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CHAPTER EIGHT
THIS REALITY WE'VE FORGED

*

All things my feet thought to be firm are falling with urgency
Tearing back my false sense of security
But the sweetness in my ears
Safe in your arms speak the words I love to hear
All things I thought I used to know are falling down again
Our disillusionment is how we grow
Some say things change, nothing stays the same
In a world of inconsistency, when everything's a lie

But you have been more faithful that the morning sun
More faithful than knowing the night will come

-More Faithful-

She tilts her head carefully to the side, observing the cylindrical test tube with consummate proficiency. Lashes flutter curiously at the encouraging results that churn within. Stationed on the familiar platform that is the centerpiece of the once illustrious Jeffersonian Institute, the remainder of the structure is abnormally silent. Though she's fond of the quiet working space, it's taken her months to get used to. Even now, she often misses the calming din.

These days, there's no such thing as white noise.

For now the renowned establishment is reduced to a merely derelict mausoleum. Each battered piece reflects a broken memory. Most of the equipment and lighting have been restored. With just the two of them, though, it's taken a great deal of time and effort. Far overhead, there's a large tarp covering a damaged skylight.

She hides a smile at the memory of convincing him to clamber up the roof to position it there. She can still hear colorful protests in the back of her mind, his whining that he held no desire to become the Lab's next wind-chime. Or the latest New Age warrior she could squint at after he fell to his doom.

Lord knew that going cold turkey from uncovered remains has left her a little skittish and on the ornery side.

Moving to a nearby microscope, Brennan devotes her full attention on the sample in the course of be tested. While gazing through the small eyepiece, her nimble fingers slowly adjust and focus the power.

Blue eyes sparkle at the sight. Lashes brush at magnified glass.

In the process of a hopeful breakthrough, it takes another several seconds for her to register the distant and familiar rumble of a certain stallion. Pulling away, she casts a glance at her wristwatch. A smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He's late.

That either means he's used that added time to finish up his hounding of DC's wildlife, or... he's lost his quarry.

Knowing he'll probably be in one of his moods if it's the latter of the two, she gathers up her findings quickly to take home. Placing the stoppered test formulas in their compact cooler, she sheds her lab coat and makes for the exit.

Once outside, she recognizes the bright red bulk pulling into the now attainable parking lot going at an estimated speed of fifty-seven miles an hour. She watches as he spins the wheel, triggering the Mustang to swing full around before coming to a screeching halt just a short jaunt away.

Eyebrows raise. He regards her cheekily from behind the open window, sunglasses obscuring his smiling eyes.

"Very impressive."

"The ride or the maneuver?" An arrogant brow arches. The dimples appear.

"Both," she grants. An emerging smile makes her lips twitch. "Where's the truck?"

"At the house." The cheerfulness fades. "You know, I really wish you had a car nearby incase..."

"Relax, Alpha-Ranger." Mirth dances across her face. Teasing, taunting. "I have a fully-functional Sudan waiting for me in the structure. I just wanted to ride with you."

His face brightens significantly. "Oh." Sits a little straighter. "Well, then." He gestures chivalrously to the passenger seat, his comrade laughing appreciatively at his antics. Moving around the frontend, she pulls open the door and takes a seat in the still running vehicle. Booth inclines his head at the backseat and happily points out each separate cuisine. "We have: sandwiches, corn chips, egg rolls... a tasty artificial salad for you, and a hearty frozen pie for me. Between the months old Gatorade with the don't-even-think-about-it expiration date and the sparkling fresh bottled water... what did you have in mind?"

"Water for me." Her chin juts out, punctuating the remark.

He tosses her a narrow-eyed smirk and shifts out of park before driving off towards their favorite diner. "Thought so."

Concurrently, though drowned out mostly by the rev of the sports car, both occupants' wristwatches give off a reporting bleep, signifying the time: 2:25 pm.

Neither speaks a word to acknowledge the frequent occurrence, but the effect is immediate. A dull twinge starts to pulsate in each their chests. His grip on the steering wheel unconsciously constricts, knuckles paling in the afternoon sun. A muscle tightens in his jaw.

She stares out the window, something internal producing the troubled crease that appears between her brows. Quickly, in need of an escape, she turns to him. "After we eat, take me hunting."

At her sudden contention, he glances her way. Amusement shapes his features, surpassing the shadowy glower that previously marred his face. He chuckles approvingly. "You got it." Resting an arm comfortably over the back of her seat, he goes on. "I lost them near the Station, but if we head down past K Street, we may see something."

A silent understanding.

She nods her appreciation, rotating in exchange around to absorb the passing backdrop. "I really want to shoot something."

A bark of laughter from the man behind the wheel.

Conversing wildlife pause in their humble routines to behold the red blur speeding past them. They're more than accustomed by now to their rowdy neighbors.

