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CHAPTER FOUR
THE STRENGTH WE DIVIDE
*
No matter what I say or do
I still feel you here till the moment I'm gone
You hold me without touch, you keep me without chains
I never wanted anything so much
Than to drown in your love and not feel your rain
Set me free, leave me be
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity
Here I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be
But you're on to me
You loved me cause I'm fragile, when I thought that I was strong
But you touch me for a little while, and all my fragile strength is gone
-Gravity-
May 22nd, 2009
"Solving life's quandaries, Dr. Brennan?" the soothing baritone queries, drawing her back from her own thought course.
Goodman's return to the lab had been easy and accepted.
She knows he wonders when she'll be back and fully focused on the Jeffersonian's many varied obligations that call to her daily. But her time has been snagged–if only provisionally. She hopes this will all be over soon. This new mission has left her dry and sleepless nights have commandeered many an evening.
A tired sigh. She pulls away from the microscope. Observant eyes blink repeatedly, seeking to adjust. "One might hope, yes." This is all she concedes.
He notices the enthusiasm that ordinarily accompanies her tone is severely lacking–has been for the past two weeks. Those eyes she'd so often searched with for all life's answers and questions are hooded now in weary shadows. Her pallor is beginning to resemble the hue worn most often by the subjects her work entails.
"Arduous endeavor, is it?" He offers her a sympathetic expression–somewhere between a smile and understanding frown.
She folds her arms over her chest. Shakes her head. "It's not that," she amends. But it is. "Rather…"
Her gaze falls.
"Dr. Goodman, I'd prefer to not elaborate on it, but I do appreciate your concern." The tone is sincere as she peers up at him, but there is a beseeching in her gaze–an underlying fracture to the prominent cool exterior.
He provides a nod that generates warmth. "I understand. As of now, I've a meeting in five minutes. I'll speak with you then, after it concludes?"
She smiles at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you."
Following his departure, prepared to delve back into her work, she feels a tap on her shoulder. Though her initial response is to suffer annoyance, instead an unexpected swell of appreciation fills her.
"Hey, Bones."
Those words are all she needs, all she craves, and her disposition is notably brighter.
That endearingly chipper voice of her partner, who now leans against a tall until beside her. Where he finds the energy for his constant good mood, she will never know. Offering him a tired but welcoming smile, she acknowledges him before straying back to her microscope. Although she does not look through it. Her eyes don't seem to want to focus now.
After a suspended moment involving her staring at the piece of equipment with sad, unreadable eyes, he finally gives her a gentle nudge. "Hey, you okay?"
Considering briefly, she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "No."
Her sudden honesty throws him. The vulnerability startles him. He isn't used to this from her. Not prepared. He is so accustomed to Trooper-Bones that his voice catches in the back of his throat. Unsure of the correct response.
"I can't do this, Booth."
Her discouraged confession kindles an unpleasant sensation within him. Makes his stomach knot. "What do you mean?"
The look on her face tugs his heartstrings. Her temple rests in her palm, eyes closed and she breathes a sigh. "I can't give them the results they're asking for by the deadline they've established. This is a very delicate method. A delicate substance, at that, and it's just too soon. I just–I can't, Booth…"
Her voice grows so soft and beleaguered that he finds himself forcefully repressing the urge to pick her up and carry her straight to her office, where she can sleep for the next two days on her couch. Such an action might usually earn him an armful of irate forensic anthropologist, but what concerns him most is that, right now, he doesn't think she'd put up a fight.
He doesn't like this. Her being bullied into a premature decision. It isn't her. It isn't right. It's foreign and she's exhausted.
Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, he steps closer before taking a seat beside her. "Why are they turning you into Atlas? Metaphor," he explains softly at her briefly puzzled expression. "I mean, you're not really that brand of scientist, are you?"
"Atlas suffered from the weight of the world on his shoulders," she acknowledges quietly, staring at him now. "Unable to attain relief from the burden he held. The only time he did was when he mislead Hercules and transferred the weight." An admiring expression brightens her countenance, and he smiles. "Atlas delighted in his momentary respite until the time came for him to shoulder the Earth again."
