a single word she'd said as he continued to shake his head furiously. "No, no, no, no, no―" he kept muttering, his voice edged with the pained and brittle desperation he obviously felt. "No―"

"Booth," she tried again, taking another step towards him. This time, she reached out and lightly put her hand on his left shoulder as she said softly, "Booth, please. Just stop for a minute. You've got to stop. Just for a minute. I'll help you, I promise. I know this is confusing and none of it makes any sense, but I can explain. I can. I can explain everything, I swear, but right now you've got to stop. Please."

It was only when he finally felt Brennan's touch, that something besides the onslaught of overwhelming and chaotic sights and sounds, images, and feelings pierced the cluttered bedlam that inundated him. Looking at her extended arm, Booth lifted his panicked gaze to meet hers. He looked into her eyes, her gaze washing over him like a waterfall of warmth. Her hand gently squeezed his shoulder and he felt the quiet hum in the back of his mind, which he'd long since forgotten about as the years ticked by, suddenly began to hum louder in his ears, slowly moving from the back of his mind into his limbs, the murmur of familiarity and...a curious sense of safety...thrumming deep in his chest as his brown eyes met her blue ones. Booth stood there, stunned and so lost yet at once feeling that there might be a way out of the madness that had engulfed him, and for a few seconds, his silent plea was clear:

Help me.

"I will," Brennan responded almost as if he'd actually said the words out loud. "Oh, God. I promise I will. I'll do whatever it is that you need me to do, I promise."

Booth stared at her, hesitant to believe anything to be real and true in that moment, but desperate to let go of the only lifeline he had as his head was aswirl with a thousand thoughts of a life he never knew he'd lived—and at that point, wasn't sure he had. Staring at her, not quite certain what to believe or to feel or to do, all he could eke out was a single word...a question really, that reiterated his earlier unspoken plea for help.

"Bones?" he croaked.

But, then, as he blinked at her, he suddenly realized, that wasn't her name. Or was it? He was so confused. Her face was familiar, and he knew he knew her, better than he knew anyone, but suddenly, he wasn't even sure what her name was.

Not Bones, he told himself, his brow knitting in confusion as he struggled to straighten out the tangled skein of memories that had suddenly taken up residence in his head. Not Bones. Brennan. Bren. Temperance Brennan. Bren. Not Bones. Never Bones. Not―

It didn't make any sense. And it seemed that no matter what he tried, he couldn't make it make any sense.

"No!" Booth yelled out again, this time tearing his gaze away from hers as he slapped her arm away from where she was still touching his shoulder. Stumbling away from her, he cried out as he fell to his knees. "God...what's happening to me?" he cried as he covered his face with his hands, scratching his nails over his stubble. "What's...I just...I-I...oh, God!" His hands dropped away from his face and he fell forward, leaning into his hands as he stared at the floor, shaking his head and grinding his teeth, muttering unintelligibly in between heaving breaths.

"Booth..." she implored him again, trying to get through to him and knowing that she was failing miserably. "Please, Booth. Let me help you, okay? Because, it's going to be alright. I promise, Booth. I―"

Am I? he thought. Who am I? What is my name? Booth? No. He shook his head and looked down the floor. Angel? No―Angelus? Wait. Liam. He closed his eyes and grunted. The images raced through his mind and he heard her call his name, but not his name. It made no sense. Not Booth, he thought. Or am I? Maybe I never was. Fuck. I don't know. Oh, God. What's happening to me? Who am I? Holy Mother, help me, he prayed. Who am I?!

Brennan took a step towards him again. "Don't," he growled at her, raising his head and glaring at her with dilated, bloodshot eyes, his jaw shifting from one side to the other as he continued to shake his head incessantly. "Make it stop," he begged. "Just make it...please, God, make it stop..."

Brennan pursed her lips sympathetically and was about to say something when she heard the distinctive beep-hum-click of the door to the Medico-Legal Labbeing opened with a key card. A second later, the sliding door swept open and the security guard, Micah, poked his head into the lab with a smile.

"Oh," he coughed, recognizing Brennan as she turned around, his eyes widening and his cheeks quickly flushing a deep pink as he saw her costume. "Is, uhh, everything alright here Dr. Brennan?" Micah turned his head and saw a familiar dark-haired, broad-shouldered figure on his hands and knees. "Agent Booth?"

"Yes," she replied in as calm and even a tone as she could muster at that point, looking straight into the guard's eyes as she took a step towards the door in the hopes of distracting him from where Booth knelt on the floor. "Everything is just fine, thank you, Micah."

The guard glanced once more at the agent, who sat up on his haunches but didn't turn his gaze. Micah looked at the anthropologist but quickly averted his eyes, doing what he could to avoid looking at her breasts which were nearly spilling out of the bustier of her Wonder Woman costume. He bit his lip and glanced at his watch, gesturing towards the exit with an awkward jerk of his chin. "Well," he said, "since, uhhh, you two look like you have everything under control here, I'll just, uhhh, go ahead and finish my rounds." He paused, then added, "Happy Halloween, Dr. Brennan...and..." His eyes furrowed as he gave the FBI agent a last passing glance. "Well, you, too, Agent Booth..."

Then, without waiting for her reply, he shrugged and slipped back out into the hallway before he disappeared.

"No," Booth murmured, almost as if he wasn't aware of the fact that Micah had just interrupted them as he rubbed his brow with a trembling hand while he looked toward the door with one narrowed, twitching eye. "No—I can't...I just can't...it's too... just no. No, no, no..."

As much as a part of Brennan wanted to help comfort her partner and one-time lover, she realized that if anyone else walked in and saw them, the situation could quickly spin further out of control then it already had. One more glance at Booth made it clear to her that the likelihood of getting him out of the lab, down to the parking garage, into either his SUV or her sedan, and back to her apartment without incident or being noticed, was a virtually zero.

"Booth," she said quietly, trying to get his attention, but afraid to risk touching him again unless it was vitally important to their well-being. "Please. Stay with me, Booth. Please? Booth?"

Brennan waited a moment, but she got no response. Booth seemed locked in his own world of memories and emotions that, at the moment, she had no way of accessing in their current locale if he wouldn't or couldn't meet her halfway. As she stared at his crumpled and shaking form, she swallowed heavily once and then made her decision.

Not certain if she could pull it off, particularly as it had been so long since she'd expended that type of power, Brennan drew a deep breath and realized that she at least had to try. Taking several deep breaths, she walked to where Booth had collapsed, knelt down behind him, quickly wrapped her arms around his torso, and before he could even begin to struggle against her, as she rested her chin on his shoulder, she muttered a strange incantation. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, her eyes burned a bright blue hue for a few seconds before the energy wrapped its tentacles around the joined pair.

An instant later, in another flash of dazzling blue light, the pair were gone and the lab was empty once more.

-tbc-

A/N2: Awww...poor Booth. And poor Bren who is, at long last, as some have requested, rocking the wicked blue mojo (thanks for the descriptor to Spike). What says everyone so far...besides we fooled you on the UNF Alert...ha. But hotness is coming in the next chunk from which this odd piece was split. So, do let us know how we're doing. We've had to split this chapter (again!) into two (if awkward) parts, so part two is coming up next. Stay tuned.~