A wholly satisfied grin slides across her face as Booth tosses off the Springfield M-21 Tactical rifle.

Over the past year, her hair color has returned to its original state, and the healthy auburn shines in the late afternoon sun. "Finally get my own gun."

He's parked the car just shy of the lavish green gate blocking their path. "Only because there's no one around to shoot," he returns good-naturedly, retrieving his own weapon from the vehicle.

She doesn't neglect the opportunity to stick her tongue out at him. He delights in the juvenile comeback, bouncing ahead of her excitedly. Together, they hop the wall and begin their trek through the waist-level grass of the park they need to cross.

"You're hot."

"Thanks, Bones."

"What? No, I meant-" She rolls her eyes from behind him as they edge slowly through the overgrowth, rifles held in casual security. Curiosity outweighing annoyance at his intriguingly clad state, she elaborates. "You're wearing nothing but black. I only assumed you'd get overheated in that outfit." Her own attire, since ridding herself of the blue lab coat, consists of jeans and a khaki-hued shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Despite the slightly more than comfortable heat, her hair is let down, sliding over her shoulders and catching the sun with warming tones.

Booth spares a glance at her over his shoulder, brow scrunched. Opens his mouth to speak, then sets his jaw slightly askew out of sheer puzzlement. "Outfit? This is just what I'm wearing." She recognizes his slightly defensive expression and endeavors not to point it out.

Instead, she shrugs noncommittally. "I thought it was a look."

"I just gave you a gun finally, and now you're mocking me." The pitiful adolescent dog expression is stamped firmly onto his face--one she's become decisively familiar with. He's far too easy to provoke.

"If it's of any welcome consolation, I did say you were hot."

It isn't a lie.

Shooting her another indignant look ranging between defeat and amusement, he faces back around and she's finally able to relax the straining muscles in her face. She cancels the urge to mention the oddity of using a temperature classification to describe one's attractiveness.

The smile blooms. She ducks her head to shadow it.

Without warning, he halts abruptly. A powerful arm stretches across her shoulder, holding her back.

"What?" She peers eagerly from behind him, hoping to glimpse the cause behind his stalling. Quietly, he backtracks until he's beside her. Leans in and points with his free hand just past her nose. A moment later, she catches the flicker of a tail and her eyes light with excitement. "Can I shoot it?"

Wincing inwardly, he painfully recalls what had happened the last time she'd asked him that very same question. He feels a familiar twinge in his right shin. All the same, he chuckles in reply. "Easy there, Annie Oakley."

"I know who that is," falls the anthropologist's proud assertion.

"Alright, take it slow," instructs Booth, drawing back a pace. "Get your scope up, try to draw a bead."

"I've hunted before, Booth." Always quick to remind him.

"You've hunted deer?"

"Actually, no. Nothing in the Cervidae family."

"Yeah, well, these Cervidaes spook pretty easily. So watch the added movement."

Concentrating now on her objective, the rifle is shouldered and she gazes purposefully through the scope. He prompts her to tuck the stock tightly against her shoulder and, obediently, she heeds the advice.

The speed of her pulse flutters in anticipation and the thrill of the hunt. Combined with the feel of her partner's close proximity-offering support, low voice coaxing beside her ear, she's happy. If only for now. True, she doesn't revel in the killing of an innocent creature for pure sport, but food is necessary.

"Deep breath."

Following his encouragement, she's able to discern the dull tan of the stag's hide through the scope... tries to conceal her disappointment when the wandering animal disappears behind a fallen billboard. "Visual has been compromised. I can't get a clean mark."

It's almost too clinical for him. Too familiar. He hates when she has a gun. A shadow flickers behind his eyes.

Glancing ahead, he quickly comes to the same conclusion, pushing past the foggy memories. "Okay, come on."

Calmly, he guides her. Free hand falls to the small of her back.

This familiarity is better.

She notices his hesitance. But leaves it at that.

She follows closely behind as they pass out of the park and make contact with solid concrete. With no risk of making too much noise in the rustling grass, they breeze along in a silent jog. They emerge from around the opposite side of the billboard resting against abandoned scaffolding and random vehicles, taking cautionary steps.

A collection of small, quivering insects flutter around them. Brennan mentally catalogues several, but knows she will never know them all. Her forte isn't bugs, unlike...

Her concentration wavers. Only a fraction, then she's back.

A few trees sway in the gentle breeze, and Booth calculates it's coming from the West. The animal won't catch their scent.

He slows their pace to a steady crawl, backs grazing along the wall of what was once a kiosk. The darkening atmosphere bathes the surrounding vista in a warm glow given by the sun sitting low in the sky. Peering around the corner, a small jeep blocks his course. Through the grimy windows of the vehicle, the solitary deer moves leisurely along. He turns back to his eager cohort, nodding his head in the perceived direction. "All yours, Bones." A wink and he's all smiles and radiating charm.