His eyes sparkle at her in return. Eager to lift her spirits. "So the story goes."
"While I may not be that sort of scientist, per say, I am also a pollster of the human species. I'm well-versed in a surfeit of knowledge regarding our bodies' immune system and all nervous and musculature structures therein. Plus another book full of added relevance you'd find boring and longwinded. Unfortunately, my expertise and apparent level of acumen on this matter alerted their radar. So… here I am, without rest or respite." Another brief smile. Her next words taste bitter in her mouth. "And all the more opposed to these trials."
Booth flashes her a crooked grin. "The price one pays, I suppose, for being such a smarty." At his words, his knuckles tweak her nose.
Wrinkling the protuberance in question, her eyes spark in mutual affection. "Is that your excuse then for your unhealthy aversion toward all things scientific?"
He takes the bait, brown eyes twinkling. "Ignorance is bliss, Bones."
She smiles, and this one reaches her eyes. Though she doesn't look forward to the daunting task which yet awaits her attention.
"I'm getting hungry," she suddenly decides, feeling playful and spontaneous. His presence always has a habit of lightening her disposition. "Will you come and get me in say, twenty minutes? I'm in the mood for Thai."
Goodman will wait. For when Booth's grin evolves into an even wider smile, lighting up his entire face, she feels only accomplishment and satisfaction.
"Sure, Bones."
With that, he rises. Garish tie straightens under his hand. He moves to leave, but holds back.
"You know…"
She turns to see him regarding her with a shadow of what was that devastating charm of his.
"You don't have to suffer like you do. You're allowed to share the burden a little." The banter dilutes just enough to reveal that meaningful look that lies beneath, his eyes conveying all. "I can be Hercules."
If you let me, those eyes of his silently add.
It feels like nothing else in the world exists besides them, holding each other as the moments slip by unnoticed.
She finds that being enclosed in Seeley Booth's arms is not so repellent as she might've thought three and a half years ago, upon their first rocky encounter.
She holds no guesstimate on how much time has passed, finds it doesn't matter. She is aware, though, that this is the longest they've ever spent so close. She isn't bothered.
There is no fear in his embrace. No injustice. Only absolute security.
The tears had faded with the rain, and a healing silence falls between them. His hand smoothes down her hair in soothing cadence while his other rests naturally over the small of her back. She knows this. Pale cheek presses just below his shoulder, searching out his warmth.
Her eyes finally open to make certain they are still where they'd been before.
Nuzzling her face against him, eyes close again. She sniffs back a straggling tear–gone before it can fall–but making the blue shimmer all the more.
Delicate fingers trace slow, calming patterns on his back. She's not certain she's offering him any semblance of reassurance, but is more than aware of the solace he provides her. Feels the weight of the world slowly lifting from her shoulders.
My Hercules.
Even when she protests his antiquated chivalry, teases him for it relentlessly, she is always silently grateful for his caring. Always stressing that she'd never needed a man to look after her or shield her, and maybe that was true. She's had part of it right.
For she needs him like the oxygen to breathe. It is completely unfounded, yet all the same not. How can something so ridiculous make such perfect sense?
Relief in his presence. Sincerely hoping she offers up some of the same relief. With this thought, Brennan finally finds her voice.
"Were you scared?" It's a quiet mumble against him.
He shifts in her arms. "Yes."
His voice is barely audible from the lack of use and the torrents of emotion shed, so he clears his throat. Strong arms draw her closer still. He's still afraid she'll be taken from him. Disappear from his sight.
"So scared."
Allowing this to settle in, though reluctant to move, she finally begins to extract her arms. Still not ready to withdraw from him completely, her hands lay on his chest. She traces the rough contours of the plated fabric with her fingers. Blinks slowly.
The question, unable to place before, rises to the surface now.
Why did he wear a vest?
Surely they hadn't expected her to attack him. He'd know she never would.
Unless he'd expected to be shot at. Planned to.