She reflects his enthusiasm as they slip past the kiosk and behind the shadow of the parked jeep. The animal walks with its flank to them, and so they're able to step out from the blockage of the vehicle.

"Slowly," he says. She brings her rifle up. Confident. Aim is precise. "Wait for your shot."

Peering carefully through the advanced scope, the internal smart-chip calculating the distance, she takes a deep breath. Finger stretching gradually for the trigger.

"Just don't get ahead of me..." he speaks quietly beside her. If he has any call to get a shot in, he wants to be certain she won't get caught in front of him, the line of fire becoming compromised.

"I really don't think a common deer is going to pose a threat-"

A fierce roar cuts her off, shatters the silence like any gunshot.

They both start as a lioness tackles the unsuspecting prey to the ground without warning, incisors sinking deep into the throat. Booth stifles his urge to step protectively in front of his partner, but places a steady hand on her arm, nonetheless. The grip on his weapon tightens in response to the way his stomach knots.

Releasing the animals from the zoo had been her call-a choice he hadn't opposed. They couldn't sit idly by and let the poor things waste away in cages, prone to hunting their own weaker kind before starvation caught up.

The defeated stag bleats in distress, struggling feebly to escape its captor. Upon spotting the two humans, the lioness snarls at them, one large paw holding the smaller creature down.

She aims again, heart slamming against her ribcage and perseveration instincts kicking in. Though still a little peeved with the beast for interrupting. Booth also takes aim, but hesitates when, from around the corner, the hulking male arrives with the cubs. Swearing, tension coiling beneath the surface, he's about to redirect his muzzle at the larger threat in case of attack when a familiar bleeping activates from his person.

Tearing his gaze away from the scope, he transfers attention to his watch.

5:25 pm.

She knows that between the two of them, they would have little difficulty taking down both formerly confined cats. However, she's not at all willing to deprive the small cubs of their parents anytime soon.

Torn with indecision, he's quick to decide for her.

"Bones, we have to go."

Glancing over her shoulder, she squints past him toward the slowly setting sun at her back.

"Now." There's a beseeching in his eyes, locked away behind the brown. He isn't looking for an argument. They have to leave.

She nods quickly and lowers her weapon, hurrying over to him as the lion family begins to drag away their supper into the shadows.

The house they'd chosen is extravagant, but not exceedingly gaudy. It is lovely where the others around it are showy and overly ornate. A pure shade of white, tall, and entirely square-framed with a flat roof. Surrounding it and the block itself are decorative shrubs and a few planted trees. Several street lamps dot the sidewalk in front.

The neighborhood had been a comfortable one-pleasant, and just above middle class.

The FBI-issued SUV is parked ahead. The pair leave the Mustang just a block away, gathering their needed supplies and equipment before legging it the remainder of the way to their home. He keeps a hefty duffle bag slung over one shoulder and the two rifles on the other. She carries her small cooler in one hand and another pack over her arm.

Upon reaching the cement steps that pave the entrance, he digs into his bag and retrieves the flagon of ammonia, spurting it over their tracks as they enter the house to neutralize their scent.

Booth checks on the five Honda generators that run full-time in the back hall, donning a pink apron that reads No Bitchin in My Kitchen. He stocks the overflowing shelves with more canned goods they've collected. Other than the colorful apron, he's recently changed into jeans and a gray t-shirt.

The interior of the house is basic, but riddled with nice furniture and some more expensive pieces. A large television claims the focus of the living room. Though not his favored one hundred and three inches, it runs a close competition.

Three bedrooms reside on the upper level accessed by the staircase near the entrance door. Everything inside is mostly white, and very clean. Hardwood floors line the stairs, hallways, and the kitchen. Soft cream carpeting covers the rest.

The entire kitchen itself is stockpiled with goods. Two large fruit baskets claim the small island in the center of the culinary room.

As Booth passes the office where his partner is working away on her laptop, scribbling down notes and markers, he throws a smile her way. "Supper in five."

Without looking away from her task, she flings him a careless thumbs-up.

In the background, pre-recorded newscasts drone quietly, the bright-faced reporter speaking excitedly into the camera about the amount of snow gathering on DC streets. Moving about the kitchen, he fills two plates up with food and proceeds to relieve himself of the flashy apron. He quickly sets the table and digs into the refrigerator for two sodas and takes a seat.

She strolls into the adjoined dining area not a moment later, wearing a bright smile. She takes a seat next to him, popping open her drink. Admires the course awaiting her. "This looks wonderful."

"How goes the..." he gestures casually, loading his fork full of potatoes and taking a bite.

She gives him that small laugh of hers he's always enjoyed hearing. "It's really very good." Her reply is honest, comfortable in their mutually understood language. "I'd say a possible breakthrough is approaching, but I can't say that, of course."

He watches her with brown eyes and a smile that's tentative but playful as he digs in again. "Don't jump to conclusions," he quotes her through a mouthful of food.

She's tempted to pinch his arm across the table, but settles for bumping her foot against his in retaliation. A multicolored sock meets her bare toes. He smiles behind his fork.

The remainder of the dinner carries on in comfortable silence as they watch the old news, the dining area bathed in a warm, orange glow. Of course, there are a few encumbrances to decorate the evening.

"How's that salad, Bones?"

"Eat your vegetables, Booth."

Both partners occupy the space surrounding the sink and share in cleaning duty-rinsing the dishes and putting them away in sync. Their process involves Brennan doing the washing and Booth doing most of the drying and stashing.

She often teases him about how particular he is about where things belong. After about a year of living together in domestic solitude, they've comfortably adapted and the ribbing of quirky habits has become regular and often anticipated.

Reaching over, he presses the power on the iPod sitting nearby on the counter. It isn't long until the first few notes of Hot Blooded begin to carry throughout the quite house from the small speakers. She laughs out loud as he nudges her side with his elbow and begins to hum along with the vocalist. Another nudge and she's happily singing along with her partner and the more on-key version by Foreigner.

She squeals when Booth drops his hand into the sink and splashes water at her. With a warranted retaliation in order, she quickly scoops up the sink faucet and sprays him full on, water splattering around the kitchen. Ever the overachiever.

Their laughter soon drowns out the softer notes of the song, filling the small space. The darkening rays from outside light the room beatifically, reflecting off the metal surfaces of the appliances and making the partners only glowing silhouettes. In the final rendition of the chorus, Booth happily twirls the laughing Brennan around the kitchen.

The dishes long since forgotten and the song nearing a close, they focus their efforts toward cleaning up the mess and toweling the floor and counters dry.

As they carry on with this, an all too familiar hum begins to sound from their wristwatches. The grave unease becomes instantly palpable.

Slowly, as if falling into a trance, their efforts simultaneously still. Smiles fade into staid masks. The entire affair leaves them both with an almost physical pain.

Together, they remain there for a time, neither making a sound. Soon, the tiny alarm is all that's heard as emblematic silence floods their eardrums. A steady tempo that leaves them motionless and chilled. Resounding.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

Slam!

He stares out with cheerless brown eyes past the window and into the world before heaving another barrier closed.

The dying sun brings to life the flecks of gold in his gaze with tragic finality. His arms spread out and grip the handles of the solid steel blockades, muscles constricting, sliding them firmly into place across the glass pane. Locking them shut.

It's too much like a prison.

The two of them repeat this act on every unprotected entrance point. He ends the routine with the twisting of the heavy deadbolt that runs across the entrance door horizontally with two hands, sealing it with a loud snap that echoes in their minds.

Haunting them, as shadows swallow the home.

The bathroom floor is cold.

In the darkness, she scoots a little closer to him, their shoulders touching. She stares ahead at the opposing wall, focused on no certain point, starry eyes glistening in the absent light. Other than her brief shift across the floor, she fears to move. Remains absolutely still. She notices by the lack of movement that perhaps he feels the same. Seated on the floor with their backs pressed to the wall, they wait.

When the shrieks come, he feels her flinch against him. Swallowing past the dryness of his throat, he reaches over and closes his hand over hers atop the cool tile.

The wails and snarls grow louder, angrier. Almost to a deafening volume. She ducks her head, blue stare now rigid against the floor. She draws her knees closer to her chest, curling her fist around the fabric of her hoodie. His unoccupied hand tightens reflexively around the solid ice of the Remington resting on the floor beside him.

She's shaking, and he isn't sure if it's because of the chill or other reasons that assault their senses from outside. He notices himself rendered to a small shiver.

Reaching across, he wraps his arm around her smaller shoulders and pulls her close against his side. Her touch immediately finds him and she hugs herself to him, burying her face in the junction of his neck and shoulder. Wires her eyes shut, trying to will out the din.

The upheaval of emotions only serve to further ingrain what occurs outside when night falls. During the day, a false front could be embraced, the nights ephemerally forgotten. But each twenty-four hours, the cataclysmic tandem would repeat itself.

A limbo of unperceived scale. Reliving the same disaster each day, the promise of change alluded to, but never quite attained.

It's Purgatory, disguised as existence.

Some nights are different. Some nights, she doesn't take it as hard. Some nights, his hands don't shake so badly. And some nights are more difficult than others.

This will be a long night.

Meet me after dark again and I'll hold you
Maybe tonight we'll fly so far away
We'll be lost before the dawn
If only night can hold you where I can see you
Then let me never wake again

Somehow I know that we can't wake again from this dream
It's not real, but it's ours

-Before the Dawn-