Her chest seizes. She won't voice the question. She already knows–the evidence speaks, the answer is right before her eyes.
He'd planned for the worst, from both sides of the battle. Both endings to the ultimate decision. In the end, he couldn't not protect her.
Her eyes slide shut again, inhaling deeply. A tremble stirs her, but it fades when he finally speaks against her hair. Voice low, frame straightening.
"We… should really get moving." His words are reluctant, unwanted.
Knowing it is inevitable, she nods slightly, pulling away to meet his eyes. She hasn't stepped out of his arms.
Breathing deeply, he doesn't break the connection. The clearness her eyes unknowingly convey soothes him and lessens the weight on his own shoulders. He's always enjoyed looking at her.
The fair skin of her face is paler than natural, more ashen. Reminds him of the most expensive porcelain, and he is wary she might break just the same–with what lay inside her. Without her makeup, he can discern the barest rim of red under her eyes and the shadows beneath.
Around the brilliant cerulean of her irises, a faint gray halo encircles them. Though tainted by the contagion, she is not however at any risk to herself. She is entirely immune to the disease, inside and out.
She could very well signify the extinction of the human race.
And yet, her beauty endures, and he vows to guard her with his last breath.
He remembers now why he saved her. Defended her against his own men and flag. There're too many reasons to specify, too many he's not ready to face. But he knows a dominant portion.
It was because of those siren eyes, and that tender, velvet touch. It is her heart that melted him, the person she is. Who she is.
Even when she frets over his alpha male behavior, teases him for it relentlessly, he doesn't care. It only means that much more, for the times when she allows him to save her. He needs her more than he is comfortable to admit. She is his downfall at the same time she is his saving grace.
Trying times are ahead. But together, they will endure.
They'll become something more. If mankind survives, their names will go down in history. Always paired, partnered.
You could never have Lewis without the Clarke.
Booth and Brennan.
He draws her closer. Lips press softly against her forehead. Lingering, showing. Showing, when words are not enough.
At last he pulls back, and rests his own against hers, gazing down at her lovingly. Radiating strength. Her eyes flutter shut, and a healthy hue dusts her cheeks in pink. Her chin dips low, but she laces her fingers through his.
Though she smiles, there is sadness in her voice. "You shouldn't kiss me."
He ducks his head to meet her lowered gaze, nose brushing hers. Eyes are half-lidded for them both. His voice is not much more than a whisper. "Why not?"
The honest innocence behind his tone elicits a quivering in her middle and an ache in her heart. Staring up at him, seeing the desired longing in his eyes, she is adrift in promising waters. Trying to remember why he shouldn't. "I…"
It's less than a whisper. Only her lips form the start of it.
Summoning her voice, she tells him. "I could hurt you."
It is a reminder full of regret.
A flicker of realization in his eyes, and he offers her a small and reassuring smile. Immune to the airborne spread, he is not at risk in her presence. Even the contact strains have proved him no ill effects, so far. But there are other ways to acquire the deadly virus. He knows that, in her mind, those unsolved are never to be tested.
He's too important.
Nodding, he pulls away. Gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "We should start devising some plans, huh?"
Already, she misses his proximity and touch, but nods in response. "Yes." She hugs her form, taking in the scenery around them. "Such as where we're going and what we're going to do?" She doesn't want this. Not for him.
"Should definitely start with those." No humor. Only truth.
Quiet determination is shared between them, weighing down the air.
She hesitates. He kicks at the damp earth and rocks halfheartedly with the toe of his boot. "Our own people will be after us. Our government. Your agency." She speaks quietly with underlying implication, gazing listlessly at her feet. Finally, her courage builds and she meets his eyes. "Are we going to do this?"
He regards her for a time. Dark eyes penetrating and brimming with too many emotions to read at once. He takes a step toward her, conveying the most meaningful expression he's ever given her. Pooling brown bores into shining translucence. "You, Bones. I'm with you." This promise is rife with solemn consequence. "It's always going to be you."
It is only after disaster that we can be resurrected.
-Tyler Durden-